The Snow Melts SomewhereSparkles on the Riviera and Choosing an Avocado
Today, I encountered an avocado squeezer. He was a chatty one, too, explaining to me at length which colors to look for in an avocado, which of the store’s three avocado options he preferred, and how he usually had better luck than today.
We exchanged pleasantries and I drifted away, led by my own shopping plans, while he stayed behind steadily squeezing his way through the avocado stock. Why a store needs to sell three differently packaged and priced avocado options is a mystery he unfortunately didn’t offer to explain.
I’d been anticipating an encounter like this ever since my friend told me of her husband, originally from a sunnier country, who is a passionate avocado squeezer himself, both in the store and at home.
He’ll wander into the kitchen every few hours to check if his avocados are ripe yet. Like tending a garden, but without the garden. I’ve never met him, but I imagine him to bend down closely to inspect these treats he so craves, glasses on, all senses alert, nose almost touching the fruit but not quite. I think avocados must remind him of his home before Finland. Only a few hours away by plane, but somehow so unattainable. A place of memories now colored by time.
Just a bit over a week ago, I was basking in the Mediterranean sun. Despite the canicule de merde hand fan I spotted in a store window, Antibes was glorious that week, pre-heatwave, neither too hot nor too cold.
Just glorious, I thought with each stroke in the water, swimming. A turquoise line danced at the end of the pool, the edge of the water lit by sunlight. The ripples on the surface sparkled in the sunlight, just like the sunlight filtered by trees’ leaves in the garden attached to our flat.
At times, I was the only one in the pool. I watched my fingers push the water away, softly, again and again. My kids jumped in the pool, splashing, as is the pool’s destiny.
Moments of beauty on the French Riviera. And now, back to real life, trying to find an avocado that’s neither raw nor rotten. Finding the right one is a form of art: you need to be there at the exact right moment.
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