Best place to trip and fall while running toward a French-schoolgirl jumper New York 2006 - A.P.C.
There it is, sitting in the window of A.P.C.: the sublime French-schoolgirl jumper of your dreams. Able to convert the most trucker-mouthed skank into a ruddy-cheeked Amélie ingenue, this is the kind of garb that makes you want to ride bicycles, buy baguettes, practice bad high school French. Throwing open A.P.C.'s door, you run to it—it's on the rack, probably in your size, and, what the . . . ?—you catch a toe on one of those uneven wooden planks that subs for A.P.C.'s floor and eat it in front of the pretty salesboy refolding the skinny jeans. God only knows why this French store chose to hang onto those uneven floorboards of death, a leftover architectural conceit from previous inhabitant Azzedine Alaia. Are they speed bumps for overeager A.P.C fanatics? Or just part of the store's whole faux-dilapidated barn house aesthetic, which somehow magically makes customers buy more stuff?