Les Puces du Canal
- Find me in France
- May 12
- 2 min read
Apparently, I made the rookie mistake of not formally acknowledging France’s national bird: the mosquito. They’ve taken it personally and now treat me like an all-you-can-eat buffet every night. I humbly accept responsibility and have entered into full combat mode, hunting them down in my apartment one by one like a blood-smeared assassin.
While I still don’t think Lyon is my city, the people? Absolutely my people. Everyone I’ve met has been genuinely kind and warm. I met a girl on the street walking her dog, and now Copper has a playdate on the books. The wine shop owner remembered my name when I came back to pick up packages. I remember his too—I just couldn’t spell it to save my life. I’ve started my French lessons (online for now, but with a local teacher who’s fantastic).
Yesterday was my last full day with Jen, and we decided to spend it at Les Puces du Canal—the big flea market in Lyon. It’s not Paris, but it is overwhelming in the best way. There’s this rush you get walking in, like some sort of treasure-hunting high. I think this must be where the phrase “kid in a candy store” came from. I made Jen promise to stop me from going off the rails. Naturally, I spotted a cabinet within the first three minutes, but in true best friend fashion, she hit me with the classic: “We just got here—let’s look around first.” (She said that twice in the first five minutes, by the way.)
And then… we stumbled into the shop—@galeriedufutur. It was like walking into a curated wonderland. That’s where I met the chair: a Tom Dixon question-mark rocking chair. A literal sculpture you can sit in. I was done for. Jen was immediately on board, and the sweet angels running the shop offered to hold it for me all summer while I figure out where I’m going to live.
Honestly, I wanted to take home everything in that shop—the jaw-dropping desk, the Hermes tray, the gold flatware (which clocked in at €2,300, so no, I didn’t buy it). The funny part is, my parents used to drag me to flea markets when I was a kid and I hated them. And now? Now they’re pure joy. Treasure hunts full of stories and oddities. These markets are everywhere in France, and each one might be a lesson in restraint—or not. We’ll see.
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