21^st Century Dharma Bum

by Brian Van der Horst 

The Brocante at Maisons-Laffitte: Part II of II. 

“The brocante is the number one loisir (pastime) of the French,” said Christophe, who was selling hundreds of pieces of World War II military paraphernalia.   By 10 a.m., he had already sold 400 euros of stock, and expected to do 1,000 by the end of the day.  According to him, a million French frequent brocantes every Sunday. He may be right.  According to one website inventorying brocantes in France, last week there were 5,300 vide-greniers, collectionneurs  and marchés aux puces in 95 departments. This week there were 78 of these Gallic garage sales here in Yvelines alone.

Perhaps after going to the market? I suggest.  Shopping the open-air markets in this country is like going to church on Sunday.  At the marché you can see the soul of the French. Incredibly brilliant fruits, vegetable, seafood and now, in the fall, wild pheasant, quail, boar and other game are stacked in altars  of  daring pyramids and showcased like jewelry.  But at the brocante you can see into French hearts and minds.

As I do every year, I have made a list of everything I need a few months before the Brocante: dishwasher, vacuum cleaner, pots and pans, telephones, audio speakers—I find them all for just a few euros at this fabulous flea market—including temptations on the order of Kenzo motorcycle jackets, 2,300-euro MBW BIKES, top-of-the-line hi-fi systems, luxury cars and designer clothes.

Here’s a small sampling of the day’s receipts.  Since the brocante is a cash-only tax-free affair, the names have been changed to protect the imposable from the tax man.

Sporting cowboy hats and fringed shirts, flanked by Star-Spangled and Statue of Liberty banners, it’s pretty obvious that Jean-Jacques and Viviane’s passion is for cowboy clothes and Americana. Thirty-year veterans of the Maisons-Laffitte street fair, they were originally inspired by the sartorial grace of Johnny Hallyday, that icon of French Rock n’ Roll. They make well over 1,000 euros for the day. By 10:17 am, Nathalie on rue Puebla had earned around 250 euros, and 400 by 3 pm.

Philippe brought his family, and his collections of miniature automobile memorabilia, as he has for several years, all the way from St Georges–sur–Cher in the Loire Valley. He has cleared 700 euros.

Anne, owner of the best bar in town for conversation, sold about 800 euros worth of promotional favors and gifts that her fournisseurs have given throughout the year.  Richard, the proprietor and chief cook at La Bonne Pizza does it “pour le plaisir.”  He says he makes more on the nights he sells 40 pies than he does during the whole day at the brocante.

  
The day ends in a rosy glow of golden back-lit streets framed by imposing black indigo storm clouds.  Now in this dazzling twilight come the real heros of the day: the municipal clean-up crew. I chat with a group of sapeurs-pompiers, and sanitation engineers in Day-Glo yellow vests. They proudly assure me that by midnight, the streets will again be pristine. It takes a team of 19 agents de propriété, three garbage trucks, and one heavy weight camion de ramassage to clear les rues et avenues. Indeed by morning, the streets are immaculate.

A couple of years ago I gave playing brocanteur a try.  Or more truthfully was forced to by my concubine who tired of storing my duplicate household of dishes, linen, and treasured bric-a-brac.  Considering she never let me hang my collection of Bali batiks, Indian Tankas, or  day-glow Cuena molas chez nous, I consented. After all, it only cost 10 euros for 7.5 square meters of sidewalk, and I could use some pocket change.

So there I was laboring 12 hours one Saturday unpacking and sorting 30 cartons containing the booty of my world travels.  Sunday morning I got up at 6 am to set up our stand complete with tables, layered displays, and what I thought were cunningly seductive marketing slogans written on shirt boards. By 8 pm, the streets were still spotted with stragglers folding their tents. I re-packed and stored the 25 unsold boxes of overflow possessions that remained. Drenched with perspiration and breathless with fatigue, I was delighted to recall all the neighbors I had met for the first time. A surprising number of new acquaintances spoke English. I counted my booty and mourned my departed memorabilia. I had made 200 euros in just 14 hours.

This year, I decided to play reporter.

Copyright 2007 Brian Van der Horst (www.bvdh.com).  All rights reserved.