Paris, episode 9. In which we French flea.

Once again, I am reminded of my mom.  She would have loved this beautifully hand-detailed soup set. It's completely impractical and that's one of the reasons why I love it.  When you fleamarket, you sometimes need to leave logic behind no matter what that little voice of reason (or your spouse) screams at you. The porcelain Limoges tray is about the size of a sheet of letterhead, with each covered bowl standing 3 inches high.  When Mari saw my intense look of joy set even my bald spot aglow, she tried her best to introduce me to the voice of reason, but it was far too late for practicality.  When she asked me how often I expected to serve soup in these delicate, gold-rimmed beauties as I was already reaching for the euros in my secret pocket, I insisted I would put them to appropriate party use at our next gathering even if only to sort M&Ms by hue.  The former French fleamarket (and formerly intensely bubble-wrapped) M&M sorter is currently on display in a lighted kitchen curio cabinet, as yet to be called into impractical candy-sorting or practical soup-appetizer service.

Saturday morning, souvenir 58 Tour Eiffel red rose abloom in a water glass on the nightstand, foie gras (mostly) digested, digital camera charged, and fleamarket shopping tote at the ready!  Aside from touring touristy tourist spots when we travel and celebrating life (and each other) to the fullest, Mari and I are serious about fleamarket shopping.  We plan entire trips around special events like the 127sale and we plan detours and layovers to shop at favorite fleamarkets.  This Valentine's weekend in Paris was no different and Valentine's Saturday was all about returning to Les Puces de Saint-Ouen.

Once you leave the metro station at the Porte de Clignancourt (still puts me on the lookout for French Klingons), you will immediately see signs pointing you in the right (flea) direction.  You'll cross a busy intersection just outside the station and head north a short block on the Avenue Michelet before you start seeing market stalls on your left.  There are a handful of aggressive street vendors scattered under the large overpass whom you will want to avoid as you make your way to the market entrance.

Aggressive is never okay, even in Paris.

Upon first approach, the market will open up to fleamarket stalls familiar with a nice variety of (mostly new) personal goods like clothing, shoes, purses, and ever-ubiquitous phone cases, as well as new housewares and home goods like vases and cookware and sheets and comforters.  A few vendors in this first marketplace also sell a variety of secondhand housewares and knickknacks.  Mari and I were on a mission, however.  No time for knickknack nonsense at the market entrance.  We headed straight back to the antiques market where we had remembered (and longed to return to) chaotically charming scenes like the one pictured below.

Mari browses a discount table outside one of the crowded-with-the-past stalls.  Stepping into one of these seemingly unbalanced shops can be a little daunting at first, but investigate you must!  You will never otherwise know the waiting-to-be-treasured treasure (candy-sorter) that awaits!

Waiting for a savvy negotiator to free them from years (decades?!) of clutter, very few items are priced, so you will need your best French (or French-speaking companion) on hand.  Remember, a smile goes a long way to breaking the ice and learning a foreign phrase or two isn't going to hurt, either.  I never like to start a conversation or negotiation by asking about price, anyway, regardless of the language.  If I had my druthers (almost 50 and still don't have them!) I would smile, pick up a pick, hand over what I considered to be a reasonable amount, and walk away.

Anyone know a good

non-verbal fleamarket?

Here's a good (as I can get) look inside Mari's stall above.  Looking at this picture again makes me want to go back and look behind that trio of ducks smirking at me in French from the top shelf.  I just know they're hiding more than foie gras.

We were surprised on this particular visit to meet a recent émigré from Australia, an energetic young woman whose lovely accent startled us that Saturday morning as we browsed the very orderly rows of glass bottles and heavenly-scented homemade elixirs in her booth.  Of course, she fell prey to our story of romantic fleamarketing adventures and I felt naturally and happily obliged to add a little sandblasted bottle to my home apothecary in reciprocation.

You never know who or what (or when!) you will find at a fleamarket.  Mari had hoped to return to her expert jewelry collector from our previous visit, but good luck finding the same vendor in this French maze! Fortunately, there were plenty of antiques market booths boasting vintage jewelry.  Mari's collection would not be forgotten.

More on her captured treasures next time.

Paris, episode 8. In which I surprise Mari again.

