He’s asking me if I’d like him to telephone the store in St. Brieuc? Is he kidding or perverse? I’ve been in this store a dozen times, spoken to anyone breathing behind the counter, have begged, pleaded, entreated everyone to make this call, but only now when I’ve completely lost, surrendered, accepted defeat, does he offer. In the U.S., I rarely acknowledge defeat: the best offense is offense. In France, the best offense is defense. It’s a lesson I learn over and over and over again. The surest way to win is to acknowledge you haven’t. So I do. “Oui,” I say, duly vanquished. “S’il vous plaît.”
Monsieur goes into action. He picks up the phone and punches in the numbers he knows by heart. He makes the requisite small talk, then picks up the lamp I just bought and reads the model number and manufacturer’s name and waits. “Oui, oui, oui,” he says, covers the mouthpiece and says to me, “Ils l’ont . . . Elle sera ici dans deux semaines.” Two weeks.
I’m leaving in five days. In the U.S., I’d explain this and the lamp would be here in twenty-four hours. Here, two weeks is fast. For all I know they’re saving shipping costs and walking it over. “Oui, oui,” I say, hoping Martin will pick it up in two weeks and install it. “Oui!”
And here’s the kicker—I leave the store happy, a satisfied customer, with one lamp in hand, the other on promise, both of them paid for, merci-ing, merci-ing away, and meaning it.
The one thing I am sure about is not being cheated. French businesses and salespeople may not be customer-attentive, but they are scrupulously honest. The previous winter I bought Christmas gifts for French friends through a French mail-order house. I sent a check for five hundred dollars, feeling smart and happy because I was saving the cost of U.S. postage, which is formidable. I continued to feel that way until I received a letter telling me the company was out of business. I bought replacement gifts, paid the postage, and sent them, lesson learned—capitalism is capitalism—and kissed those five hundred dollars bye-bye. Six months later, when I arrived at the house in June, my check was waiting for me in the mail, uncashed.
After eight frustrating and humbling weeks, I leave the store not disappointed, but not content. I have the promise of a lamp I paid for, but until Martin has it mounted and glowing from the wall, there are many, many things to go wrong. In this case, they don’t, but disappointment is never far away. In that way, the exceptions don’t undermine the rule—cédez le passage, as once again I’m reminded that in the U.S. the preferred motion is full steam ahead, and in France, it is often better to yield.
Shampoo and a Mattress Cover
One of the most difficult things about shopping in France is not being able to read the labels. Mostly it involves words I don’t know, and also those I do.
I just bought a shampoo that proclaims itself antipelliculaire. I don’t have dandruff, so why did I buy it? I bought it because I didn’t see the word antipelliculaire, which was translated into every language except English, written in the lightest, tiniest script on the back of the bottle. What I saw was “SHAMPOO,” written in big, bold letters in front (not bain moussant—bubble bath—which I’ve already bought and don’t need, or douche soin, skin care gel, which I’ve also bought and don’t need) and the company name, L’Oréal, a name I recognize and can find in the U.S. and sue if I become bald.
This is how I shop in France: preventively. I once bought a shampoo that said, cheveux secs—dry hair—and after using it a few times became convinced it wasn’t to treat dry hair but to give you dry hair, because my hair looked and felt like wheat, though this being France, it smelled like lavender, and also because it’s France, I wasn’t completely unhappy with the wrong purchase, because it could have been worse, like the dépilatoire I once bought and thankfully didn’t use. This too, I think, is part of French marketing strategy. In the U.S., if I’m dissatisfied with my purchase, I bring it back or go to a different store. In France, I return to the same store again and again and again, making more and more wrong purchases, and once again buying—and spending—twice as much as I need. For example, bedding.
Because of my language skills, I shop by picture. That’s how I bought the wrong mattress cover, and also why I’m back in the store, determined to get it right.
