I’ve been antiquing in France since the very day my feet touched French soil.
I still remember asking Yann if he knew of an antique shop we could visit or maybe a flea market. He looked at me with all the certainty in the world and said, “Oh, that doesn’t really exist here.”
Excuse me? In the land of Louis XIV, dusty attics, and a thousand chateaux?
I hollered, “STOP THE CAR!” and practically jumped out before the tires stopped rolling. If only I had had money back then, that place would’ve been cleared out in a matter of minutes. Every table, every box, every bit of it called to me.
I don’t know where he was coming from. Maybe a parallel France.
Because days later — as fate, or divine intervention, would have it — we were driving through the countryside and there it was: a brocante. My Mecca.
That was over 30 years ago.
And still my heart races every time I see an antique market, a vide-grenier sign, a storefront window cluttered with forgotten pieces. It never gets old. (Is there anything new in our home.)
Every morning, after kissing my husband and loving on my family, the first thing I want to do is head to an antique market. France is full of them. Full. You couldn’t possibly go to them all, even if you tried. (And believe me, I’ve tried.)
I’ve been a collector, a buyer, a picker. I’ve set up at brocantes shown groups around the Brocantes, created solo sourcing trips, shopping sprees with suitcases, containers, boxes, and envelopes — all in the name of finding something old, beautiful, forgotten, curious—
It’s an addiction.
And as I’ve said many times before: when the brocante bug bites, there’s no cure. The only thing to do is keep going.
Because for me, this love for antiques isn’t just a hobby — it’s part of my heartbeat.
The photos I share? Just glimpses. Random bits I see while walking past a table or a stall. Not necessarily things I want to bring home — not necessarily things you would — but moments that catch my eye. A cafe au lait bowl, a velvet chair, an oil painting, a wire basket full of old linens… France is full of beautiful things. Ordinary, humbling, unexpected, soulful things.
If you’d like to come along — whether it’s a solo sourcing trip, a weekend with friends, or joining one of our brocante groups — let us know. We explore France through the lens of the brocante. It’s off-the-beaten-track, behind-the-scenes, knock-on-the-door, dig-in-the-dust kind of fun, and a whole lot more.
What a flirt the French brocante is! At the brocante, I see old things that carry the history of the land and a way of life. Stories unfold through conversations with antique dealers. The best way to learn a foreign language is to fall in love— and that is how I learned to speak French: at the brocante in France.
Textiles. Paintings. Lighting. Furniture. Mirrors. Chairs. Knickknacks. Books. Paper. Ceramics. Tabletop.
Patti whacks.
Give the dog a bone.
And maybe an 18th-century soup tureen while you’re at it.
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