I’m standing there trying to figure out why the carts are locked together—as in why would anyone want to make shopping more difficult and unpleasant than it is—when a middle-aged woman in a flowery skirt and three-inch heels steps out of her new Mercedes, walks to the row of carts, pushes a ten franc coin—now one euro—into a slot on the handle, and wheels off nonchalantly. I’m shocked. They’re charging $1.30 to shop here and these people are willingly paying. It’s an outrage. I will not do it. I will not pay to shop. I’ll pay a porter to carry my bags at an airport, to park to go to the movies or shop in downtown Berkeley or San Francisco, even to go to the bathroom in Paris or Quimper, but I will not pay to shop at a supermarket. This is one of those lines that cannot be crossed. Soon we’ll be paying for air as well as water.
I walk to the entrance and stop as the glass doors slide open and two women exit, each pushing a shopping cart overflowing like Mount Vesuvius. If there was anything to eat in the house, I’d leave . . . I wait for them to pass me and enter the store—and see it’s worse than I even imagined.
It’s a mall in a store, complete with a sit-down restaurant and a three-course dinner menu in case shopping and being around all this food makes me so hungry I can’t wait to eat. All around me are bikes, patio furniture, barbecues, and lawnmowers—the big sit-on-and-drive types and the hand-pushers. Signs on the walls tell me I can purchase heating oil for a house, have keys made, shoes fixed, locks repaired, and laundry cleaned. I’m overwhelmed, and I haven’t even begun to shop.
I push through the turnstile and spot a three-foot-high stack of tiny shopping baskets, hiding as if they’re ashamed to be there. I grab one before Monsieur Leclerc decides to charge for these too. Basket in hand, I walk down the aisle, aiming toward the rear of the store, which I know is somewhere out there on the horizon.
I pass TVs, radios, clocks, stereos, watches, lamps, jewelry, magazines, newspapers, post cards, CDs, movies, books, paint, hardware, car parts, batteries, light bulbs, plumbing and electrical supplies, kitchen and car tools, clothes, shoes, bedding, towels, and toiletries. The only thing missing is food. I know it’s here someplace. Monsieur and Madame P and Sharon and Jean told me they shop here, and I’ve seen the Vesuvius ladies’ carts.
In the last aisle, far, far away from where I started, I hit pay dirt—literally—frozen foods and corporate meats. This is what I’d expect to find in Texas, not France. I walk away dismayed, continuing my search for essentials—cereal, butter, milk, fresh meats, water, eggs, salt, pepper, fruit, and wine—hoping for better choices.
I find them in the middle of the store: bloody red meats in cuts I’ve never seen before, beneath signs saying, Eléve en France, raised in France, to assure people they aren’t buying anything English; cheese, cakes, tarts, pies, baguettes; an entire aisle filled with chocolate bars; fruits and veggies heaped in a rainbow of colors under signs identifying them as Bretagne, Spanish, or Moroccan; and the largest collection of seafood I’ve seen outside of the ocean. I walk over to look. There are at least two dozen fish, some filleted, most whole, resting on crushed ice, eyes open and mouths agape, looking even more surprised to be here than I am. At the other end of the counter, pinkish-reddish thingies that look like a cross between a tiny lobster and a scorpion crawl over each other and fall onto the floor, where a three-year-old girl plays with them like they’re Lionel trains. The sign says they’re “langoustine,” a name I intend to remember and avoid.
I step over the girl and her friends, bag three tomatoes, four peaches, a head of garlic, and two oranges, and go to the butcher for meat. I hold up two fingers for two lamb chops, one finger for a thick slice of fillet of pork, and six for slices of ham, then grab a baguette from a rack, where they’re lined up and stacked like rifles. I balance the baguette on top of the box of tin foil, which is balanced on top of a twelve-pack of toilet paper that is under the arm of the hand holding the overflowing shopping basket. My other hand holds a six-pack of two-liter bottles of Volvic water. Under that arm, I’m scrunching an eight-pack of paper towels.
