There is a flea market every Sunday in Mauer Park. It is, to the newly introduced, a spectacle to behold. I've been in regular attendance since my first snow-covered introduction. As it changes from ice, to slush, to mush, to green my spending increases. Cynically, it is an overpriced treasure hunt and yet I always feel better leaving with something bejeweled. Up on the sledding hill, there is a long wall that divides the stadium from the 'play-area'. In the spring sun the metallic graffiti shines, the entirety of the wall gets a bit weightless: a wicked golden brushstroke. Up close, the ornamentation of it becomes apparent, symbiotic even, a kind of tipped-up mirror to the parallel lines of brooch-covered tables below.