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 of a car, waking at five in the morning and walking around with a flashlight.
Passionate is a minor way to describe my brocante bug.
The pleasure of seeing someone unloading boxes from their van, seeing a snippet of something old knowing its hidden value because of it, and then being the first one to ask the price. The icing on the cake is when the dealer announces an inexpensive price that I buy it without negotiating. That has happened on more than one occasion which makes the five-hour drive 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! As if we didn't know.") On any Sunday there are probably more than ten fairs in my area alone.
Often I wonder:
"How many dressers can a country have for sale?"
Thirty 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 going to get everything 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 my 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-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 remembered to say, "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-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. 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 sold years ago… hence no photo. Though I wish I had a photo of me diving in his stand.
If you ever want to go diving for antiques let me know.
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