Camden Market: Of the Weird and the Wonderful

forgot my camera, so you'll have to settle for some stock photoage

Hello, my name is Lizz and I am addicted to London's market scene. There, I said it. Two weekends in a row now,  I've spent the majority of at least one day wandering through market stalls, oggling everything from scarves to cakes and back again. In my defense: I didn't intend to market yesterday. I was meeting a friend for dinner in Camden and figured I'd case the joint early, get the lay of the land. Is it my fault if I stumbled into London's largest, most colorful alternative market scene? I'm the victim here.

Anyway. Yesterday, I wandered into Camden Market, a sprawling, largely underground market catering to the punk/goth/alternative scene. In other words: overrun with teenagers in technicolor mohawks,  studded leather, black lace, subversive-themed t-shirts and piercings on their piercings. An interesting crowd, interspersed with foreign tourists staring more intently at Those Punk London Kids than the goods for sale. I think I heard more Italian in Camden Locks than I did in Rome. Regardless, this market was a blast.

What is Camden like? Picture the touristy section (we'll go with Times Square) in New York City. Now picture the street markets in Florence. Now cross your eyes like you're doing one of those Magic Eyes and blend the two together. That's Camden High Street. The place is buzzing with tattoo and piercing shops, lots of those kitschy places selling London-themed tchotches and plenty of fast food. The markets run the length of the street, up and down the lock (which is also very pretty in its own right) and several side streets. Plenty of vintage, plenty of antiques, and more than enough cheap-looking clothes to keep the kiddies happy.

I don't know if I'd buy anything here, mostly because it seems to run in one of three veins: mass-produced in China, cool and unique at the time but totally useless once it gets home, and antique and expensive. But hey, I'm a dedicated window shopper (or is that stall shopper?) so I'm more than happy to poke my way through racks of furs, piles of metal signs probably stolen in the dead of night from some un-CCTVed corner, and trolleys full of Chanel-type scarves for hours on end. Need a break? No worries: plenty of reasonably-priced ethnic food from every corner of the globe hawked by some very vocal standkeepers. Mulled wine and donuts in flavor varieties I never knew existed? Don't mind if I do. It's an addiction. Or a calling. Or both.