Being basic makes things so much easier. Who wants “bespoke” items anyway when it’s such a chore/additional expense to find them? Despite repeating this logic to herself as Harper proceeded to wander the length of the Seine and scour the stalls of the bouquinistes, it was little comfort. Because, try as she might to put in the time to find something “distinctive,” she was met with a barrage of uninspired sameness. Things she had seen the world over in many a “cosmopolitan” basique’s home over the years—right down to the framed “vintage” Vogue covers. Although Harper wanted to financially support the tradition behind the Seine’s iconic green stalls (knowing full well that the stalls would die out once Gen Z and Gen Alpha took over the world), the selection, it had to be said, left something to be desired. And all she wanted was to find “a few little posters.” Not just affordable ones, but also of the variety that didn’t scream, “Absolute basic bitch!”

After about two kilometers of languid walking, she was starting to realize that, unfortunately, such a selection simply wasn’t in the bouquinistes’ wheelhouse. No, what they preferred was catering entirely to the basiques. With posters that “ranged” from Audrey Hepburn blowing a bubble with her blue gum to Marilyn Monroe blowing a bubble with her pink gum (in effect, shit that could also be found at Ikea). It was enough to send anyone heading for the hills of the internet, where a more custom (even if, at times, slightly more expensive) array of options could be found. Regardless, Harper continued to stay the course, vowing to support the bouquinistes in some small way, even if all she ended up buying was an old issue of Paris Match. At least then, she could cut out the pictures from the magazine and put them into frames for something resembling a “unique touch” to her apartment decor. 

Unfortunately, every magazine she seemed to come across that might actually contain photos of interest were 1) sealed in plastic and/or 2) extremely overpriced considering how few pages were inside. She understood that these were of plenty antiquarian value, but honestly! Have some sense of fair pricing. What’s more, the inconsistencies in prices for the same “rare” magazines along the quay were enough to sow plenty of seeds of mistrust. How was Harper to know she would get the “best” deal when financial pillaging seemed to be the name of the game? Just as it was for corporate juggernauts. 

In this sense, where once the bouquinistes had been “punk rock” as a result of selling wares that were plundered from the aristocracy right after the French Revolution, they had now become as old guard and monetarily unjust as that overthrown monarchy. How could Harper feel committed to “doing her part” to saving them when they weren’t exactly “public-spirited” any more than Amazon was? Of course, she knew if she said that aloud to anyone, especially a French person, she would be met with a litany of reasons why she was supporting the enemy with such sacrilegious talk. But, really, Harper was at her wit’s end after almost an hour and thirty minutes spent not only walking the length of the quay on the Rive Gauche side of things, and unearthing absolutely nothing original (which didn’t bode well for her bothering with Rive Droite), but also nothing that was exactly “affordable.” Sure, there were “deals”—three posters for ten to fifteen euros and such—but she felt like she was forcing herself to pick something for the sake of it in order to qualify for such “bargains,” and that’s simply not how she wanted to go about outfitting her new apartment. An apartment that happened to be her very first in Paris. In terms of living alone. Harper didn’t count all those many other initial roommate-oriented living situations, which she now billed as “false starts.”

Like many pockets of her life, she could simply black it all out and tell herself, “That never happened.” It was the ultimate superpower, the best means of self-preservation. Just as the bouquinistes had their own means for self-preservation. Chief among them being declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in the early 90s. That was ample reason to feel a sense of “job security,” even in the face of ever-mounting competition. But the bouquinistes had no need of ever modifying their products and prices to fit into some “consumer-driven” trend. The entire draw for anyone who purchased something from one of the stalls was merely that it was part of “the only river in the world that runs between two bookshelves.” It was a staple of Parisian Tourism 101. And suddenly, Harper felt a bit foolish for trying to be part of the category. She should have just stayed at home and trolled the internet for posters and artwork that specifically suited her personal preferences. She would have ended up growing less annoyed and impatient with that process. As “corporate” as it was. 

So that’s what she did. She went right on home, got on a few different websites and culled the prints she actually wanted as opposed to settling for what was offered along the quay. This, in the end, is how she came to understand that she truly was a lover of “basicness” in her decor as a result of willfully using the very corporate entities and structures that imperiled the bouquinistes. After all, the World Heritage Site status only meant so much when the money wasn’t really coming in (which it wouldn’t if they kept charging so damn much). And the World Heritage Committee could only help support so many “activities” designed to promote the preservation of the site. Harper herself had started out her journey along the quay genuinely wanting to support the enterprise in the sole way that mattered: with money. 

But that brief attempt at “nurturing” local business only served to prove why big business would always win. For it had the infinite resources to offer a product pool that could make someone like Harper feel as though she were special. That, because of her “meticulous style,” she was somehow “different” from the rest of humanity. All of whom, it couldn’t be denied, were united in the unavoidable basicness of being rabid consumers. Ones who were hellbent on showboating their “uniqueness” through the products they bought to display on their bodies and in their homes. Just as Harper did when her decor arrived one to three business days later. Funnily enough, though, she didn’t ever have that much company over to delight in the sight of it. To tell her what fantastic taste she had.