Some of you may remember that I'm an old bottle collector (remember friends and grammarians, it's still the bottles that are old) from previous posts.  After those first two collected for my college apartment and thereafter migrated to South Texas, there was this very special trio that found its way into my collection.  This was one of the first (and last--more on that another blog day) Christmas presents ever given to me by my wife.  It's one of my favorite presents.  Ever.  I'm not quite sure how old the glass perfume bottles are, but they have been part of my life nearly 25 years and they were already old when they joined my barely-a-collection collection.  Most couples exchange much perfume and cologne over their happily married years, but I assure you not many husbands would be as thrilled to receive old empty French perfume bottles as this old bottle collector was.

Imagine how surprised and thrilled we both were, then, as we walked past a small, but incredibly fragrant shop just a few blocks away from our hotel on the Champs-Élysées and spied a hundred nearly identical bottles on display!  Sparkling brilliantly on glass shelves at the entrance to Guerlain and overflowing with floral fluidity from within, the new, sleeker (unlike me, the bottles were now less rotund than 25 years ago) bottles, still embellished with embossed bees and topped with that familiar etched round orb, beckoned us in for an olfactory treat.  After a bubble-wrapped transatlantic journey within the folds of my weekend laundry, a small bumble-bee-emblazoned bottle bearing a sufficiently masculine albeit herby fragrance has now joined its ancestral brethren, an ever-fragrant souvenir of our Valentine stroll.

After enjoying our confectious (go with it) treats that afternoon and leaving Laduree with a souvenir box of the beautiful Marie Antoinette tea (honey-citrus-rose petal) we had just enjoyed, Mari and I indulged in a little window shopping at the festively decorated gourmet shops of the Madeleine district, including this vivacious Valentine's display at Fauchon, a gorgeously bright deli and cake shop decked out for sentimental romantics and cheese fanciers alike.  Without a heart-shaped brie on hand to gift her romantic gastronome trip-planner, Mari settled for a ceramic (TSA-friendly) crock of Dijon mustard, knowing full well that any box of chocolates would have paled in comparison.

Visit the tempting site if you dare.

fauchon.com/en

It's still Friday, not quite fleamarket day, and we have one last stop.  I did keep a few surprises from my ever-supportive and always deserving wife and both would be found on Valentine's evening at the top of the Eiffel Tower (or as close to the top as we could reasonably afford).  For the insanely romantic (thank you, I resemble that remark) dinner at the Eiffel Tower on Valentine's Day is a foregone conclusion.  As Mari has said, I'm ridiculous, and I admit it!  I'm not LeJulesVerne (upper level) ridiculous, however, but I am 58 Tour Eiffel (lower level) ridiculous.  

Visit the Eiffel Tower restaurants site for helpful planning information and sample menus.

restaurants-toureiffel.com/index.cfm/page/lid/2/rid/2666

Surrounded by a beautiful evening view of the glimmering city bursting with historic buildings and bustling population, Mari and I relaxed for a few hours, contemplating our surroundings and our blessings.  When a photographer landed at our table and asked if we'd like a souvenir photo, I jumped at the chance to surprise my wife once more.  She wasn't my wife the first time I proposed, but she was now and this time I knew she'd accept.

Would have been an awkward trip

back to Texas if she had not.

I stood up to stand at Mari's side for the souvenir photo and motioned to the photographer with my best French pantomime that I had a surprise.  As he focused, I knelt by Mari and proffered the ring that had been burning a hole in my pocket since I had discovered it about 5 months prior. A bright round moonstone glowed back at me from her finger as I reclaimed the seat across from my wife, brighter than any moon that had ever favored us with its evening dazzle.

That's two surprise proposals now, if you are keeping count.

All romantic nonsense aside, Mari and I have come to the non-romantic revelatory but perfectly happy (and sane) realization that dining out, especially dinner, on Valentine's Day is not worth the hype (or wait).  The food (special menu) and service was excellent at 58 Tour Eiffel and the views and experience unforgettable, but like our previous holiday dining (Thanksgiving Day) experience at Tavern on the Green (NYC, episode 4) we were left somewhat deflated.  You can have a romantic dinner at Wienerschnitzel as long as you are with the right person and as long as she doesn't mind a little mustard with her moonstone.

