Laying flowers at the site of jihadist attacks has become a sad tradition in France. The number of people who want to express grief, solidarity and sympathy for the victims of the Bastille Day massacre is so great the florists of Nice can barely cope with demand.
An unending queue stretches outside Louloudakiss florist in the Rue de la Buffa. Francesca Amoretti, a Italian yoga instructor who has lived in Nice’s old town for 20 years, says she had to search hard to find an open flower shop.
Amoretti stayed indoors for two days after the attack that killed 84 people, and this was the first time she had ventured out. “It’s my way of mourning,” she says. While she mulled over the massacre at home, she worried about her children, who had travelled to Turkey on holiday and were holed up in an Istanbul hotel, waiting for an attempted coup to be over. “It feels like the world has gone mad.”
‘It is a war
’ Two women begin comparing experiences with Amoretti: how they learned of the attack, tales of close escapes. “It’s like being in a war,” Amoretti says. “It is a war,” the others reply.
“And the government’s response is to bomb more (Islamic State targets in Iraq and Syria).” Jenny Rolly, a Swiss woman of Colombian origin, shakes her head. “This is revenge for the bombing.”
Rolly left the fireworks early on Thursday night, because she “had a bad feeling”. She’s on holiday, but wants to go home to Geneva, because “I’m trying to decompress, and the ambiance is heavy.”
“We’ve seen so much the last year or two that unfortunately we’re getting used to it,” Amoretti says. “I try not to change my habits, but one does. I avoid places where there are lots of people.”
‘We’re used to this’
The Cahay family from Paris takes up the rear of the queue. “We’re used to this,” says Stéphanie, a medical secretary. “But people in Nice weren’t ready for it.”
"We took flowers to the Place de la République for Charlie Hebdo, and to the Bataclan and Carillon," says Cahay's husband Olivier, a maintenance technician. "Now we're here, doing the same thing on vacation.
“Every time, it gives me the same impression . . . incomprehension, stupefaction, silence, fear. But there’s a sense of togetherness too.”
The Cahays are disgusted by the government’s inability to protect the population, and by opposition attempts to score points off the atrocity.
Inside the shop, a young woman wraps flowers at a furious pace. The owner has gone to scout for more, she says. Most customers take three long-stemmed roses, costing €9. “It’s very emotional to see all these people grieving,” she says. “It does something to you.” Her voice falters. She lets her hair fall over her eyes, so we won’t see her crying.
