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After a week of travel last month, not realizing the exchange rate had gone so sour on me, and then a trip to my absolute favorite flea market in Florence... I have decided to go on a spending diet. That is, no buying things except for food, espresso, and maybe an emergency gelato or two. For two weeks to start. This means embracing the yummy, wholesome, cheap: cucina pauvera (cuisine of the poor). Just another excuse to get down on greens and polenta, which is something I have no problem doing.
Ah, but the point being, I spent too much money at the flea market the other week on my perfect bag. (But after all, what was I working so hard all summer for anyways). This bag has followed me around Florence. I saw it at least a month ago at the last ultimate-fleamarket, and I specifically remember fondling it, too timid to inquire about its price, and not in the mood to buy things that day anyways. But it stuck with me. And then, I went to the Santo Spirito market (on the second sunday of every month!) with Sonja and wandering around I ran into my bag again. At first I wasn't positive if this was the one, it had been quite some time and I'm sure someone would have purchased it by then. But no! That was it. And Sonja walks up to me inspecting it with the first comment of 'oh that is so you.' Alas, I asked the price, and lacking the balls for bargaining, scurried about and tried to think about other things. Like vintage sunglasses, or wooden spoons.
After my return from my Netherlandish vacation I made a visit to my favorite flea market, Piazza dei Ciompi market (last sunday of every month, to those who are interested). This one is usually enormous, but on this particular day it was confined to just a few blocks thanks to constant drizzle. But I was on a mission. If I saw the bag it would be the third time it had followed me. Three is quite a number, I am not superstitious nor am I religious, but I believe in three. Bad things come in threes? Last year three unfortunate events ended up with me in the hospital on three different occasions. But this fall my fateful three would be nothing more serious than a leather bag.
I found the bag that Sunday. It was waiting for me. I saw it, I took a walk and had a coffee, I thought it over, and I bought it. And bargained my through it. Now it's mine and I am not going to make it jealous by buying anymore five dollar purses from the salvation army. To repeat my mantra, inserting the obvious exception: buying things does not make me happy (except when thoroughly considered), I must make good use of what I have.
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