If there is anything that can make my
heart beat like a passionate drum, it is going to the brocante.
Anytime, anywhere, high end or low end, even in a dumpster. Even if it means driving five hours to the middle of nowhere, sleeping in the back seat, waking at five in the morning and walking around
with a flashlight… Passionate is a minor way to describe my brocante bug.
The pleasure seeing someone
unloading boxes from their van, seeing a snippet of something old
calling my name, and then being the first one to ask the price.
The icing on the cake is when the dealer doesn't know the value of the
item, announces a price so cheap that I nearly pay for it without
negotiating. That has happened on more then one occasion which makes drive five hours, sleep cramped in the back seat a small price to pay.
Living in France has many rewards, brocanting happens to be one of my favorites. (I can hear many of you saying, "No duh!") On any Sunday there
are probably more than ten fairs in my area alone.
Often I wonder:
"How many buffets can a country have
for sale?"
Twenty years ago when my Mother came from California to
visit me in France, she had heard of my many escapades and was excited
to see what it was all about. As soon as she was at the brocante the first words she uttered were, "It is as if I have died, I am in Antique Heaven, my tongue is
hanging out and I am tripping over it!" Her first concern wasn't how to
barter in French, rather it was how was she going to to get it all back home?
A favorite brocante story of mine:
A crowd had quickly gathered around, people were
shouting prices and flashing money, things were selling fast. It was one of those rare moments where it
seemed a chateau had fallen from the sky, landing at our feet.
Unfortunately, I was standing behind the scene. The van was on my left
side, tons of boxes and baskets loaded with wonderful objects were in front of me,
followed by the dealer and the crowd. Suddenly, my eye caught hold of an
eighteen century, five arm candlestick…. I had
never seen a candlestick like that before, and I knew it was something
worth diving for, so I dove. Not a graceful dive but more like a jump-plop-flop dive. I grabbed the candlestick in a
swoosh and held it up even though I was splattered on the ground.
With an ounce of embarrassment and a ton of pride I said, "Bonjour Monsieur," (The
first rule of brocanting: Say hello, be polite before negotiating, even if you have bellied flopped in front of them.)
"Combien pour ça?" How much? Since, the dealer didn't see my jump-plop-flop, because I had dove from
behind him, and due to the fact
that there were nearly 100 people
in front of him, he didn't seem to take notice that I was in his stand,
or should I say in his wares. He was too busy to notice how crazy I was. The dealer
flipped a hand and called out $15. (Second rule: No matter what price
has been announced ask for less.") I said, "$5?" He gave a quick nod as to
say, "Done deal." The crowd gasped, I smiled as I held my trophy high.
(The candlestick was sold years ago… hence no photo. Though I wish I had a photo of me diving in his stand.)
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