Antiques dealing A Choice, Not a Job
Some people work for a living. The rest of us live for the work — or rather, the hunt. Being an antiques dealer isn’t a nine-to-five; it’s a 3:30 a.m. dash to the next fair, a 1,200-mile loop through Europe in a hatchback full of curios, and a late-night stumble home with a bootload of treasure and a grin you couldn’t buy.
One day it’s haggling in a flea-bitten French market over a dusty clock; the next it’s shaking hands on a 300-year-old cabinet you didn’t know you needed — until you saw it, and now you can’t imagine leaving without it.
There are lows, of course. Rain-soaked fields, grumpy customs officers, and that sinking feeling when the “rare” vase turns out to be made last Tuesday. But the highs? They’re gold. The thrill of spotting a gem in a pile of junk. The roar of a van door slamming shut on a perfect find. The quiet satisfaction of knowing this is your road, your rules.
It’s not a job. It’s a choice. And the day it feels like work is the day I hang up my map — but don’t hold your breath.
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