I promise we'll get to Les Puces next time.  I keep getting sidetracked by silly things like love and mustard, but I've got some fabulous French fleamarketed finds to show you!

Paris, episode 7. In which I'm that guy.

I'm the husband who took his wife to Paris for Valentine's Day.  For the weekend.  Yes, I'm that guy.  In my defense, Valentine's Day is a momentous occasion in our life together and 2014 was a particularly special Valentine's weekend, so settle in for another flashback.

I'm a romantic, in case you haven't been reading between the lines (and within the parentheticals). When Mari and I re-met during that college summer in 1988, I knew after our long drive to Fort Wayne for our NTE exams that I had met the woman I would marry.  Unfortunately, Mari was not in on my little secret.  I told my friends when they returned to school in August for our final year and they were fairly shocked since they had not yet met Mari, but I think they believed my sincerity.  Even after I gave Mari a very un-subtle heart-shaped gold locket (with tiny little inscription I still can't believe the artisan at Things Remembered at University Park Mall was able to script on the back!) for Christmas, she was still lovingly clueless.

"... thy heart lies open unto me."

from a Tennyson sonnet, if you must know

My fault.  I didn't wear my heart on my sleeve in the 80s, just my Izod collars turned up.  So when Valentine's Day 1989 rolled around and we had dinner at the one and only table for two in front of the fireplace at a romantic Italian restaurant, and we watched my favorite romantic movie (Somewhere in Time--don't even get me started), and I got on ever-romantic bended knee and proposed marriage, I think I jolted that temporary discombobulation out of Mari for good.

When the 25th anniversary of this most special occasion approached, I began trip planning and list making in deepest romantic earnest.  My initial plan was to surprise Mari with a weekend at Notre Dame and a repeat fireside dinner at our favorite Italian restaurant in Mishawaka, Indiana. Unfortunately, our romantic restaurant had closed and that Midwest winter of 2013-2014 was proving to be ridiculously cold with daily high temperatures in the region barely above 5 degrees.  Undaunted, I refused to deprive my wife of an over-the-top decadent romantic surprise.  Several days of exhaustive internet searches and transactions later confirmed that I was ridiculous (Mari's word), that I was more in love than ever, and that I would have almost as good a surprise for Mari as I had 25 years prior.

It's tough to beat a

surprise proposal.

I was able to keep my surprise until a few days before our scheduled departure.  I have trouble keeping secrets from Mari (I guess that's a good thing?) and when it started getting to the point that I was bending the truth about details of our trip to her and her parents, I had to come clean.
I also didn't want Mari to pack for 5 degree weather when the weather at our actual location was about 50 degrees.  So I confessed one evening after dinner with her parents (during which I had promised to buy something for them at the campus bookstore) that I was taking her to Notre Dame for the anniversary of our proposal, but not the Notre Dame she was expecting.

A few days later we were on the Pont des Arts pedestrian bridge after (finally!) an in-depth tour inside Notre Dame.  At top, we are attaching our inscribed souvenir "love lock" to the railing like a couple of silly teenagers in love.  Gotta do it.  It's so amazing to be connected for so long to someone who shares my love and passion for so many things, especially travel.

Our 25th engagement anniversary included another walking tour, albeit shorter and less meandering than our initial visit to Paris together. Above are a few more photos of our Valentine's Friday.

At The Louvre, lots of red heart-shaped balloons were passed out to visitors waiting in line on that drizzly Friday.  Mari and I decided to forgo another abbreviated two-hour tour and instead ventured out to have some tea and treats at a beautiful Ladurée location in the Madeleine shopping district just north of the Place de la Concorde.  We had discovered the artfully sweet confections of Ladurée, a colorfully charming pastry shop, during our previous Paris weekend visit near our hotel, and had planned on warming (and sweetening) up at the Madeleine location before continuing on our way.  Not pictured are the mini tarte tatin, pistachio eclair, and multicolored macarons that temporarily graced our tea table.

If you visit the exquisitely beautiful site

laduree.com/en_int/#

you may just be tempted to make a weekend visit yourself.

More romantic treats (including another surprise proposal) next time.

Paris, episode 6. In which Les Puces' the thing.

