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In the heart of the Haute-Savoie, shadowed by the French Alps, and surrounded by the aquamarine waters of Lac d’Annecy and River Thiou, lies the town of Annecy. At 1,299-3,783 feet of elevation, this southeastern French town is just a train’s ride away from nearby Lyon. Using such passage, I stepped from the train station fresh from the bustling cityscape of Lyon, delighted to discover Annecy: a tranquil oasis straight from the pages of a storybook. Upon my arrival, the sun had begun its lazy descent bathing the town in apricot light. The snow-capped reflection of the Alps rippled in Lac d’Annecy, while tourists and locals strolled and flirted along the waterfront. Their slow, easy pace, whether by foot, bicycle or boat was the quintessential embodiment of French living—to savor every moment. The next day, the weather had turned colder—overcast, with clichéd April showers, though it was almost May. Despite the grey weather, I took to the streets eager to investigate the town. Cobblestones under my feet, and a jambon-beurre in hand, I quickly joined the casual stride of the locals. Towering majestically on the hillside, the 12th century Chateau d’Annecy overlooks the town. Church bells ring out every hour, from the neo-classic gem the Notre-Dame de Liesse. Famously located on a tiny island in the middle of River Thiou is the Palais de I’Isle—the most photographed structure in Annecy. Outdoor cafés, pâtisseries with pastel-hued desserts, and boulangeries wafting aromas of fresh-baked bread are interspersed within the town, and despite only being halfway through my baguette, my mouth watered for more. In my exploring, I didn’t expect to find an open-air market on such a rainy day. Nestled in Vielle Ville (old town) were clusters of tents, but instead of housing vibrant produce, cheeses and charcuterie, I discovered a market of French heirloom crafts and antiques. Only held on the very last Saturday of every month, this particular market day is unique indeed. From silver flatware, to dog-eared novels, I perused this Annecy flea market-of-sorts with the enthusiasm that only an old soul possesses. Here were pieces of people’s lives: Alpine French lives of the days-gone-by. To what vignette of the past did these antiques belong? Who had owned them? Each vendor’s stall fascinated me, with histories forever remaining a mystery. Seeing relics of French life, tarnished and dust-covered, I so wanted to take a part of it home, most notably, a 1930’s Ideal typewriter—it’s black metal silvered with patina around the edges. At the sight of it, my inner-Fitzgerald leapt with joy. Behind the table sat a silver-haired Frenchman, his old eyes glinting at passersby with the hopes of a deal. A pragmatic sigh escaped me, resigned to the fact there was no way I could fit the typewriter into my luggage. The idea of explaining it to customs alone, was laughable. Meeting his eyes, I gave a shrug and a smile then continued on my way. By day and by night, the narrow alleyways and winding canals of Annecy explain why many consider it “The Venice of the Alps.” As one plays tourist, perhaps stopping to smell the riverside flowers or indulging in a petit choux or two, you’ll never know what to expect when you turn the corner in Annecy.