I finally made it to Canton, Texas—the hyped as the “world’s biggest flea market”—because that’s the kind of flea-market nerd I am. I travel to them: Paris, Alameda, Amsterdam, Phoenix, Rome, New Orleans, Tucson, and all my Southern California stomps. And no, I didn’t fly to Europe just for the fleas, but it made my decision to go there easier.
Canton’s been on my radar for years. It’s about an hour east of Dallas on the way to Shreveport. Typical small-town Texas: a fun courthouse square littered with historical plaques; a terrific, old cemetery; a terrific WPA-constructed art-deco town hall, and a small restaurant where I half-heartedly flirted with my waitress over mediocre Italian food. I crashed at a funky Airbnb on the square called The Dragon Fly Inn—clean, comfy, and loaded with yummy snacky-snacks. There’s good coffee next door, and The Dragon Fly is walking distance to one of Canton’s many main entrances. With my big, floppy hat and sun glasses, backpack with water bottle firmly attached, and freshly sprayed head-to-toe with SPF-45, I made my way in.
I was excited. I shot my brother a quick selfie and said something silly like, “today’s the day I find a first edition Book of Mormon in an old pile of discarded paper!” He replied looks more like you’re ready to score some Largemouth Bass. And that, my friend, concludes the best part of my little tale.
Turns out The World’s Biggest Flea is the world’s biggest let-down. Unless you’re shopping for brand-new garbage—holiday ornaments, marble sinks, Soccer Mom Arts n’ Crafts, wooden signs with not-really-witty-and-not-so-funny sayings whittled into them; all sorts of Trump merch, Confederate flags (in other words more Trump merch), guns and handguns and bullets and big knives for stabbin’-n’-maimin’ folks; and even bigger corn dogs slathered in mustard and funnel cakes dripping with grease and powdered sugar. Fried pickles. Fried Oreos. Fried okra. Fried green tomatoes. Assorted other Fried Meats on a Stick. And lots of Rascal Scooters.
Most anything on a vintage table was junk…and overpriced. I did manage to pull a few cheesecake mags, a Beatnik glossary, a Choctaw / English dictionary, and some black-and-white snapshots that, all-in-all, were just OK. Over the course of two hot, humid days that made my hips ache more than my knees.
My best score? On the way out after day two, I found a crisp fifty dollar bill just laying there on the ground for anyone to take. It’s the most money I’ve ever stumbled upon in my life.
Still, trips like this remind me of what Johnny Rotten said in San Francisco as the Sex Pistols finished up the last show of their American tour (it was also the last show of their career) — Ever get the feeling you’ve been cheated?
