All Fun, All the Time

Where can you find a glass cowboy hat, nudie prints of Marylin Monroe, and more overpriced fake jewelry all in one place west of the Mississippi and south of Mt. Shasta? Why, the Rose Bowl Flea Market, of course.

After many years of living in the Pasadena area, the clan made a trek to the Rose Bowl Flea Market, an extravaganza of used trinkets, castoff curios, aging antiques, a flea market festivus. I wouldn't consider it a serious excursion; more of an initial foray, a reconnaisance mission of ample merit to justify the price of admission. We wandered about for a happy hour and a half, seeing enough to make me realize that bargains are to be had, but take some serious effort on the part of the shopper.

Like every other red-blooded American speculator who has a touch of the fey in him, I've often dreamt about stumbling across a priceless piece of lace, an invaluable image of an overlooked artist, an uncherished china set whose manufacture is sufficiently ancient or expert as to be appraised in the millions, a fact only made known to me in the middle of an episode of Antiques Roadshow. Unlike the other incredulous folks on that show, I wouldn't shed a tear for said item, pledging to preserve it on the lintel or brick it up in an alcove of home. I'd turn around and sell that thing faster than you can say, "Bob's your uncle," invest in a high-yield hedge fund and spend the rest of my life reading books and changing the world as I randomly see fit.

Aaaaanyway, after that somewhat happy insight into my daydreams, back to the Rose Bowl. The flea market is a massive, hot, crowded place that succeeded in making me vastly more respectful of all the souks and bazaars I've wandered through in the Middle East (okay, so they were in Tunisia, and they numbered three or so). By the end of my time at the flea market ("I'm talking 'bout flea market"), I found myself wishing the vendors would show more than an whiff of interest in my arrival. In the medina in Tunis, if you're eyes so much as betrayed an interest in the mass-produced hookahs piled in front of a booth or the glassware handblown by native tribeswomen in the Grand Erg Oriental (no doubt conveyed to Tunis by louage and camel), a salesman/woman will be clinging to you like the black alien suit that's taking over Spiderman this summer (and becomes Venom when it falls on that smarmy actor whose name I can't recall).

To be honest, I think I prefer the happy medium of the Sunday street market in Ljubljana. There, fellows who had aged beside their (now) antique wares peddled relics of the Cold War that once had been staples of their lives. Others sold farm implements that seemed suited for the 16th century, but appeared to still have dirt on them. But, more relevant to this conversation, they were engaged without being overbearing. Most fellows were willing to negotiate a fair amount, share information (true or false wasn't exactly clear), and explain details of the various incredibly complicated mechanical devices that may or may not have once told time, but now looked more suited to permanently detatch infant fingers from baby hands. They weren't completely buddy-buddy, nor did you want them to be, but there was an unspoken rapport. Ah, for the days of my youth and the cobblestone streets of Slovenia's capital.

Regardless, the flea market will undoubtedly be the source of much more gold in weeks (years?) to come.