Whenever I travel around the world, I always make sure to visit a local flea market. This one, the [], is the neatest I've ever seen. It's so clean that if the great art forger Beltracchi came looking for historical dust to fake, he'd surely curse. The old items in the market are all unique and rich in texture, with a sentimental charm of lost and found. Prices range from very professional to affordable. I especially enjoy observing how the vendors arrange their stalls; a large collection of unrelated items, big and small, are meticulously and stylishly arranged within the limited opening hours. A flea market is a place that stacks memories and sells stories. To some extent, those who come to shop are people who are unwilling to move forward. As tourists, we truly can't take everything with us; what we carry are just some deeply touching moments with strangers:
1. My friend bought a box of small forks. The old lady vendor asked her where she was from, then wrote "Add oil, Hong Kong!" on the small box.
2. The old man vendor gave us a discount when he learned we were from Hong Kong. He wasn't making much profit, and we stubbornly refused his kindness, but he said, "Welcome to Japan." Suddenly, my nose tingled. I don't want to call this a transaction.