I waddle to the shortest wedge, where everyone looks at me like I’m crazy. I look at them with disdain. I’m balancing everything like one of those guys from Cirque de Soleil, shaking and twitching under the strain, but never dropping a thing. When I get to the front, I place all the items on the counter and wait. The girl says, “Bonjour,” and starts ringing me up.
I say, “Bonjour,” and take a plastic bag from the bunch on the counter and start to bag, as I’ve watched others do, then wonder how they do it, as I fumble, searching for the top or an opening—getting ready to rip my own—when the girl behind the counter says something I don’t understand. I look at her in a way that says, please, don’t ask me anything. She looks at me in a way that says, ‘Why me?’
She holds up the bag with three tomatoes in it.
I shrug. “Tomate,” I say.
“Oui,” she says.
Everyone in line steps back, and we all watch as the girl pushes her stool away from the counter, stands, and walks in the direction of produce. How am I supposed to know it’s my job to weigh the tomatoes? I’m to identify them—there are four different types—push the correct button on the electronic scale and stick the label that emerges with the type, weight, and price on the bag so the girl at the register won’t have to do what this one is now doing. In the U.S., people—I—would be tempted to choose the most expensive tomato and push the least expensive button, say the grappe and push the button for the roma, or put three tomatoes in the bag, weigh it, then add two more. Apparently, that’s not a problem here. Here, the problem is me. The girl returns, taps in a number, and smiles at me. It’s a smile that’s not going to last. Under the box of cereal is a bag of four peaches, none of which I’ve identified or weighed. This time when the girl stands, the people behind me make audible sounds. One guy even gestures. To save her a trip, I hand her the bag of oranges hiding under the rubber gloves and say, “Thank you,” hoping everyone thinks I’m a Brit.
While she’s gone, I continue fumbling with the plastic bag. It’s so small and difficult to open, I’m glad I couldn’t buy very much. I can’t imagine what I’d do with a Vesuvius load.
The girl returns and finishes ringing everything up. I pay her by counting the bills and holding out a handful of coins, indicating she should take what she likes. Then I lumber out of the store lugging eight plastic bags, knowing I haven’t dented my list, and at this rate, it will take me all summer.
Three days later I return with a plan.
I stand near a row of carts trying to look busy, or like I’ve suddenly forgotten something important, something that if remembered could save the world or France or my life. A wobbly, silver-haired woman with short, spindly legs and low black heels walks toward me pushing an empty cart. I run toward her and stop her by putting my hands on the cart, as in “Thanks, don’t bother, I’ll take it back.”
She looks at me wide-eyed and yanks it away. I pull it back.
We’re standing in the middle of the parking lot, pulling the cart back and forth, me and this seventy-year-old woman, who I can tell you is stronger than she looks. I finally realize she’s not going to let go, so I do, then watch, incredulous, as she rolls the cart away, shoves it back into the row of carts, and chains it. She chains it! She’d rather lock the cart up and keep it from me than share it. She paid her lousy dollar-thirty and wants to make sure I pay mine too. I’m astonished, embarrassed and disheartened. What’s happened to these people—to Liberty, Equality, Fraternity, for God’s sake, that they won’t even share a shopping cart. I’m outraged.
I’m also without a cart. I could pay my own lousy dollar-thirty and get one, but I’ve vowed not to pay to shop, and I’m not ready, after only three days, to violate myself, at least not in that way.
I enter Leclerc with my list and again buy as much as I can hold, this time carrying two baskets and a large shopping bag I brought from the house, tripling my take from the last time. I fill ea
ch basket and the bag to overflowing and slide into the shortest wedge, far, far, away from the wedge I was in before, hoping I never see that checker again. Ingenuity, that’s what’s lacking here. Clearly, this is the way to go—as opposed to the dollar-thirty cart.
I’m wondering what’s wrong with these people that no one has thought of this, as I place everything on the conveyor belt. The girl slides each item over the bar code reader, and I place it back in my bag and the baskets, separating the food from the cleaning supplies. I hand her a bill larger than the amount so she has to count the change, and I don’t. When she’s finished, she says something I don’t understand. I look at her, hoping she’s talking to someone else or herself or God—anyone but me. She points to the baskets and says it again.
