I’m titling this photo “who *doesn’t* need a stuffed weasel?”
Or a candle sconce with reflective mirror, in case you’d like to pretend you are Versailles, or perhaps at Almac’s inveigling to put yourself in Fitzwilliam Darcy’s path…
Or a wire hat-making rack? Or a guitar?
Or a gracious gilt mirror back there on the table? Is that man in the reflection a) an apparition, b) an unwitting photo bomb-er, or c) a product of my incredible photoshopping skills? He’s either a or b. Or I suppose, D) a Frenchman thinking “why is this crazy woman taking photos of the weasel?”
Here’s another treasure I found: a handmade lock, with letters on the tumblers. I got really excited about it, my head teeming with visions of Robert Langdon and rosebud or whatever the word was that opened the lock in The DaVinci Code, and I began running through four letter word possibilities. Then I remembered: I’m in France. It was probably a French person who made the lock. It will probably be a French word that will open it. Merde.
The man selling it didn’t have the combination, but he did knock two euros off the price because I looked so crestfallen. Oh well. It will be a nice little truc to keep me busy on those cold New England winter nights, trying out every possible combination…
Here are the treasures I came home with: A bronze pitcher with a lid chained to it (that I haven’t quite figured out what it was used for, but it’s obviously handmade and I think it’s kind of cool. And the guy wanted 3 euros for it. SOLD!); a pottery vase with daisy (from the Alsace region of France) and the light blue pitcher that the lady threw in as a bonus, for 5 euros; an acorn lidded cup carved from a single piece of wood (for 50 cents); an ammonite fossil for 2 euros, a bracelet with the coat of arms of all the Gaelic nations (vintage, 2 euros), and my favorite purchase of the day, a tiny blue pitcher with multi-color dots, which was 6 euros and was my big splurge of the day, but I love it immensely and it brings me joy, so it was well-worth the splurge.
Not pictured: a stunning vintage structured handbag in black leather, a wrought iron trammel (to raise and lower pots in a fireplace) PLUS the hanger from which to hang the pots, and a huge beechwood ring mold for pressing Beaufort (our favorite kind of cheese). All important and necessary purchases, even if the trammel did turn my hands all sooty, and walking with it made me clanked so loudly I felt like Marley’s ghost. And, let me be clear, the cheese ring is big enough that, rather than carry it, my husband wore it home as a bandolier a la Chewbacca. (I spent the afternoon calling him Cheesebacca. He thought it was hilarious, in a really very not-so hilarious sort of way.)