The Reluctant Parisienne Gets an X-Ray, Goes Shopping

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.

This is a photo to let you know that Mindy is really in Paris.

Welcome to the next chapter of our wind-swept saga of love, life, partial nudity, and toilet paper in Paris.

The immigration people summoned us. Alex and I needed official medical exams before we could receive our carte de sejours. We arrived at the austere government building prepared for our delousing, or whatever they were going to do to ensure we didn’t infect the French with terrible things, and were ushered into a waiting room full of sweaty and nervous people.

Lucien was with us, of course, which is always a challenge in any waiting room scenario. Our kid was born with an intense desire to entertain those who do not wish to be entertained.

I was led into a tiny changing room and instructed to take everything off from the waist up and "wait." I did this and while I'm no puritan, I looked around the room wildly like, "Are you kidding me? No GOWN?" Then a second door flew open and I was faced with a large room full of people. They were people in white coats, but still, people in white coats I hadn’t invited to a private sexy dance.  

I walked across the room to the lung x-ray machine. I was nervous so I walked fast with shoulders hunched and forgot to swing my arms. I may or may not have looked like an ape. After the x-ray I tried to saunter more casually back to the changing room, to prove America’s totally cool with nudity and not uptight at all, but my true feelings betrayed me and I quickly became a prudish American blur. I hate playing into stereotype.  

They asked if I wanted to keep my lung x-ray. I said no. Everybody says no except for Alex, who came walking down the hall, grinning and waving a super-sized manila envelope over his head. “You took it?” I asked in disbelief. Al responded, a bit defensively, “I may need it someday,” and clutched it possessively to his lungs. We came home and hung it in our window. It’s a creepy piece of art but it was free.  

There was another grocery store incident. I was bagging my groceries at the end of the belt with the father/daughter pair in front of me. They were the slowest baggers ever so all our groceries got mixed together. We sorted them and everything was fine until the daughter reached over and put my toilet paper in their bag.

I stood there a moment and wondered if I could just let that toilet paper go. But I couldn't. We had zero and the store was so crowded and I waited so long and Lucien had already offended one lady by yelling “GRANDMA!” at her (the lady did vaguely look like my mom, but no way she was a grandma unless she bore kids at the age of five.) I couldn't go through it all again. I was going in for the toilet paper.

In my best French, I told them I believed it was mine. The father looked at it, looked back at me and said, "No, I don't think so." I took a deep breath and said yes, it was. I didn’t like fighting for toilet paper in my heavily accented French so I decided to turn bright red for emphasis. Why couldn't they have grabbed, and therefore called the attention of everyone in line to, the nice loaf of bread I bought, or perhaps the fine Camembert? But no, in the crowded store, with everyone bored in line, my toilet paper was the hottest show in town.

The cashier got involved, checked my receipt, and told the man it was mine. He still didn't believe it so she checked his receipt, too. The other people in line hated us a little by then; it had been a lengthy battle. After a thorough examination by the cashier, she pronounced her verdict: The toilet paper was MINE, All MINE! I expected a round of applause but didn't get it.

In a very French apology, the man pulled it out of his bag and handed it to me with a slight bow and a polite, "Pardon, Madame." I believe he was legitimately confused and not malicious, but keep an eye out for a toilet paper stealing Frenchman just in case. He was tallish with a mustache.

Toilet paper triumph. Baby steps in Paris.