This Saturday, I stepped into a little slice of North Georgian Heaven.
The Flea Market.*
*On a sidenote, why on God's green earth would you set up shop in a market named after the carrier of the bubonic plague? Eso es un misterio para mi.
Anyway.
Who knew that the fervent belief of the flea marketeer (namely, that there's money to be made in the business of used shoelaces/doorknobs/big-lady-underwear) transcends cultural boundaries?
As I roamed the never-ending aisles of acid-washed jeans, naked Barbie dolls, scorched oven mitts, and crusty magazines, I couldn't help but wonder if I had slipped into a wormhole, transporting me back to the flea markets of Rossville, Georgia...
Say, is that Cletus over yonder by the secondhand bananner puddin' stand?
Naw, couldn't be...
Or could it?!
Them's his overalls... An' he does love his bananner puddin'...
I guess this is South America.
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