Antiquing in Paris intro

I have to write that Andy and I both liked Paris.  The next paragraph will lead you to believe otherwise.  We would have not gone back after the first trip had Paris not held many adventures which were evident even though we did not find it welcoming for several visits. Even after many many trips when I was traveling alone there were scary moments with everyday people at flea markets...like the cheesemonger who screamed and ranted at me because I picked up a wedge of wrapped cheese to look at the bottom to see the price.  I should have asked, first, to pick up the cheese...he, on the other hand, should have had the price where it could have been seen. It was very embarrassing and just one of the no-nos you might encounter. Don't pick up a flower in a flower market or stall or shop.  THEY pick out what you should have.  It is usually very nice when arranged by them, but you don't always get what you wanted in the first place. You are, however, allowed to point.

The first time Andy and I visited Paris was a disaster.  We could not wait to get back to London.  The City of Light was gray and mean and so was everybody we met.  It was a typical encounter between those who are Parisian and anything or anyone who is not.  But at that time we were young and full of ourselves thinking we could conquer and charm the population...or at least be able to enter the stalls in the largest flea market in the world. Several decades later we better understood the protectionism that prompts Parisians to hide their best shops in little cul de sacs, their best manners in their homes, their reasonably priced hotels on unfindable streets and their best antique shows along with their opening times a surprise.  They want to keep what they have in France.  But, the lure of the dollar, a penchant to spend, and the persistence of  blood hounds kept us searching until our schedule became full, our trunks became heavy and our booty became show worthy in America.

The year for us had begun in Paris at the world's largest flea market located at Porte de Clingnancourt.  The Irresistible smell of creperies never failed to greet us, no matter the time of year as we emerged from the Metro or stepped off the number 56 bus heading for the Marche aux Puces. The smell of the crepes made us long for American coffee and French antiques. (French coffee was not good then but is wonderful now.) 

With Montmartre a mile or so at our backs and the Marche down the street, we were happily sandwiched between the two for about eight hours of shopping.

By 9:00 the area is a hubbub of activity on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.  There are those who say the important business is on Friday but we did not find this to be so.  I think the dealers shopped among themselves on Fridays.  Once you are off the bus, out of the taxi or up from the Metro take a minute to stand and enjoy the overall view.  Cafes and patisseries on one side of the street and flapping, colorful tents full of new merchandise to the west.  Move off going north on the east side of the street, under the overpass of the Boulevard Peripherique. After several blocks glance across the street to see the rue des Rosiers, the main street from which all markets weave and crinkle like the gathers on the band of a broomstick skirt.  Ignore the new bags, scarves, and rotgut candy.  Hurry instead across the street and duck into the first alley on the right. It is like bursting through the curtain of a one act play.  In front are the antique props for the weekly production set in the Marche Vernaison which is only one of the eleven crowded markets on four important streets housing nearly two thousand stalls.

As we shopped we got the cold shoulder and some of the dealers would not let us in their booths.  They would take a broomstick and bar their entrances.  This was the first trip to France and I was certain it would be the last.  However, some of the booths were open to us and we shopped like sons-a-guns.  As we moved along things got friendlier and friendlier--they had figured out in a hurry that we were there to spend and the word spread.  We never had a bit of trouble or a dab of rudeness ever again (there).

Well into our many trips Andy and I were in Marche Vernaison finishing up late one evening.  My husband took one allee to re-cover and I took another to make sure we missed nothing.   Meeting at the end of the alleys he mentioned seeing an Old Paris toy dinner set in this one booth.  He described it, but I thought not.  He said it didn't matter because it had just sold.  Turning to leave, I bumped into a shaky card table outside one of the stalls.  I looked down to see what might have happened and there sat a toy pots de creme set blooming like a rose in a junkyard.  I have never seen anything like it in my life.  Pink and white Old Paris porcelain cups with lids, each with a bent bud finial and each rested in its own ring on a matching, footed tray.  I looked up and a young dealer came forward.  I asked the price and she said I'd have to wait until her mother returned with the rest of the set.  By that time, Andy was searching for oxygen.  I had lost all color.  How much more could one collector take?  With a burrlike tenacity, I hung on to the set.  Meantime, rounding the corner a person of considerable size and a no-nonsense expression rounded the corner carrying the rest of the matching dishes. (The same set Andy said had just sold.) Taking in my condition at a glance and betting on my impaired judgment, she pronounced the price.  It was staggering, but my bad angel said I should have it...my good angel murmured agreement.  Andy paid the bill and led me away babbling and nodding and thanking her for taking my money.

Street market in Paris