I’m a former New York City magazine editor who came to Paris for summer vacation — and stayed. What can I say? It happens. Paris is really beautiful! And its vintage home goods are second to none.
I grew up going to flea markets up and down the East Coast, which anyone who grew up within a 100-mile radius of Philadelphia would recognize: Shupp’s Grove, Renninger’s, the Golden Nugget. We would get up at 5 a.m., pile into my parents’ car, and go out into the countryside and explore. My parents looked for model trains, stamps, and ceramics (Gaudy Welsh and Gaudy Dutch, in particular). At the time? I mostly looked forward to lunch.
All these years later, I’m excited to be doing more or less the exact same thing, though in a different language, and with different menu options: crêpes and merguez sausage sandwiches instead of French fries and hot dogs. (Though I’ll just briefly share that once, at a flea market in Auvers-sur-Oise, the riverside village made famous by Van Gogh, the guys were making French fries with just-picked potatoes, and they were the best French fries I’ve ever had.) French flea markets are a wonder: filled with interesting pieces and people, and so different from what I’d grown up with: enamelware milk pails and French school posters and lovely turn-of-the-century decanters with hand-painted flowers. I hope you can get to one, if you want to go. And I hope if not, my shop serves as a worthy substitution.
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