Photos and text by: Corey Amaro
There is more to going to the brocante than looking for antiques. I know many of you think the only reason that I would leave a warm bed early on a Saturday morning, is to find some broken old things just for the heck of it.
Well, let me just say that is simply not true.
I like old things.... but I love how France grabs my hand and takes me deep within her, showing me the depths of her amazing soul.
Saturday morning, waking up before the church bell strikes six, putting on a pair of jeans, a sweater, wrapping a scarf around my neck, throw my purse over my shoulder, close the house door quietly and run towards the car... with the name of a small French village fair dancing in my head.
The tree lined roads in France are one of the reasons I love to go to the brocante.
You see brocanting is more about finding what France has to offer, about learning how it lives, about the life I feel when I venture out into it.
Provence is color under a blue sky.
I cannot deny that the journey to the brocante is half the pleasure. But once I am in the middle of the brocante there is something that takes me deeper into the richness of France... the history, her story, the art work and lives left behind.
Today a pair of child's silk slippers walked up to me: I saw the little girl with a cream colored sash chase her dog through the kitchen. I heard her stop in her tracks when her mother grabbed her to kiss her forehead and put a croissant in her hand.
The road to the brocante it is never the same way twice. The seasons make sure of that. The old things tell me so, and the stories mingled between the two tell me today is a very good day.
The French Brocante stole my heart before I was born... maybe a mustard seed was buried under my pillow... I don't know but I think it is true.
Then, oh my, then there is the cafes lined up tempting me to take a bite... how can one little cake start such a revolution of pleasure. It is something I will never grow tired of....
Red poppy crown,
Lavender fields with intoxicating perfume filling the air.
Pain au chocolat the early morning goddess, the red checked table cloth and the opening of the blue shutter.
Cheese and a crusty baguette..
Sipping Haut Medoc at a cafe,
Listening to the waiter's long white apron swish by,
The road to France goes straight to the heart of the matter.
Then the brocante... opens the door.
and I am home.