My boyfriend, Jon, and I made the normal Tinder small-talk when we first matched. But when he mentioned that he listened to a podcast featuring “two funny women who talk about the people on those Bravo shows,” I took a chance and gave him my actual phone number. Subsequently, I introduced him to The Real Housewives of Potomac and explained what Jack and Jill is. He introduced me to Vanderpump Rules and convinced me to go to TomTom . Reality television was one of our first common bonds, and a lasting one.

From Real Housewives to 90 Day Fiance , trashy reality television has long been my escape. There’s very little that can chase me away from a quality piece of unscripted programming. When it does happen, it’s rarely something as black-and-white as the assault allegations on Bachelor in Paradise , or former South Carolina Treasurer Thomas Ravenel’s rape charges on Southern Charm . When it came to Sister Wives, I simply did not trust Kody Brown’s extreme midlife-crisis, white fratboy energy, and haircut—and that was that.

Watching bad behavior and choices—and even bad people —doesn’t have to feel bad in and of itself. But if your TV diet is straight reality programming with the sole exception of one episode of This Is Us per week (which is made to be sobbed through anyway), watching all those bad people managing the consequences of their bad choices starts to feel as though you’re suffering with them. Eight months into a less-than-ideal life circumstance, accompanied by a steady diet of Bravo, I found myself—much like a Real Housewife of New York from season ten, the Miami-bound Luanne de Lessepes—heading towards my reality TV breaking point.

It was around this time that my boyfriend and I discovered The Roadshow.

Though Antiques Roadshow has aired on PBS in the United States since 1997, Jon and I didn’t get hip to it until early 2018. We stumbled across a slew of older episodes that had been uploaded to YouTube. A few glasses of wine in, I turned one on as a joke. Forty minutes and one $600,000 Frederic Remmington painting later, we were fully on board.

The Roadshow’s premise is simple. Each year, the show travels to a handful of cities across the US, inviting locals to have their garage sale junk and family heirlooms appraised for market value. A group of professional appraisers and auctioneers field thousands of items, then choose those interesting enough to have their historical and cultural significance, along with their value, explained on air.

I’d had a passing interest in the show when I was younger; they filmed an episode in my middle school’s gymnasium in New Jersey one weekend in the early aughts. But it would be years before I could be heard shouting at the top of my lungs, “Babe, get in here! It’s a Lalique !” on a regular basis.

In our era of highly-produced, glossy reality shows, Antiques Roadshow feels almost quaint. Rarely do episodes feature what coastal Americans might consider a “major” city. For years, PBS has utilised school auditoriums, lunch rooms, gymnasiums, warehouses, and convention centers to film episodes, adding to the show’s “everyman” feel. Though they’ve switched up their strategy for this twenty-third season—they now film at historic landmark locations like Tulsa’s Philbrook Museum of Art—you can still feel the show’s ‘realness’ from your couch.

In our era of highly-produced, glossy reality shows, Antiques Roadshow feels almost quaint.

The joy of Roadshow is the honest-to-goodness surprise of the find. The show is at its best when the people who expect nothing gain everything and the shock is evident on their makeupless faces. Even better is when the appraisers are presented with something so rare, unique, or important that you can visibly see them attempting to hold back their glee.

The finds in the larger cities are just as amazing, sure, but somehow feel less surprising. Almost too camera ready. Jon and I regularly spend hours with the wealthy women of New York and Beverly Hills; of course they have priceless treasures. More exciting is what’s hiding in the basement of an Omaha house at the end of a cul de sac.

There is no game to win on Antiques Roadshow. No drama to follow throughout the season. It combines what we love about shows like House Hunters— money and yelling at the television about money—with the qualities you rarely see on reality television: genuine joy and wonder, kindness, and a dash of education. It almost doesn’t feel real. How can a show like this exist in the divisive reality television landscape? But it’s also so kind, so simple, and so pure that you begin to wonder, “ Could this even be faked?”

In May of 2018, Jon and I spent a day with The Roadshow in San Diego, discovering that, no, it can’t be faked.

