Shopping in the South of France

It's easy to feel like a film star in the South of France. Perhaps it’s the sun, the sparkling Mediterranean Sea or the port lined with stunning yachts that give off a whiff of sophisticated glamour. For men of a certain age, all they need do is slick back their hair, stick on a pair of sunglasses and teamed with tanned forearms, voila! Job done. For women, a light sundress does the trick, displaying golden shoulders, accompanied by strappy sandals on manicured toes. Swept back hair and sunglasses do the finishing touch and whatever your station in life, hey presto, you are a film star.  And very often in France, when shopping in the little boutiques, you are made to feel like a film-star too.  

Not so much in the pharmacies. These are different altogether, as once inside, you are treated like a patient in a doctor’s surgery. They are usually full of anxious customers, discussing their ailments. If you think you can pop in for a pot of Nivea cream or can of hairspray, think again. The expert staff in pharmacies are knowledgeable on all their products. If you ask for anything deemed ‘ordinary’ you will be redirected sniffily to “les grands surfaces”. In other words, the supermarkets. ‘Les Grands Surfaces’ I’ve learned, is a euphemism for a place to buy something of inferior quality.  The French pharmacy, on the other hand, illuminated by its exterior bright green cross, only trades in laboratory tested creams and applications, herbal remedies and prescription drugs. 

You can imagine my consternation therefore, while holidaying recently in a Mediterranean  town, not far from Marseille, when I realised I had forgotten the sharpener for my eyeliner pencil. Quelle horreure!  Where was I going to find one, if not in a chemist?  I couldn’t be expected to track one down in a ‘grande surface’!  It would be like looking for a needle in haystack. I tried in one fairly friendly pharmacy in town and the assistant went to great trouble rummaging through drawers and telling me that what I was looking for was called ‘une taille crayon’, but alas, they had run out.

The following evening, as I was walking down to the port where the glamorous couples walk ‘au bord de la mer’, I plucked up the courage to try the ultra chique Parfurmerie Dominique. The window displayed a Dior bag at more than 700 euros and a jar of Chanel cream for over 300 euros.  Dare I step into the red and gold canopied boutique, with the petite white pooch snoozing dreamily at the door, and ask for ‘une taille crayon’?  Mais oui, and I was greeted by the charming male assistant in tight floral shirt and smooth cream trousers. I bade the traditional “Bonjour” and sweetly asked him in my best French, 
	“Excusez moi, monsieur, ce n’est pas grande chose, mais je cherche une taille crayon.”  (Excuse me, it’s not a big thing, but I’m looking for a sharpener for my 	eyeliner pencil). 
	“Bien sur,suivez moi,” he replied, and brought me into the inner sanctum of the parfumerie where rows and rows of perfumes and make up were on display at exorbitant prices.  I was more than just a little embarrassed at my meagre purchase, so when he told me that I owed him the grand sum of 5 euros, I blushed.  However, I needn’t have worried as the helpful assistant began to explain to me in very simple terms, how I should use the sharpener. 
	“You see Madame, there is a little hole, this is for your eye pencil, and the jumbo hole, do you know the word JUMBO Madame,” he broke off, his eyes addressing me directly, “well, this is for you lip pencil.”
        “I see,” I murmured. Of course, I knew the word jumbo. Did he think because I was buying something so cheap that I was also an idiot? “It’s an English word,” I felt like saying. “In fact, it’s an international word. There can’t be anyone in this entire globalised world that doesn’t know the word jumbo,” but I said nothing and smiled and thanked him and paid my 5 euros. 
	“You speak good French,” he said as he proffered me the card machine to swipe. “Are you from London by any chance?”
	“No, no, Scotland actually, Glasgow.” 
	“Ah Scotland! Quel beau pays! You have a beautiful country! And tell me do you have beautiful shops in Scotland, like London?”
	“Mais oui, bien sur. In Edinburgh we have Harvey Nichols, and John Lewis in the St James’ Shopping Mall, and in Glasgow we have Buchanan Galleries and the exquisite Princes Square with the best designer clothing.”
	“Ah bon,” he replied dreamily, “and do they sell beautiful perfumes and jewellery too?”
	“Of course, there are magnificent shopping malls, and you can fly Marseille to Edinburgh direct from April – October”.
	
         “Oh I must book a trip toute de suite,” he said dramatically, snapping out of his ‘reverie’.
	I thanked him and as I turned towards the door, I spotted the luxurious displays of liquids shimmering on mirrored shelves like a shrine to that great Goddess: Temptation. I innocently enquired, how much it would be, for say, a bottle of Chanel No 5? 
	“It’s my favourite perfume, you see. I have plenty at home, but I’ve noticed at the airport, because of Brexit, the price has soared to almost 200 euros a bottle. I am interested to see if its less expensive in your boutique.”
	“Et bien sur, le Brexit! C’est une vrais catastrophe! But wait a minute, you like Chanel No 5?”
	“Yes,” I smiled.
	“Hold on,” he said. And he went and fetched the tester bottle and directed me to step back a bit.
	“Stay still,” he declared, and then he began to spray me liberally top to toe in Chanel No 5. “Faire une petite tour,” he directed me to turn around, and I duly obliged, and once again, I was sprayed generously in Chanel No 5.  My bare shoulders drenched in the golden scented liquid. “Et bonne soiree.” 
As I stepped out of his little parfumerie, I swear I felt I was Amal Clooney, going to meet George at the port! 
Shopping à la Francaise! C’est comme ca.