The Reluctant Parisienne Goes to the Grocery Store

Our correspondent Mindy Jones is a Seattleite living in Paris for two years. When she's not busy trying to figure out what the French are saying, she's busy trying to figure out what to say to the French. She posts frequently at An American Mom in Paris.

When we last heard from the Reluctant Parisienne, she was jet-lagged, befuddled by her appliances, and eating baguettes while spying on rich people. This time, she encounters what is to become her nemesis throughout her time in France--the French grocery store.

The inevitable day came when Alex went to work. I did not enjoy watching my French-speaking husband walk out the door, but I forced myself to feel optimistic. My French was decent, right? I’d studied it in high school and college and could still sing the French alphabet song. How badly could I screw up? (See below.)

Lucien and I began our first solo day by taking a long walk around our neighborhood. I was quickly intoxicated by the undeniable charm and beauty of Paris. The French people we passed on the narrow sidewalks smiled at Lucien and nodded at me with polite "Bonjours." I was feeling quite good about the whole thing.

We entered the grocery store. My Paris-drunk buzz faded to confusion as I scanned the shelves and didn’t recognize a single item. I started putting things in my basket just because I knew what they were. I didn’t need laundry detergent and I don’t like yogurt, but the Tide box was so cheery and the Yoplait suddenly so maternal and comforting.  

I set my basket on the belt at checkout and smiled brightly at the checkout girl. She looked briefly at my basket then said something in rapid-fire French. I totally froze, FROZE. And despite all my super productive years of French instruction, do you know what I said back to her? "Trois." That's right, I SAID "THREE."

She stared at me blankly. I desperately wanted to salvage our relationship so I threw out another gem--"Moi." Let’s recap. I said "trois," then "moi," and then I stood there smiling at her like goddamn Carol Channing. I knew I was dangerously close to singing the French alphabet song.

Thankfully she distracted me. She started slamming my items--my precious Yoplait!--down on the belt. She was mad. I had done something wrong, aside from my ridiculous attempts at communication, but I had no idea what it was. I turned and smiled hopefully at the long line of people waiting behind me but no one jumped in to help. They actually looked fearful and refused to make eye contact.

Checkout girl muttered something about "panier." AHA! She had wanted me to unload my own basket onto the conveyor belt. I had plopped the full basket down, Safeway-style. So learn from my mistakes and empty your own baskets in Paris. Oh, and bag your own groceries. Oh, and learn to speak French.

The next day, somewhat recovered from the shame, I took Lucien to a nearby cafe for hot chocolate. It was fun hanging out over a teeny-tiny ten-dollar beverage. Then Lucien had to go to the bathroom. I got him in the stall and we were having our usual mother-son conversation about how big boys go potty and all that when suddenly the lights went out. Pitch black dark.

I love Europe’s energy-consciousness but at that moment it sucked. One must flip a switch when one enters a French bathroom. It keeps the light on for ten minutes or whatever, then automatically switches it off. Lucien and I apparently wandered in at the tail end of someone else's flip. We were stuck in a bathroom stall just barely big enough for both of us and it was holy hell dark.

At first I kept my cool and started feeling around the wall for a switch. I couldn't find one, and realized it must be located outside the stall so I tried to find the lock on the door. Couldn't find that either. That's when I started to panic a little, pounding all over the door, searching for the latch. I eventually found it, strangely more near the center of the door than most latches, and flipped it. But when I threw myself against the door, the damn thing didn't open.

I like to think of myself as a pretty together person but being stuck in a pitch-black bathroom stall with my little boy brought out the crazy. I tried to focus, to think of something I could yell in French that would bring me lots of help and little ridicule. The best I came up with was, "Help me! The light in the toilet!" but I suspected that fell under the "lots of ridicule" category.  

All the while, Lucien was trying to talk to me. At first, tentatively, "Mommy? Why light go off?" I didn't feel like getting into a discussion about energy conservation, so I just told him to hang on, Mommy would find the light. When Mommy didn't find the light, he spoke more insistently, "Mommy? Mommy?" And finally, "Mommy, light, NOW!" with such urgency he's probably going to be terrified of public restrooms the rest of his life.

In a last effort before I started pounding and screaming, I tried the latch again and threw myself against the door. It opened. I hadn't locked the door in the first place so when I frantically turned the latch the first time, I had locked us in.

We returned to the table a little more jittery than when we’d left. My café crême was cold but I downed it anyway because that stuff is expensive here. Lucien enjoyed his cold chocolate and ended up wearing most of it home on his jacket front.

I knew it right then and I've known it many times since--Paris was challenging me to be a better person.