I blame a lot of my eccentricities on my mom, including those that have to do with her (my) collecting (hoarding) habits.  I'm also eternally thankful for her dedication to and appreciation for good taste and fine quality.  I wish I had inherited her gene for obsessive housekeeping, but I will forever have fond memories of "helping" my mom dust her treasured dust-collectors and polish our rarely-used dining furniture on Saturdays.  From my adult perspective I'm not so sure I was helping as much as staying out of her way, but I did keep the collectibles and the cabinets that housed them polished to a fine lemony glow.  The living and dining room cabinets and tables were off limits except for "company" and for those Saturday mornings when Mom and I attacked the dust that dared gather since our last weekly barrage.

I think my mom would have liked this first piece I purchased at the
Marché aux Puces de Saint-Ouen back in July of 2012.  I don't (exactly) have a mortar and pestle collection, but I do use a mortar and pestle in the kitchen regularly for grinding spices and blending herbs.  That one is nice, too, but definitely not freakin' French floral fancy!  We'll speak more about my kitchen collectibles another time as soon as the dream kitchen emerges from the three-month cloud of construction dream dust.

Okay, gotta fess up.

I confess that there is actually another decorative mortar and pestle on a bathroom shelf that holds Q-tips and a styptic pencil that is used when I'm in a hurry to shave on work mornings (on days when I wake up realistically too late to shave but realize I may be mistaken for an escaped convict if I don't). Three does not a collection make.  (Does it?!)  Regardless of its place in the larger scheme, this 3" diameter French hand-made and hand-painted mortar with matching pestle has been a favorite of mine since first sighting on a crowded table outside one of the most crowded fleamarket stalls I had ever seen.  Don't know how it reached my collector's gaze through all that knickknack haze, but it did and it was a perfect picked souvenir that Saturday morning.  Even more than its colorful detail and gilded embellishments, I like its heft and its promise:  the wide rim and pour spout inviting regular use by a more experienced and willing hand than mine, but satisfied to lie beautifully in wait until its utility is appreciated as much as its beauty.

This was Mari's first piece picked at Les Puces.  If you recall, it's not her first Lea Stein pin and it's not the first cat pin, either.  I still haven't retraced our steps back to that first one, but some day, dear reader, some day.

This was an easy pick for Mari for the designer, colors, subject, and especially because this delicate 3" by 2" hand-crafted creature looks so much like our sweet Mamita who we always imagine curled up so in repose on a favorite (down-filled) cushion while we travel the world in search of more collectibles for her to investigate (and terrorize) upon our return.

Below, Mari is patrolling the colorful rows of the antiques market on that spectacular sunny Paris Saturday.  Note the market map (previously pictured) posted at left, one of many triangulated intersections leading the way to more treasured temptations.

We felt a bit intimidated on this first visit, of course.  It's Paris, after all, and it's purportedly the largest antiques fleamarket in the world. All that and we're ultimately just tourists.  Mari's French was helpful in making contact and initiating negotiations, but many dealers speak English and there is always someone available shopping or selling nearby who is able and willing to translate.

I can't remind you enough that the world is full of friendly people.  A simple greeting to a weary vendor who has waited all morning for the right collector to wander by opens doors of communication you can't begin to imagine.  Enjoy the flea experience as much as you enjoy the collecting and that picked porcelain mortar and pestle or celluloid crouching cat will mean the world to you even if you didn't travel the world to find them.  (It's even more fun if you did, though.)

We're not going to leave Les Puces just yet.  This second visit to Paris was a three-night visit which was purposely planned to coincide with the flea.  We weren't just all about the flea, however.  Mari wanted to take me to Versailles which she had visited during her high school trip.  Here we are out back looking like we own the place.

We don't own the place.

One of my favorite travel photos. Thanks again to all the fellow tourists who have exchanged cameras with us!

On this visit we also spent a relaxing early evening on a narrated cruise tour which departs from the Eiffel Tower and highlights over a dozen Paris monuments and locations.  We especially enjoyed cruising at sunset when the temperatures were a bit cooler and the lights were beginning to come up over the City of Lights as we made our way back to a twinkling Eiffel Tower an hour later.

Visit the site for details on a variety of itineraries and lots of helpful information, including downloadable brochures.

bateauxparisiens.com/english.html

We return to Paris de nouveau for a stereotypically-touristy (and fleamarkety!) Valentine's weekend next time.