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It is no secret that I love old things. Give me a cardboard box in a dim corner, partially obscured by a ratty guitar case and hideous throw pillows, and I see a potential gold mine. I love to dig through decades of random domestic detritus and rise triumphant with a carved jett acorn clinging to its powdery elastic cord, the final three beads of a once treasured bracelet. It's crazy, I know, but it's fun. The fact that I have no idea what I am going to do with that little acorn does not diminish the joy of it's discovery. Just one more difference between David and me...
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It is impossible to see everything, as the sale winds up and down the major roads, but spills over into the side streets and back alleys. In some spots it is so crowded that movement actually stops and people are locked in the epitome of European "clumping" tendancies. We were trapped in a solid block of humanity for 15 minutes, while an optimistic but misguided gentleman tried to carry an 19th century gate-leg table over his head against the flow of several thousand serious shoppers. We finally escaped by crawling under tables and squeezing between cargo vans and wrought iron fences.
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We saw some beautiful furniture as well as fabulous junk. I came home with three enamel canisters, three bakelite easter egg molds, a WW2 surplus messenger bag for Benjamin, a French writing award pin, a really cool silver something that will be great on a necklace, a WW2 Belgian liberation pin, and several other things that I can't quite remember, but are really fantastic. But my favorite find was the Braderie itself. I have discovered tradition-- and I already know what I'll be doing on the first weekend of September 2009.
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