Photograph courtesy of Antiques Roadshow/PBS

The Hotel del Coronado is the second largest, all-wooden structure in the United States. It opened in 1888 and the grand beach-front hotel quickly became a hotspot for celebrities of all kinds. Once known as “Hollywood’s Playground,” the del Coronado played host to golden era stars like Katharine Hepburn, Mae West, and Errol Flynn. It set the stage for Marilyn Monroe’s comedic turn in 1959’s Some Like It Hot before it became a filming location for season twenty-three of Antiques Roadshow.

The overwhelming modernity that comes with shooting three weeks of television episodes in a single day felt out of place in this incredibly vintage setting. Yet, as I watched people drag their old junk and treasures through the dark polished wood of the lobby—holding lamps and shoeboxes full of baseball cards in their arms, yanking in full eighteenth-century armoires in on movers’ dollies—it seemed as though there was no better setting than this charming, seaside estate.

I’d picked out a few pieces from my vast collection of Jesse James books and memorabilia, choosing two turn-of-the-century dime novels that detailed the outlaw’s fictionalized exploits. Jon brought along a small, porcelain figurine his mother had excitedly mailed across the country for him to have appraised. Immediately, we hooked up with a tour guide from the production staff, Hannah, who gave us a rundown of the rules and procedures before escorting us in to have our items viewed.

Writing about our Roadshow experience had been at the top of my mind since receiving the invitation to film. I came prepared to snap numerous pictures. However, we were quickly walked past a sign which very clearly asked that all visitors refrain from doing just that. It’s not a rule I’ve ever actually followed, but this was PBS—the channel that taught me how to read. The sign would know if I didn’t follow its plainly stated instructions, and certainly would Arthur Read. I will never disappoint Arthur.

I was tempted though, especially after walking past the many signs that spelled out the instructions for visitors who might be bringing in possible live ammunition and/or firearms. They aren’t often featured on air, but we learned that the appraisers of Antiques Roadshow do get their fair share of cannon shells, mortars, and other classic weaponry. They have procedures in place for that sort of appraisal and local police officers on hand in case anything goes awry.

Much like eighteenth- and nineteenth-century lockets containing old bits of human detritus (hair and nails are common), weapons aren’t banned, but they also aren’t encouraged. There are many rules, Hannah explained, as I asked every question my cynical brain had come up with since diving head first into Roadshow fandom.

Here’s the thing: The Antiques Roadshow seems pure from my couch, but when you get down to it, reality television is hardly “reality.” We know this; there are whole books and seasons of television dedicated to the production shenanigans of shows like The Bachelor . And so I’ve come up with many questions while watching Roadshow at home.

Episodes filmed in the Pacific Northwest or the Plains states prompt the most suspicious of my inquiries, as they tend to attract white visitors who, somehow, have Indigenous-made items that they want appraised. These items, which range from handmade and beaded clothing and pouches, to intricately carved pipes, totem figurines, and more, are often some of the most valuable. In 2001, the show appraised a child’s doll, rattle, and cup at between $16,000 and $21,500 .

My question is always the same: “Okay,” I’ll say to the television, “But how did that colonizer end up with a Dakota item?” Given America’s history, it’s easy (and understandable) to assume the worst—everything from violent land and property grabs to straight up grave robbing. Given America’s reality TV landscape, one that regularly lands participants in jail because they’ve blatantly committed tax fraud on camera ( which, honestly, thank you for that gift, Andy Cohen), it’s just as easy to cynically assume that The Roadshow might play fast and loose with laws like the Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act for entertainment’s sake.

But this is emphatically not the case. It helps that The Roadshow prohibits their appraisers from making deals to buy or sell items while working the show. “They can provide contact information for people who want to follow up after filming is over about putting a valuable item up for auction,” Hannah, our guide explained. Anything beyond that is strictly forbidden.

Photograph courtesy of Antiques Roadshow/PBS

And, when it comes to sensitive appraisals, experts are sure to ask the “right” questions before selecting an item to be filmed for airing. Probing inquiries about how the owner came by the item makes sure the appraisal lives up to the standards laid forth by both law and PBS’ morality—both of which trump my professional cynicism.

We were led into a room where visitors’ items are first evaluated by appraisers who assign categories. Military uniforms are sent to one table; early American furniture might be sent into another room where they’ll meet Roadshow favourites the Keno twins; and if you have a vintage travel poster, you might get lucky enough to be sent over to Nicholas D. Lowrey, Roadshow ’s energetic, Paul F. Tompkins look-alike.

