A seventeen-year-old boy with plenty of hope and just enough money in my pocket to survive a week in Paris, the first place I visited in the French capital in the early 90s was the Les Puces de Saint-Ouen flea market.

Only mildly attracted to all sorts of goods on sale, my attention was immediately grabbed by a small crowd gathering, where a gentleman offered me, and anybody else, the opportunity to win some big money, given the alluring odds.

That was my ...

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