Pink Trash Goes to an Auction

All auctions aren’t the same. In Kansas, they’re glorified garage sales. Neighbors snoop through your belongings, eye their prize, and wait through heat and dust to bid on something worthless. In Paris, they’re quite the contrary.

Last Friday, I visited my first auction house. What I saw were rooms filled with an eclectic presentation of jewelry, paintings, tapestries and furniture – some dating back to the 17th century. It wasn’t the typical midwestern display of Malibu Barbies with their left arm missing that I’m accustomed to seeing at public sales.

Accompanied by Mina (our French teacher and adoptive parent), I walked through rooms on display – every now and then catching one particular item worth exploration. Though, after reviewing the price lists to determine the anticipated selling amount at auction the following day, I quickly surmised the gloried garage sales were more down my alley.

It was entertaining, however, to behold the auctioning process in the other rooms not on display. They were stuffed with an array of shoppers – from the experienced tradesmen to the bargain hunters. And unlike the auctioneers back home, the ringleaders were brilliantly dressed along with back-up support armed with computers and telephones ready to toss in a bid from those unable to attend.

Knowing Chris would want to return, as well as friends from the States, I closely observed the bidding process and payment method (God help if I had an unwanted itch and accidentally bid €1,500 for a historic tea set). It seemed relatively simple. You listen. You bid. You pay with check. But with everything in French, if you’re communication skills are a bit rusty, the risk is not knowing HOW MUCH you will pay.

So let the neighbors fend for themselves up and down the country roads on Saturday mornings. I realized I prefer the more civilized approach - one with a roof overhead, smartly dressed administrators and one that’s dustbowl free.