The Jungle Room

Everyone loves something from their grandparent’s house, and I loved a Gucci scarf. Framed on the wall above a formal, uncomfortable love seat, I would climb up and kneel on the cushion, careful not to stand on the furniture with dirty shoes. I stared up at the colorful swirl of hand drawn wild animals playing on the white silk. A giant gray elephant, flanked by a regal giraffe and hippopotamus lay at the center and wild zebras, antelopes, lions and tigers frolicked along the edges of the scarf. Tropical flowers and plants were hiding places for alligators and brightly colored birds, and only my aching neck stopped the quest to uncover all the hidden treasures.  

It wasn’t until much later that I realized the scarf was Gucci, and that it was one of eighty scarves designed by their acclaimed illustrator, Vittorio de Testa Accornero. Accornero designed Gucci’s first scarf, which was presented to Princess Grace Kelly of Monaco as a gift in 1966. I was twelve when my grandfather died and less than a year later, my grandmother passed away. Their home was sold, and the framed scarf with it.

Fourteen years later, after renting apartments in New York City for six years, I bought my first home. I had spent many hours reading and taking classes in interior design, and knew the industry secret of fantastic furniture and accessories available in Parisian flea markets. I had read about but never visited the large flea market held every Saturday in the Chelsea neighborhood of New York City. On a sunny Saturday in 2004, I walked up from my Greenwich Village apartment to the busy lot on 6th Avenue and paid the entry fee. 

As soon as I entered the parking lot, crowded with cluttered tables of jewelry, glassware, textiles and vintage clothing, I had to steel myself to stay. Overwhelmed by the crowd and the huge number of vendors, I pushed my way toward the outer edge of the market. I tentatively moved toward a table and began looking through the wares. Everything was junk. 

Just as I began to feel disappointed, a girl walked up to look at the glassware on the table in front of me. She was very tall and thin, and she wore a loose dress with a fashionable cut. As an avid reader of fashion magazines since elementary school, I recognized her as the successful model Daria Werbowy, a Vogue cover model who also starred in Prada, Gucci and Chanel’s advertising campaigns. 

Seeing the pretty model shopping alone encouraged me. I felt more confident that if I looked hard enough, there were chic items to be found hiding under the layers of dusty goods. I looked around with new eyes, now searching for just one item to make my shopping adventure worthwhile. I wandered over toward the vintage clothing and touched a soft knee length mink coat. It was beautiful and reasonably priced. I mentally placed it in my checkout cart and dutifully continued to walk the makeshift aisles in search of an item I was more passionate about owning.  

I started to pass a loud vendor talking to two customers. His gray goatee wasn’t able to cover his puffy face or mask the  opportunistic voice I identified with a sleazy salesman. But leaning onto his table was the Gucci scarf, held in a rusty gold frame and stained on the bottom edge of the silk. 

I was staring at the scarf, and he noticed me. “So, you like it? $250 for you. Special rate.” I knew negotiation was the norm at the flea market, but suddenly my bargaining skills disappeared. I had pined for this scarf from the moment I discovered it had been sold from my grandparent’s house. 

“Where is it from?” I asked. He smiled slyly. “I had this great nightclub in Queens, and I hung it up on the wall in the Jungle Room. It was real nice, zebra print on the booths and  leopard on the wall.” I cringed. I was certain the design was the same as the scarf that my grandparents owned, but now it seemed unlikely it was this particular scarf. 

I felt willing to pay almost anything for it. I tried to be nonchalant and walked away, although I was determined to own it. I found a nearby ATM and withdrew more cash. As I walked back to the table, I was afraid it had been bought and cursed myself for taking the risk of losing it. 

“I’ll give you $100 for the scarf,” I said. He looked up from his silver folding chair. “$125 and it’s yours,” he said, busy with another customer and seeming to forget the price he had given me minutes before. I handed him $125 with a slightly shaking hand. The ten year old inside me was jumping up and down. I leaned down to pick up the large frame, almost being swallowed by its magnitude. 

I had to tell someone about my prize, and he was still looking at me. “This scarf was in my grandparent’s house, and I have loved it my whole life. I can’t believe I found it,” I blurted out, with a huge smile on my face. 

“So I could have sold it to you for more...” he said. 

“A lot more,” I answered over my shoulder as I walked away.