Despite the fact that they’re most often so crowded you can hardly move, I love everything about them. In St. Tropez, I loved the colors and smells, the overall feel of something magical on the Place des Lices. My favorite stalls were the spice stalls, with their hundreds of colorful and potent spices displayed proudly; the soaps and lavender, the epitomy of Provence; and the fabrics, the shawls and pereos of all colors, shapes and sizes. I went every possible Tuesday and Saturday this summer, and only made three purchases.
I love the produce market here, too. I go every Wednesday and Saturday, even if I have plenty of fruit at home. Again, it’s the colors and scents that lure me in… but it’s also the culture of the people buying and selling. It is Africa.
I’ve sought out and visited almost every regular market in Paris, but nothing could prepare me for the brocante.
Les brocantes are almost like yard sales, except—being in Paris—what people have stuck in their attacks are usually great antiques. One stall lured me in because it was exactly what the brocante of my imagination looked like. Under two tents were dozens of giant crates with antique goods just thrown in. Some were garbage, but if you dug through, you found treasures.
I wandered the aisles for an hour, hopping from box to box like a bee from flower to flower. I created a pile of my discoveries. Then, with fear in my heart for how much I’d have to put back, I asked how much.
I know you’re supposed to barter at les brocantes—it’s how you get the good price—but when the vendor told me 30€ for all this cool stuff, I didn’t dare speak. I just threw the money at him and ran off with my prizes.
And now that the awe’s wearing off… I think I’m heading back for more.
This could get dangerous!
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