The sign should have been the first clue.
I mean, would have you continued into the parking lot once you saw a turtle like that? (The right side of the sign had an identical turtle, but in mirror image. Equally creepy.)
It only took a couple of seconds to realize “900 booths” was a complete farce. Maybe they forgot the decimal point between the 9 and the first 0?
You can’t see it in the picture, but there’s a caption above the turtles that says, “A REAL Flea Market.” I am not sure what that even means, except perhaps this market houses fleas on a regular basis.
This morning, long before I saw the creepy turtle (wait, is that a flea?), back when I read about this place on the internet, I expected antiques and vegetables and woven bags. In my head, I had visions of my beloved California Denio’s. Instead, I saw washers and dryers, fish oil capsules and nail polish, chickens, and slightly illegal looking parrots. And no mariachi music.
The distinct lack of tubas and accordions made me sad.
But there was a redeeming factor! Aveline finally got the windmill she’s been wanting. She calls it a wind-bum, though.
Choosing a wind-bum is serious business.
Oh, we bought a coconut too.
Despite the sign’s optimistic “¡FRÍO!“, it turned out to be a coco calor, not a coco frío.
At least we got a wind-bum!