First, I went to the Merchant's House Museum, located in the East Village. This residence turned gallery is the only family domicile from the mid-nineteenth century to have remained almost fully intact in New York City. It was built in 1832 and occupied by the wealthy Tredwell family for one hundred years before the last family member died within its walls, and it was in 1936 that their family home was converted into a museum. In fact, it's said by some that the Tredwell's never left even after they all had passed; the Merchant's House is believed to be one of the most haunted homes in New York. While I didn't have any paranormal encounters during my visit, there was a definite air surrounding each room that cloaked my body in a past world that I didn't experience firsthand, but felt a little closer to after my day's journey.
The museum spanned the entire home's five floors, and as soon as I'd paid for my ticket I was given a thick binder, heavy with history to keep me company on my self-guided tour. I'd arrived at the museum thirty five minutes before closing, so for the majority of my time I was left alone with my dreams and the lives formerly lived that danced about in the air around me. Music from the pianoforte was playing in the drawing room, and if I closed my eyes I could pretend that I was at a dinner party among the up and comers of the 1850's. In the back bedroom upstairs, the wind was knocked from my lungs as I soaked in the gravity of such a private element of daily life. So much must have occurred in this room, I thought. Babies were born, sisters bonded, stories were told, and last breaths were drawn, all in the confines of this one room. It made me wonder about the Tredwell's--their experiences, their hopes, their fears, and what they would think of a random nineteen year old girl taking an intimate look into their lives almost one hundred years after they were all dead and gone.
The past still clung to my thoughts the next day, so I went to the Chelsea Flea Market-- a place chocked full of history and a culture of its own, complete with the ghosts of people's former lives. I hadn't heard of this unusual area until talking with the manager of the Plaza Hotel's Douglas Hannant Shop (see my previous blog post, entitled "First Eloise, Now Audrey"). He'd recommended going on a lazy weekend morning to hunt for treasure and to people watch. When I first attempted to find this market last weekend, I somehow had gotten the wrong address off of Google and ended up in a deserted corporate building. Undeterred, I picked up the building phone to try and see if I needed to call someone for access, but before I could ask where the market was, a woman named "Destiny" purred into the receiver, asking how she could "service" me. Stunned into an awkward silence at my ability to summon a phone sex operator instead of a real one, I slammed the phone down and hightailed it out of the building.
I eventually made my way to the real flea market, which occupied a two floor parking garage, packed to the brim with ancient knick knacks and people from all different walks of life. At first, I couldn't help but stare at the more unusual people surrounding me. There was a balding older man who was wearing cat eye sunglasses, a polka-dot unitard with a padded chest, and neon orange sneakers who was haggling over the price of a pair of clip-on earrings. A man bedecked in leather and spikes stood about a foot taller than his normal height if you counted his horn made of hair that had been gelled to stand straight up. And then there were the rest of us; seemingly normal people who were here for the vintage gems, the thrill of the hunt, a serendipitous connection, and some sort of unknown fulfillment that everyone craves but no one can ever quite place.
I took my time looking through each stall, because every single item had its own story to share. When I was little, I used to be so disgusted by the prospect of buying or wearing something used. And from people I'd never met, no less! The whole idea of flea markets was utterly appalling for the Allie that I was ten years ago. But somewhere in the space between then and now, I've come to cherish second hand items, for they are no longer cast-offs in my mind. Rather, they are items that had once been loved by someone else that by some force of fate are meant to float on in the hopes of finding another person to devote themselves to.
If I happened to find something in the pandora's box of goods that struck my fancy, I might pick it up. And if I held it long enough, it would begin whispering details of its history to me. The wedding dress from the forties was worn by a young bride who was madly in love with her husband for fifty-five years, the delicate handkerchief with the rosebuds was used to stop a drunkard's bleeding form a bar fight, the cherub adorned postcards were sent between two sisters to keep each other company during war time.
When the pieces themselves stopped talking, their sellers would fill the silence. I became fast friends with two vendors in particular. One of which was a ballsy former burlesque star whose personal closet had been rented out for Confessions of a Shopaholic and both of the Sex and the City movies, while the other was a lovely Israeli woman named Lulu with wild white locks that had been part of a rock band back in the eighties. Lulu noticed me eyeing a gorgeous vintage mint Valentino jacket, which she graciously gave to me at a generously reduced price. I practically died from happiness, and she smiled at my childish glee.
After sharing the histories of their lives and their merchandise, I embraced both women before continuing to sift through time and space in this historic hub. As excited as I was about my couture steal, I knew that I had stumbled upon other (arguably greater) gems that could not be purchased. Like the Merchant's House Museum, I felt a similar sensation of gratitude at the opportunity to go through another person's life through the objects they left behind. Places of the past are not simply linear markers in time, but rather eccentric havens for those of us who take solace in being lost and rejoice when a unique shard of history is found. I left the flea market feeling exhausted. My hands were covered in a mixture of dust and stranger's memories, but I found that I didn't mind.
This weekend was special, because it reminded me of the sacredness of the past and how we continue to look for answers in people, places, and things that have weathered the best and the worst of it before us. When I die, I know that the world will keep going as though nothing happened. But I also know--or at least I can hope--that there will be other people out there like me that will continue to take joy from the past, marveling at the way people used to live. And who knows? Maybe something of mine will be loved one day by a girl who daydreams about its former owner, and the crazy, interesting, beautiful life that she led.
The Chelsea Flea Market
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