In France they call window shopping "leche vitrine". The literal translation is "window licking", which makes sense in the context of patisseries. But window shopping is a slightly different proposition here because in France you have to, by law, display the price of every item that goes in the window. On the one hand, this is a time saver; you can tell from standing outside the shop whether there's any point in even going through the door.
On the other hand, it's also a really good way of making you feel poor. Most of my time in French cities is spent with my nose pressed, Victorian street urchin-style, up against the windows of various fancy stores. It's a weirdly confronting experience.
In New Zealand you usually get to go inside and hunt out a price tag, so there's the fun at least of getting closer to the stuff you can't afford. There is too, that brief interval between spotting something in the window, and finding out the cost of it; a delicious few seconds when you can actually imagine having it for your own. There's none of that in France.
Not even in the Miu Miu stores. It's impossible to fantasise in front of windows when the eye is drawn constantly to that little price card on the floor.
Shopping here is not the sole preserve of the window licker, thankfully.
A few weeks ago, I got lost and wandered into the weekly market in the Arab quarter in a local town. A big open square packed full of people and animals and stall after stall of second-hand homewares, haberdashery and produce - it was like stumbling into a giant outdoor jumble sale crossed with an A&P show.
There were mothers pushing buggies filled with babies and eggplants, and old men selling what looked like hand-crocheted doilies by the kilo. There was a posse of improbably gorgeous young men, all pouty lips and cockatoo hair-dos, standing guard over several rugs full of DVDs and running shoes. One of them tried to get me to buy a vinyl record with Tom Selleck on the cover. Alas, I demurred. I didn't miss my chance with the clothes, though. There are no windows to lick in the Arab Market, only great big piles, each marked €1, €2 or €3. I went head-first into a pile of polyester and came out the other side with a cotton kaftan and a navy one-piece swimsuit. Grand total: €2.
To which I added a pair of black lace-up ankle boots, in pristine condition, for €4. Thanks to my leche vitrining, I happen to know there's a very similar pair going for €400 in Comptoir des Cotonniers up the road.
