Here’s a little peek at a few of the treasures I’ve picked up over the last few weeks in Paris.
Teapot 1: 6 euros
Teapot 2: 5 euros
Tea cup: 3 euros
2 blue bowls: 4 euros
Five forks, four spoons: 18 euros
Mirror: 10 euros
In Paris, flea markets are called “brocantes” and they’re held in various places around the city on any given weekend. If you’re coming to Paris and want to know where and when the good brocantes are, check brocabrac.fr.
The first one I went to was right in the heart of the city, near all the big “Grand Maison” department stores and close to the Tuleries. Its prices matched its fancy setting. Out of curiosity I asked a carpet dealer about the price of one Persian beauty. He commended me on my eye, pulled it down, spread it across the table and unleashed a flurry of French that included the word “mille,” which for you non francophones means “thousand.”
The next guy was selling a trove of the most gorgeous antique mirrors ever. I pushed the baby carriage gingerly around their gilded frames and tried not to make eye contact.
Disheartened by this ultra posh marché, and rather dismayed about my prospects for picking up a few French treasures during my year in Paris (I had visions of flying to Berlin with an empty suitcase on flea market day, or else training it across the Belgian border to see what kinds of deals I could find there), I headed home with a sole conquest: one of those quaint candle holders that Mrs. Claus might use if she had to leave her bed in the middle of the night. It adds a bit of French charm to our plastic IKEA dining table.
Well, you must be wondering, if I’ve had such bad luck at the brocantes, where did I pick up all those fabulous items in the photos above? I learned quickly, that if I was going to satisfy my innate desire for antiquing, I was going to have to stay away from the single-digit arrondissements.
The day after my visit to that fancy flea market, I headed to the 11th. Just past the Place de la Bastille, site of the former prison and the spot where it all went down that night that sparked the French Revolution, I stumbled upon a long line of cigarette-smoking antiques dealers. How much for the teapot? Six euros you say? Now that’s my kind of flea market. I didn’t even try to talk him down.
Slowly but surely our generically adorned, modernly swayed, IKEA-clad maid’s quarters are getting a little bit of French flair. And I owe heaps to that farm chair I picked up off the street tonight.
