Day 186: Bird Market (Yay!) Artist Market (Boo.)

Paris, Day 15. Sunday, I ventured to a couple of the stranger Parisian market options: the bird market near Notre Dame and the artist market in Montparnasse.

The bird market was pretty much exactly as billed: a city block worth of tweeting, twittering birdies. Which (unless you have a mortal fear of birds) was quite a magical experience.

There were also other creatures for sale.
Like colourful goldfish, gerbils, chipmunks(!) and these fuzzy bunnies.


This fearsome attack dog was so riled up by the proximity of all these fluttering appetizers, he mistook my scarf for a budgie and tried to eat it.
Or maybe he was just going for my jugular...

This man, pictured here with a future chinchilla coat, was also selling a box full of rats. They were piled one on top of another and sleepily writhing with their pale, wormlike tails slithering behind them. I almost vomited.

Only the French could make birdseed look this good.

My favourite part of the bird market experience was the children. This little one flitted around the market like a blond Tinkerbell. She was so spectacularly excited by the presence of animals that she couldn't stay still. Until she met her match in this parrot.

After the bird market (BM?), I headed south to the Left Bank and Montparnasse where 100 or so artists gather every Sunday and display their wares. This area was made super famous by all the writers and artists that used to hang out here, which I guess is why they picked this location for the artist market. As far as I can tell, it's a desperate and misguided attempt to cling to Paris' past glory. Because Montparnasse is NOTHING like it was in the 1920s and the artist market SUUUUCKS.

Thrilling stalls of brilliant works of creative genius. Not.

Please note the bored-looking artist with the weird hat. Everyone looked that bored and wore weird hats. Even the customers.

The most exciting thing about modern-day Montparnasse, as far as I could see, was this delicious-looking carosel. It was gasping for breath in the concrete wasteland between the gare (train station) and the 1000-foot eyesore known as the Tour Montparnasse.

Right now? Henry Miller is puking in his grave.