In the U.S., when I don’t understand something, I say no. In France, I say, “oui.”
The person behind me says, “You can’t take the baskets outside.”
No wonder no one else does this. “S’il vous plaît,” I say, and point at the floor behind the checkout girl. When she doesn’t move, I lift the baskets and place them on the floor behind her. “Une moment,” I say, ignoring the way she’s looking at me and two-hand lift my about-to-split, overflowing shopping bag and carry it to the car and unload it . . . It takes me three more trips to unload the baskets, fill the starting-to-split bag, and carry everything back to the car. I figure as of now there’s probably a picture of me on every cash register telling the checkers, beware. Soon there won’t be a checker I can go to . . . I’m going to have to try something else.
A week later, I drive into Loscoat and go to the neighborhood fruit lady. Peaches, apricots, apples, pears, plums, oranges, nectarines, melons, bananas, lemons, limes, strawberries, and cherries are all beautifully arranged and displayed in front of the shop. The woman inside is talking to a customer or friend or family member, I still can’t tell. I take a paper bag from the stack of paper bags and pick up a nectarine. It’s hard, so I put it back. The woman races out of the store, grabs the bag out of my hand, and scolds me. Luckily, I don’t understand a word. Unluckily, I don’t know what to do. We stand there staring at each other, dueling eyes. Finally, she shakes the bag, opens it, points to the fruit, herself, and the bag.
I get it! No self-serve. She picks the fruit and puts it in the bag. Ha! I know that one—give the American the crap, the moldy strawberries, the rotten peach. Pas de chance. The alternative, however, is Leclerc, where I haven’t been doing much better. I decide to test her. “Trois pêches,” I say, and hope I asked for peaches and not the catch of the day. I don’t see any fish around, but this is France, and you never can tell.
“Jaunes?” she asks. Yellow?
Or maybe she said jeune—young. I don’t know, but I figure the answer to both is yes. “Oui,” I say.
“Aujourd’hui?”
Yeah, I want the peaches today. Does she really think I’m coming back for them tomorrow? “Oui. Aujourd’hui.”
She picks up a peach, looks at it, turns it in her hand, smells it, and drops it in the bag. She does the same with two more, and says, “Monsieur?”
The melons look beautiful. “Une melon.” I use the feminine because what else could it be? Masculine, I find out later.
“Aujourd’hui.”
Again with the aujourd’hui?
“Vous le mangez aujourd’hui?”
Oh! She’s asking if I’m eating it today. No wonder it’s not self-serve! In France, you buy your fruit and veggies according to the hour and day you want to eat them. “Demain,” I tell her, tomorrow. I then buy two apples for Thursday afternoon and four apricots for Friday morning. It’s wonderful—and wearying. It means everything has to be planned, not to mention you have to know how to say the days of the week and the time, which isn’t easy since it’s military time—17:00 heures—and I’ve never been in the Army, Navy, Air Force, or Marines. I leave with ten paper bags of fruit and veggies, trying to remember which day I said I wanted each fruit and veggie so I’ll eat them in the proper order. I have a feeling if I eat the wrong thing on the wrong day I’ll either get sick from food poisoning or the fruit lady will come and take everything away, and worse, never sell me anything again. It’s another French rule I’m learning: the relationship between buyer and seller is personal.
Shopping the moms and pops is interesting and the quality is better, but it’s all I do. I’m spending most of my life shopping and dealing with food. Every day I go to several stores. I buy fruit and veggies from the fruiterie; meat from the boucherie; fish from the poissonnerie; milk, cheese, butter, yogurt, and eggs from the fromagerie; toothpaste and shampoo from the pharmacie; cleaning supplies from the droguerie; cleaning tools from the quincaillerie; wine and prepared foods from the charcuterie; bread from the boulangerie; cakes and tarts from the pâtisserie; crêpes from the crêperie; books from the librairie; nibbles from the épicerie or snackerie or sandwhicherie; and dinner, if I go out, from the brasserie. It’s like living in Lilliputian land, a land of a thousand diminutives.
