Summer Series: Adventures on the Road

I didn’t really believe them when they said that Paris is a ghost town in August. I couldn’t imagine that a whole town would shut down. (I guess I didn’t notice last year.) Well, it’s true. These French take their August holiday seriously. Paris is officially closed. Shops are shuttered, restaurants are “fermé” and literally no one is working. It’s what my husband loves about France and it’s exactly what I hate about it. I’m not used to this. I realized that starting in the seventh grade when I moved from Missouri I have lived in “resort towns.” Newport Beach, Laguna Beach, Malibu, Aspen and Santa Barbara. These towns never close and in fact they are at their peak in summertime! These towns are open and ready for business. There is a running joke in Santa Barbara that when people ask the locals where they go for vacation, the answer is usually, “Here.” I’m pretty sure this is where the word “staycation” originated. Not Paris though. During the month of August, Parisians hightail it out of town. If you want anything in Paris in August, you’re not going to get it. I went to five florist last week to get flowers and every single one of them was closed. I have just resigned to the fact that I will not have flowers in August not to mention roasted chicken, cheese or chocolates… Everything that makes Paris (and my life) great. I will take out my frustration on everyone who lives and works for me. Sorry, such is life and such is August in Paris.

My husband sensed that I needed to get out of here (before I verbally abused everyone in my wake) so he generously offered to take me and my entourage (caregivers) on a little road trip. Luckily for me, his work in Paris has come to a complete stop the first three weeks of August. This has never happened so I decided that if we had a few days free, then I was definitely going to milk it. But what to do? I decided that I would take this opportunity to do something that was nearly impossible because it usually occurs on a weekday when my husband is working. Not this week!

Through friends and a few secret sources, I discovered where all of the flea market vendors go to source their antiques. What this means is that I just learned how/where to cut out the middleman. Music to my ears and budget! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me about this before? I quickly learned why… It is not for the casual shopper, unprofessional or the faint of heart.

Every month around Europe, there is something called “deballage” where all of the professional antique dealers convene to shop for their stores, websites, customers, private clients, even themselves. You have to be a certified professional, have the proper paperwork, the moolah and means to transport. That’s just the beginning. You also have to know how to shop, make quick decisions, know the value of pieces, move fast and trust your instincts. So this, my friends, is how I chose to vacation in France this year.

Considering that the deballage was two hours outside of Paris and started at exactly 8 AM, we decided that we would drive a day early, check into a hotel and get to the show on time the next morning. Considering I don’t do anything normal or ugly, there was no way I was going to spend my evening in a highway roadside hotel. If you take the time, the energy and a little teeny bit more money there is always someplace charming to stay in France. I did a little research and discovered a little B&B that is an 18^th-century manor house just 15 minutes from the deballage and honestly, just a smidge more expensive than a budget hotel but a crap load more charming. Domaine de Chatenay. Long tree-lined driveway, centuries-old house, peaceful pooches asleep on the porch, old terra-cotta floors, tall French windows, heirloom furniture, old-school wallpaper, fresh flowers, beautiful antiques, endearing host… As charming as charming can get. Take a look…

Domaine de Chatenay

 

Hotel entry

 

 Antique terracotta floors

 

 Antique floral faience on the dining room walls

 

 Antique heirloom tapestry

 

We asked the proprietor of the hotel if there was anywhere semi-nearby that would be fun to visit. He gave us a list and boy was he right. We drove through a few villages and our entire car was silent in awe of the scenery except for the loudmouth American (me) in the backseat looking out the window and yelling, “Oh my God, it’s so beautiful” at every turn. You wouldn’t blame me, take a look…

 

 Cathedrale de Chartres

 

 Cathedral detail

 

 Town vegetable market

 

 Village maison

 

 This little cutie is what holds back exterior shutters!

 

 

 

 

 

 Village chapel

 

 Mayor's house

 

 

Coming back to the hotel at about 10 PM, we had a lovely chat and a refreshing summertime gin and tonic with the owner of the hotel in the salon. He told us all about the history of the house that had been in his family for over 100 years and previous to that he explained that there had been two other houses on the same property in the 16^th and 17^th century. I could have talked to him all night but I knew that I needed to get some rest to prepare for the next morning’s adventures.

Waking at 6 AM, getting dressed and having a typical French breakfast of café au lait, buttery croissants, country ham and local cheese in the beautiful breakfast room of the hotel, we were ready to attack the day. I asked my husband if he would just pop into the kitchen to check it out because I was sure it was that perfect country French kitchen. He refused and said that would be rude. Don’t you hate when your husband doesn’t do as you say/command?

Getting to the event, I looked around the parking lot at the antique dealers ready to ascend on the show and I smiled and thought, “These are my people.” These are the people who rise at the crack of dawn, cash in hand waiting to be spent, ready to buy furniture. It’s a particular group to be sure. Not a moment sooner, the doors open at 8 AM and it’s party time. Move, move, move, fast fast fast, make a decision, pay, move on. You have to know your shit at these places. It’s no time to ponder, overthink or wonder if a piece will work or not. You need to already know and that requires years of experience. I didn’t realize it until this day that everything that I’ve ever studied, researched, thought about, and appreciated led up to this point. There is a certain type of gilt that I’m looking for that reflects the era that I like… Mostly 18^th and 17^th century. I am borderline on 19^th century gilt. There is a difference of woods… I like French oak but only if it has a certain look. Wormholes are your friends but not too much. There’s a difference between good bronze and cheesy bronze. There is a difference between Japanese and Chinese lacquer. I don’t do cherubs. I am very specific about paintings. I like a piece to have a purpose in a home even if that purpose is to be purely decorative. And it’s got to be the right price, easy to ship, and have a certain “wow factor.” All of this goes through my mind within seconds at every booth. 90%, I don’t like. That 10%? Golden. I purchased 12 items for the shop for September’s sale and I could not have been more excited.

The whole experience was a rush and a thrill and I needed a three hour nap and a hot tea (I lost my voice for about an hour) to recuperate. No such luck. On our way home back to Paris after the deballage, my husband suggested we take a slight detour through the Loire Valley. As tired as I was, when someone offers to drive you through the Loire Valley of France to go to a castle that was built for a king, you don’t say no, even if you have ALS. So off we went to Château d'Amboise. I will be forever grateful that I was lucky enough and had enough strength to see Henry II’s bedroom chamber and be inches away from Leonardo da Vinci’s final resting place in the chapel of the Château because this wasn’t your ordinary detour off the freeway, right?

 

 

 

Henry II bedroom window detail. Money bags!

 

So that was our two day summer adventure. Driving through the French countryside is an absolute treat… Golden wheat fields, pastoral scene of cows napping near still ponds under the shade of a tree, sunflowers as far your eye can see, quaint restaurants serving country fare, van Gogh blue skies, medieval castles perched on hills, stone cottages quietly resting near babbling brooks, historical churches in every village and not a Taco Bell in sight (unfortunately)… A wonderful escape from the hustle and bustle of Paris. Now I see why the French take their holidays so seriously. A much-needed break to unwind and respect the “downtime” is a good idea… Even if I can’t get flowers in Paris in August.

Stay tuned for my next Summer Series. Hint: “You say tomato, I say toe-mah-toe..."