21^st Century Dharma Bum

by Brian Van der Horst

Part I of II:  The Brocante at Maisons-Laffitte: another Musing from Maisons-Laffitte

“The brocante at Maisons-Laffitte is a phenomenon of society!” extols Jacques Myard, our mayor. “Today we have 650 exhibitors, and I expect our population (of 22,000) to double today.” Mr. Myard and I are standing in the smoky tumult of Avenue du Général de Gaulle, in front of my butcher’s stand, heaped with three kinds of sizzling brochettes, six kinds of sausage, from fiery merguez to redolent andouillette, made of pig entrails. He and I have bumped into each other while ordering Mr. Mazieres’ sandwiches of roast sucking pig. He asks for a half portion, but is given a freebie full loaf, and can’t stop himself from devouring it all. This combination suburban yard-sale and block-party is the most luxurious thing of its kind I’ve ever seen on five continents. 

“This touches all the social classes,” he continues. “Like la fête populaire, it is the only day of the year when the bourgeois who want will place themselves in the street to mingle with the public.”  The bespoke-suited Mr. Myard is also député of this department, les Yvelines, and a member of the National Assembly, which makes him somewhat equivalent to a congressman in the States.

The Honorable Mr. Myard can usually be seen busily bussing babies at every public function in Maisons-Laffitte, from concert to horse show to church benefit kermesse.  He hands me a red, white and blue, five-by-three-inch business card with his color photograph on one side, and a list of useful telephone numbers such as the police, fire department and anti-poison center printed on the back. Under his picture is the slogan: “A determined, trustworthy man who listens to you.”  

I can’t believe my ears.  I have out my trusty reporter’s notebook.  I have identified myself as a journalist.  And yet he is talking like the lord of the manor.

Well our casse-croûtes are certainly lordly. Crisp, crunchy slabs of crackling skin and meat.  And this is Maisons-Laffitte, one of the richest banlieues of France. 

But that’s on the right side of the tracks in the Mansart-designed “parc” of elegant tree-lined alleys and imposing mansions.  That side boasts more than 130 stables, six practice rings, over 47 kilometers of riding trails and an Olympic race track, the Hippodrome.  Known as “Le Cité du Cheval” this town has long been populated with prosperous artists like Cocteau, Idel Ianchelevici, playboys like the Aga Khan, exemplar of the even more prosperous equestrian set. Here, horses have right of way before cars, bicycles or rollerblades.

On this side of the tracks, reluctantly shared by the metropolitan RER and the country-wide SNCF, you find more apartment buildings like my own triumph of Stalinist Architecture, small pavilions—and the full swing and fray of the brocante.

Stands have been open for business since 6 AM. Today, the heart of the town is reserved for pedestrians.  I see mink and curly astrakhan, vison, new Peugeots from local garages, television sets, and mountains of porcelain, silver, sculpture and paintings.

“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 am, 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 the 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, vegetables, seafood and now, in the fall, wild pheasant, quail, boar and other game are stacked in daring pyramids and showcased like jewelry.  This is where you can see into the French soul.

As Mr. Myard says, this is the only time of the year people open their houses, and throw what is no longer used, needed, or wanted into paper cartons stacked on plywood tables.  Here you can see what once was loved, and now abandoned. You can see into homes that are usually gated and obscured from the street, talk to the residents, and peak inside their passions, disappointments, and triumphs.

Stacks of roller blades—a pair for the whole family, or outgrown by several ages of children?  Zebra-covered armchairs, old guitars, scuba tanks, paintings bought on vacation, peasant clothes that looked just swell—even de rigueur—in the islands or mountains where they were bought, but embarrassing here in this chic suburb west of Paris. From the baby, toddler and kid’s clothes and toys before their portals, you can see the growth and spread of their family.  Read the bestsellers of yesterday.  Meditate over their flights into Buddhism, Taoism, astrology, alternative sports and medicines that once seemed appealing enough for which to purchase books or magazines.

Balloons of Dora, Spiderman and Bob l’éponge dance in the streets.

Sometimes the children themselves that sell their toys, lusting to trade up from yesterday’s Gameboys, PlayStations and X-boxes to whatever has just come out.  This is rare for the French, where the young are frequently caught in a Gallic phenomenon of prolonged childhood, and rarely do a day of mercantile work till they are well into their twenties.  You and I who grew up in America might have had a paper route when we were 12, and worked in the supermarket when we were 14, but the kids of Maisons-Laffitte don’t even mow lawns or set up impromptu car washes.  I don’t know where they get their pocket money. 

At 7 am, the first round of customers sweeps through the town.  This first wave is notable for shoppers in djellaba, burkas and turbans.  They inhale household furnishings, bargaining down to each centime. The second wave consists of the professionals. By 9 am, small groups of middle-eastern bargain hunters are walking out of downtown and packing cars with their purchases. Lunchtime calms down the crowd as visitors gather around the fast-food stands.  After lunch, the streets swarm with tourists.  

Be sure to come back next week to read Part II of Brian's Brocante story.  

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