Nothing fits her anymore. Number one on my French shopping list β once we get the food in β is a swimsuit for Lolo. Probably three swimsuits, in fact, as she needs at least one one-piece for camp back in Canada. Buying a few swimsuits in a French seaside town for a tall, willowy, year old will be a piece of cake or a slice of sumptuous millefeuille , I assure myself.
It will be positively simple compared to my own expeditions into swimsuit stores. It will be a fun, joyful occasion. We will bring the poodle. Not much is exceptional about this situation. It simply reminds us that we are back in France. We return to the old town a couple days later, this time without the dog.
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 β Oh, it was epic! 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.
I feel the need to explain. Maybe even two or three suits. The cheerful attendant does a double-take, like most people do. She thinks this juxtaposition is hilarious. Each model is displayed in a single size, while alternate sizing β the inventory you might try on and eventually purchase β is packed into drawers beneath a central display table.
The old part of Antibes was built for the 17 th century. Most stores are, you could say, cozy, a state that lends itself to this shopping intimacy.
