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.