I’m holding the plastic package, being very careful and deliberate. I check the size: 190 x 140 centimeters. I look at the picture: it’s an aerial view of a mattress cover pulled Beyoncé’s-pants-tight over a double bed, not a pimple, crease or fold in sight. It’s exactly what I want. It’s also what I thought I bought a week ago.
Somehow, I bought a mattress cover without fitted corners—why would they even make them like that? Who would knowingly buy them?—the kind that wrinkles and bunches like rhino skin when touched, making sure, (1) you can’t sleep on it, and (2) you have to return to the store and buy another version of what you just bought and thought you were done with. What’s particularly galling—“Gauling”?—I see, is there’s absolutely no way to know by looking at the picture that the sides are not fitted. You have to open the package to see that, but once you open it, you can’t return it. French law or store policy or management caprice, one of them, is very clear about that.
Still, I’m not too upset. I usually allow myself one mistake when shopping by picture, but another mistake would confirm a level of failure even I could not accept, which is why I’m stealthily bending, twisting, mangling the package, searching for those fitted corners. I see the cushioned flannel top, but not the sides. I twist the package harder, further, and barely visible, under a fold, almost hidden, I see a millimeter of the curved elastic corner that will fit over the edge of the mattress and allow me to sleep the sleep of the fulfilled. Voilà!
I buy it, bring it home, rip open the packaging with a knife, because the “New, open here” doesn’t work, and see, yes indeedy, I’ve finally got the fitted mattress cover I want—only it’s rubberized. I pick up the plastic packaging and see in tiny print the word imperméable.
I’ve now spent over one hundred and fifty-dollars for two mattress covers I can’t return, so I decide to try it. I unwrap it, stretch it over the bed, and fit the ends over the corners. It is Beyoncé’s-pants-taut. I’m counting on the tautness and cushioned flannel top to hide the feel of the rubber. Ha! It’s horrible, like sleeping on plastic. Safe sex is one thing, safe sleep another. I take it off, store it with the nonfitted mattress cover, and go back to sleeping on the disgusting, old, stained mattress cover that fits and is comfortable.
The following year, I decide I need a new mattress cover. It’s one of the things I like about being in France. Every year I’m filled with new hope, a tabula rasa. In the U.S., this feeling is limited to baseball. In France, the tabula rasa applies to everything. Every part of my life seems new, which can make life exciting, but also a perpetual Groundhog Day.
I’m back in the store holding the plastic-wrapped package, pondering the word imperméable. I know it’s important, vital for the success of this purchase, but I cannot for the life of me remember if I want it to be imperméable or not. It’s like embarquement and débarquement. Every year, on the flight to France, the airline distributes a green card to be filled out and given to the gendarme at customs. The last question on the form is “What airport did you disembark from?” Every year, I ponder my answer. Did I disembark at San Francisco International Airport or Paris? Every year, I write Paris, because I embarked at San Francisco. Every year, the gendarme crosses out Paris and writes San Francisco, and I tell myself next year I’ll remember and get it right, and the next year I forget, and ponder, and reason it out, and reach the same conclusion: I disembarked at Paris. So I buy the imperméable and bring it home.
This time, though—fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me—I look for the seam, which is so cleverly hidden I can’t find it. I give up—another sine qua non of French shopping—and snip a tiny piece from a corner of the package and slide my pinky in to feel if there’s rubber. That’s when I remember what imperméable means. Shame on
me.
Clearly, I need to do something different. I decide I’m going to return the package I’ve opened. Receipt in hand and package in the bag, I go to the smiling lady who’s sitting in a booth under a huge Accueil—welcome—sign and say, “Bonjour.”
She looks at me suspiciously.
I hand her the receipt and the package and say, “Ce n’est pas nécessaire,” meaning, I don’t need rubber sheets.
She looks at me like, “Yeah, right.”
I stand my ground and say nothing, mostly because that’s all I can do.
She opens the bag, sees the package has been opened and starts talking. She’s probably accusing me of having wild sex on the mattress cover or using it as a toilet and now trying to return it, and she, the store, all of France will not be taken in or fooled by this ploy.
