![]() ![]() Most stores are, you could say, cozy, a state that lends itself to this shopping intimacy. The old part of Antibes was built for the 17 th century. Each model is displayed in a single size, while alternate sizing – the inventory you might try on and eventually purchase – is packed into drawers beneath a central display table. The three-way conversation between the clerk, Lolo and me continues mostly in French, as my daughter and I flick through a few dozen varieties of swimsuits hanging on Kiwi’s double-racked wall. She thinks this juxtaposition is hilarious. With Lolo’s tanned skin and extra-long hair, pushed as it is these days into the perfect messy bun, my kid also looks more local than I do. My teenager speaks beautiful French and I – the mother, the one who’s meant to be in charge – don’t. The cheerful attendant does a double-take, like most people do. “Non,” I begin, when Lolo finishes my thought in French that bears no trace of my Anglophone accent: “Oui, c’est pour moi, merci.” “Iz it for you?” The clerk replies with interest, in English. “Nous cherchons un maillot de bain,” I say. In any case, Lolo and I find ourselves alone in her favourite swimsuit shop with the sole attendant, a smiling blonde woman, presiding as official greeter and knowledgeable aid to all our shopping needs. In the end, she wraps up the can opener or doormat, or whatever it is that I’ve purchased, and that can opener or doormat will carry memories of the saleswoman down at the quincaillerie whenever I call that object into service. Or, our chit-chat could tread into the jurisdiction of the French language (how long I’ve studied, how tough it is) before merging into how long we’ve come to Antibes and where the attendant herself calls home. Conversation could meander, say, to where my family lives for the majority of the year, the beauty of Canada, the fact that the clerk was snowmobiling somewhere in our vast country two winters ago – Oh, it was epic! – or how her uncle moved there 20 years ago so a visit remains high on her list. Lolo and I are her only customers, and she’s the only sales assistant, again a situation that is common in Antibes’ old town, and one that can make shopping experiences surprisingly intimate. On a street boasting enormous pots of hanging petunias, across from a pharmacie and in front of the mairie, there lies Antibes’ Kiwi shop. “Bonjour,” she chimes in return, fulfilling her part of the formula. “Bonjour!” I say to the shop attendant, because that’s what you say when you enter a French shop. We return to the old town a couple days later, this time without the dog. It simply reminds us that we are back in France. Not much is exceptional about this situation. On the day of our outing, Antibes’ Kiwi shop (Lolo’s favourite for swimwear) is closed exceptionnellement. It will be positively simple compared to my own expeditions into swimsuit stores. Finding a swimsuit in this seaside town will be easy.īuying a few swimsuits in a French seaside town for a tall, willowy, 13-year old will be a piece of cake (or a slice of sumptuous millefeuille), I assure myself. Number one on my French shopping list – once we get the food in – is a swimsuit for Lolo. Probably three swimsuits, in fact, as she needs at least one one-piece for camp back in Canada. My new teenager is growing like the queues of passengers waiting for the next French train that’s actually running. When we arrive in France’s Riviera this summer, Lolo doesn’t have a swimsuit.
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