I ventured to the outskirts of Paris to experience the Marché aux Puces with my undercover fascist friend, Peter. He taught me that you can find everything you need to be a terrorist at a Parisian flea market, as long as you are willing to use guns that have corroded over from years of negligence and knives with curvy antler handles. You might not be very effective, but if you find the right pair of menacing sunglasses, you can at least play the part.
It was an unusually bright day and the smell of ham sandwiches and mildew permeated the air. Bins of new shoes, deteriorating clothes, and stolen electronics lined the walk way. I felt instantly at home like a Chinese immigrant arriving in San Francisco. I was reminded of all the Sundays spent at the Sebastopol flea market with my dad. I can still hear the announcements over the sound system floating up through the fields to my yard, like a siren beckoning to me from the sea.
|  | 
|