He is my boyfriend’s and my favorite appraiser. I wasn’t going to ask Lowrey—or ‘Nico,’ as everyone called him—how much he made for each Roadshow appearance when we met him. (He was, I am pleased to report, an utter delight.) But I couldn’t resist asking Hannah how these nearly eighty professional appraisers were compensated for the show.

“Oh, they’re volunteers,” she responded brightly.

“I’m sorry?” I was sure I’d misheard.

“Yeah, they all really love doing it,” she explained. “Some of them have been with us since the first season. It’s like a family. None of them are paid.”

Nene Leaks of The Real Housewives of Atlanta reportedly makes as much as $2.75 million dollars per season . Over in West Hollywood, Jax Taylor of Vanderpump Rules supposedly makes much less— $25,000 per episode —but still nothing to sneeze at. Salaries like those are how tax “accidents” happen, and I’d never thought that PBS had the bag secured quite like that. But I’d assumed appraisers made something more than a standard per diem.

Hannah laughed at our shock and said, “We can’t keep some of them away!”

Of course, there’s “exposure” that comes with working The Roadshow. If you’re lucky enough to appraise a $60,000 painting on Sunday and its owner expresses an interest in auctioning it, then you’re likely to be their first call on Monday morning. But, as a longtime freelancer, it is the only instance of “working for exposure” that has ever left me feeling hopeful, encouraged even, like there is hope for humanity yet. These people, our favorite appraisers included, choose to travel, interact with, and educate hundreds of strangers a day, for weeks out of the year, for free .

That said, Marsha Bemko, Roadshow ’s veteran executive producer, is indeed paid to do her job. And she’s really good at it. Just above the Hotel del Coronado’s beach, behind the outdoor booth where clocks and watches were appraised, we watched as Bemko vetted a participant who experts had pulled aside to be considered for an on-camera appearance.

An older Scandinavian woman had arrived with her brother and a massive clock that looked like it was meant to be a table centerpiece. She was clearly nervous at the idea of being featured. Bemko sensed it.

I’ve come to think of reality show producers as conniving, cutthroat emotional leeches, ones determined to wring each and every last bit of trauma that they can from their subjects. In her book Bachelor Nation, reporter Amy Kaufman compares the tactics used by Bachelor producers to police interrogation methods.

So I wasn’t prepared to get misty-eyed when Bemko, adorned in jeans, worn sneakers, and an earpiece, took the older woman’s hand and gently assured her, “I would never put you on television if I didn’t think you could do it and if your story wasn’t fantastic. And if you want to stop, we can stop. But I have full confidence in you.”

Passion is the main currency on Roadshow, where enthusiasm is never maligned by greed, by the search for fame or fortune.

Passion is the main currency on Roadshow , where enthusiasm is never maligned by greed, by the search for fame or fortune. While we didn’t get to stay and watch the filmed appraisal (though you can catch it on the second del Coronado episode, available to stream on PBS), it was clear that the clock was a special find and worth something from the way the appraiser’s eyes lit up in the moment.

But that excitement, which you can see often on the show, always seems to come from a place of gratitude. It’s the thrill of getting to handle a rare item that, perhaps, you’ve never encountered before. Money isn’t up for grabs, but bragging rights in your field certainly are. The “Thank you for bringing this in!” you often hear after an exciting appraisal is genuine, offered with the same sincerity that I’d express to someone bringing me something for my Jesse James collection that I wouldn’t otherwise have the chance to see.

Neither Jon nor I struck it rich that afternoon at the Hotel del Coronado. But that hasn’t stopped us from tuning in each week to cheer on others who want to try. By the time we left the set that day, I understood a central truth: The Roadshow feels so especially pure and unburdened within the reality genre because it truly is.

I do not remember exactly how much my books were worth—it wasn’t much—but the money wasn’t the point for me either. Instead, I remember the kindness of the appraiser who handled them and listened as I explained their provenance and the development of my weird fascination with Jesse James. I was simply pleased that someone was willing to listen to me prattle on about crime in the Reconstruction Era for a few minutes, and encouraged me to keep collecting, even as he had to let me down gently as to the books’ value.