I stand there and don’t say anything, which is guaranteed to drive French people nuts. I know it, but there’s nothing else I can do—or say. All I know is I’m not leaving without a refund. I’ve already got two mattress covers I can’t use—one rubberized, the other without fitted corners, and I do not want a third. It’s a matter of principle. En principe . . .
People are waiting behind me, curious about what’s going to happen, ready, if I win, to return hundreds of their own open packages bought by mistake. I stand there for all customers and shoppers, unwilling to move or relinquish my place.
The now not-so-smiling accueil-lady buzzes her supervisor, a guy about twenty, who takes one look at me, a middle-aged guy wearing cutoff shorts and a Mr. Bean T-shirt, and the wedge behind me, which must look to him like the Paris Commune or May 1968, and approves the refund: in cash, not credit, probably so I won’t return to the store.
As I leave the store, cash in hand, my fellow shoppers pat me on the back and wave their receipts, acknowledging a victory for the people against the system. French people love the idea of the winning underdog (unless they are the overdog) and they hate the system, all systems, systematically: 98 percent of the time they follow the rules, and the other 2 percent they go Robespierre. It’s an interesting paradox.
So is this. I have my refund, but I’m still sleeping on the old, stained mattress cover. The following year, I decide to buy a new one—and here is where it gets truly pitiful. I go to the same store and pick up the sealed package, bending, twisting, and mangling it until I’m sure it has fitted sides. I read the small, smaller, and smallest print in every font and European language and don’t see the word “impermeable” anywhere. Satisfied and confident, I buy it, bring it home, rip the package open with impunity, and immediately see I bought the wrong size: I have a double bed, and I bought a mattress cover for a twin. Even I don’t have the nerve to try and return it. So much for the people’s victory.
Like most of history, I’m back to the Restoration. It’s my own little Tiananmen squared.
10 Things I’ve Learned about Shopping in France
1. Avoid anything that says “easy to open” or “new packaging,” because it’s never easy, and if it’s new, it’s worse than it was before.
2. Form follows form, not function—especially for products made in France. There’s an inverse ratio of looks to works: the prettier it looks, the worse it works. There’s a reason haute couture is French.
3. Rules for buying food and produce:
a. At the moms and pops, they touch the food and weigh it, and I better not;
b. At the weekly public market, I touch the food and they weigh it, unless the food is behind a counter, on a spit, in a cage, a tank, a freezer, or on ice. Then they touch it and weigh it, and I watch;
c. At the supermarché, I touch the food and I weigh the produce, except at the Intermarché, where they weigh it. I don’t know why. There are some things I have to accept.
d. The concept of a quick, one-stop, 7-Eleven, AM/PM run into the shop, find what I want, buy it, and run out kind of store doesn’t exist. French people have some of the longest life expectancies in the world, so time doesn’t matter so much. Shopping, apparently, is how they choose to spend it.
4. Under no circumstances forget the word for “cone” when buying ice cream and ask for “un con.” Don’t ask why, just don’t do it.
5. Customer advocacy does not exist. I have no rights, but I do have a philosophy: expect to be disappointed, and I won’t be too much; and its corollary: if—or when—I get what I want, be thrilled; and its corollary: even if it’s not exactly what I want, be happy with what I have; and its corollary: I could have done worse.
6. Persistence and perseverance: I’ve learned to be determined like an idiot, not willful like a boss. If I’m willful, I’m dead. If I’m an idiot, I have a chance. As an idiot, I’ve had several chances and have made the most of many of them.
7. It’s best to begin a transaction with a question. A statement can and likely will be challenged. A question confirms my ignorance and need for help—two traits guaranteed to bring out the kindness and charity of French people.
8. Supermarchés no longer provide free plastic bags for carrying purchases. Customers have to bring their own bags or baskets, which is fine if I remember, and not so fine if I don’t. I now keep several bags and a wicker basket in the car so I’m prepared for any sudden bursts of shopping. The problem is when I pick up friends and their luggage at the train station or airport, go to the beach, or buy something large, I remove the bags and basket, and forget to put them back, which returns me to the terrible days of people behind me grumbling, days I prefer not to relive.