After a week, I’m ready to give in. There’s a reason the locals are spending a dollar-thirty to shop at Leclerc—nothing else makes sense. It’s either that or revert to hunter-gatherer status, which is nuttier than saving a buck-thirty. Throw in the price of gas, and it’s costing me money, not saving me. If time is money, I’m old and late.
I drive to Leclerc, defeated. Sam and his son win again. I park and walk to a row of carts and insert my coin, and voilà! The chain uncouples and frees the cart. On my way in, I see the woman I tried to take the cart from coming out. She sees me and wheels a wide arc around me.
I don’t get it. I thought these people were careful with money, yet here she is spending a dollar-thirty to shop, and her cart is practically empty. Not me. If I’m going to spend a dollar-thirty to shop, I’m damned well going to shop. I’m going to fill this cart like the Vesuvius women so I don’t have to pay this often—and don’t have to shop every day.
I enter the store and go straight to spices. I bought salt and pepper the first time I was here, now I need oregano. I go to the aisle where spices were a week ago, but spices aren’t there, breakfast cereal is. I roll away and come back several times, making sure, yes, this is where they were, and they definitely are not here now. They are not where breakfast cereals were either, soups are. I walk up and down, frustrated and beat. There are no spices in sight and no sign telling me where in this huge, super, son of Sam market they are. The same thing happens with evaporated milk. It’s not where it was a week ago.
I’m beginning to understand a basic difference between French and American marketing. In Oakland, the theory is to leave a product where it is so the customer will come back and locate it with minimal effort, then move to the next item he or she wishes to purchase, which is also where it was a day, week, month, year, and decade ago. Even if the store changes ownership—from Safeway to Albertson’s—the location of the products do not usually move. Not so in France. In France, they move products like the wind: no notice, no signage. No reason I can think of, though I’m sure they have one—for why spices are now next to cookies, and not where they were a week ago—and that’s not even the worst of it.
I go to the section where Volvic water was and find a gazillion types and brands of cider and beer. I’m too tired to search the store, so I do what I fear most—a common experience in France—I ask. I walk up to a sympathetic-looking old guy, hoping for a man-to-man, lost-in-shopping, exchange. “Où est eau?” I ask. It sounds onomatopoeic, something like the Purple People Eater would say, and gets the same response.
I try an older woman. “L’eau est où?”
She says something, gives up, leads me to a part of the store I’ve never seen, and points to an open door that looks like a cave. I walk in, and sure enough, there are hundreds, maybe thousands of plastic bottles in a dozen sizes and shapes, packaged singly and in twos, fours, sixes, eights, and twelves, a score of brands—not one of them Volvic. How can this be? Volv
ic is a major brand—like Coke or Pepsi—and it’s not here. I look everywhere—behind Isabelle, under Perrier, in the corner next to Evian, above Badoit. It’s nowhere. It’s not just moved, like spices—it’s gone. I, who until recently never heard of Volvic and couldn’t tell the difference between Volvic and tap, now want nothing else, can drink nothing else. Anything else would be wrong—poison. Talk about branding! I don’t know if it has to do with Volvo, which I drive, or vulva, or some secret addictive ingredient like coke. Whatever it is, I want it.
I ask a teenage girl, “Où est le Volvic?”
It’s like I asked the $64,000 question. She concentrates, looks concerned, worried, like she lost her best friend or I lost mine. She walks all around, looks everywhere, and shrugs. “Je ne sais pas,” and walks away. I can’t believe it. It’s vanished like a dream or mirage. Volvic ads are everywhere, on TV, billboards, in newspapers, and magazines, but there’s not a liter of it in this store. I buy a bottle of Perrier, deciding to wait for Volvic, certain it will be back when I return, but it doesn’t reappear all summer.
I continue filling my Volvic-less cart with everything on the list, and with enough of it—at least the nonperishables like paper and cleaning supplies—to last all summer. The cart is so full and heavy I can hardly steer it. I push and pull it to the nearest counter and begin to unload. The checker, a girl in her early twenties, looks at me like I’ve never seen a checker look at anyone. People behind me—French people, people who wait patiently for anything—start switching counters.
(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living Page 6