9. The hours posted on the front door or window of a business are accurate and precise. If the sign says the store closes from 1200hr to 1400hr, entering at 11:55—especially to shop for something big, like a TV, refrigerator, or stereo system—is a no-no, something only a foreigner like me would do, thinking, it’s a sale, a big one, maybe the biggest of the day or the week, why wouldn’t the salesman want to see me? He does, but during regular, posted business hours. Between 1200hr and 1400hr, he wants lunch. The same is true in reverse for restaurants. If the sign says lunch is served between 1200hr and 1400hr, don’t get hungry at 1100hr or 1500hr and expect to eat. French people take their rules very seriously—except, of course, when they don’t, like when they’re driving. The trick is to know when and how the rules can be broken—and by whom. As a foreigner, I know I’ll never know, which is why I do my best to follow them—no matter how nutty they seem.
10. Shopping on Amazon.fr is easy, but not politically correct, as the few French people I know who do it tell me. Shopping at other e-locations and paying bills online is politically correct, but it isn’t easy, so few people do it. I tried to pay my electric bill online and found I could not access the information I needed from EDF, the gas and electric company. Sharon tried, and she couldn’t either. Gilles, who works professionally in IT, also tried and could not do it, and when the Wi-Fi connection at his house was disrupted, it took multiple repair visits and over a month to get it restored, which is odd, because France is totally wired. My house, in a village of six hundred people, was wired with underground fiber optics more than a decade ago. Wi-Fi is everywhere, online shopping should be simple and more common, but it’s not, which is why I continue to shop in actual stores, communicate with real people, and look forward to more and greater humiliations, surprises, and lessons—especially at my bank.
Money, Money, Money, Money
Every year I wire money to my account from the U.S., and every year I worry about it getting there, because once—the first time—it didn’t. It went to Corsica. There’s never been a problem since, but you never can tell, and that’s double the case in France, because I really can’t tell—or ask. Worse, I never know my account balance. I don’t know it in the U.S. either, but there I have a clue, and I can ask.
In the U.S., if I bounce a check, I pay the bank an enormous fee for the $2.50 I’m short, and everyone—the depositor, the bank, and I—is happy. I assume it’s the same in France, especially since people I’ve never me
t before and will never see again willingly and gladly accept and cash my checks—for all sums—without requesting a photo ID, thumbprint, or cheek swab. Clearly, I’m not French, not from around these parts, don’t speak the language—and on occasion have not even known how to write the amount of the check in words, and the person it’s going to has to write it for me. Even then, no questions asked, they accept my check.
For years, I thought it was because of overdraft protection, and because I look honest, friendly, simple—a Forrest-Gump–type nice guy who would never steal, so people trusted me—but now, thanks to Sally, Martin, and Louise, I know the truth, and it doesn’t set me free. It scares the hell out of me.
Martin, Louise, and Sally
The first clue that I didn’t know anything about French banks should have been the year I arrived and discovered the equivalent of one thousand dollars missing from my checking account. My first thought was the money I wired hadn’t arrived; then I thought I added or subtracted wrong and didn’t carry the one; all of which were possible, and none of which happened.
It took me a week to figure out my friend Martin had it. He needed the money to buy supplies and material for work he was doing on my house. He walked into the bank, explained who he was and what he was doing, and walked out with a thousand dollars worth of euros and a copy of my latest bank statement, complete with the balance, account number, and all my identification information. Even Martin, who lives in Plobien, was shocked, though not as much as he would be when it happens to him.
He and Louise decide to open a brocante and sell English antiques out of their garage. To do it, they need to buy a van, refinish their garage, and purchase goods, so they go to their bank. They’re English. They’ve lived in Plobien for three years after moving from Australia, where they’d lived for several years after leaving England. Neither has a regular job. Based on that, the bank loans them a goodly sum to begin their business. That’s the good news.
(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living Page 9