That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  Number one on my list: writing eleventy thank you notes. Never mind my chicken-scrawl penmanship or the fact I hadn’t handwritten anything other than our exorbitant rent check recently. The primary pain in my derrière was getting my out-of-practice hands on some damn thank you cards.

  It was August, and except for the occasional tumbleweed and busload of tourists, the residential streets of Paris were deserted as Parisians took their annual month-long vacation. The neighborhood papeteries had closed their ancient doors, leaving me no choice but to trek to Auchan, the French megastore that’s just like Target, except it’s full of la merde and you usually leave empty-handed and broken-hearted. So, actually, nothing like Target.

  Entering the behemoth, I pushed through a turnstile and passed an imposing security guard. Dude, please. I wouldn’t dream of stealing a tube of toothpaste or a pair of socks. But that’s only because I couldn’t locate them in this maze of a store.

  With no directory or overhead signs to guide me, I braved the store with trepidation, working my way around in a counter-clockwise direction. My stomach growled. I picked up the pace, hoping to make it out before full-on hunger hit. After the Earth orbited the sun a few times, I found the stationery aisle, next to shoddy children’s clothing and cheap champagne. But of course.

  The paper goods selection was pathetic. I’d seen fancier displays in dumpsters. Pack of sequined stationery? Check. Cards sold one-by-one, for the low price of 5.99 euros? Check. Kids’ birthday invitations with scary mimes? Check. Birthday cards yellowed around the edges? Check.

  But no thank you cards. Not even a pack of plain white cards. My tummy roared. How long had I been wandering this fluorescent hellscape? At that point, I would have settled for two sticks to rub together and send smoke-signal greetings—but they didn’t have those either. Not to be picky, but I couldn’t very well send a “Sorry for your loss” card to my grandma. Though considering the generosity of her gift, I suppose it had been a significant loss to her bank account.

  Should I cave in and buy the ugly cards? Splurge on the expensive ones and skip dinner for a month? Or worse—skip WINE for a month? As I hesitated, my cell phone rang.

  “Hi sweetie,” I said, answering the call from my fiancé. “The phone is gonna cut out any second. I’m stuck in the purgatory of Auchan.”

  “Oh là là. Get out while you still can!”

  I hung up the phone, promising to call once I was free. I abandoned my shopping trip. I refused to show my appreciation by sending a card a clown had vomited on. And I was growing grouchier by the minute. I needed calories and fresh air, tout de suite.

  I headed to the checkouts and squeezed past a lady unloading her cart. Just as the exit was within reach, like hopeful rays of light shining down from the heavens and angels singing “Hallelujah,” a cashier wearing way too much make-up stopped me in my tracks.

  “Mademoiselle, you can’t exit that way. You must go around.” I suspected she was frowning, but her uneven lipstick made it hard to tell.

  I looked up at the sign that said “Exit” and turned back to her, confused. “But, Madame, this is the exit, no?”

  “You. Must. Go. Around.”

  I wanted to say, “Oh yeah? And who’s gonna make me?” But the burly security guard materialized and blocked my path.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked, clearly hoping there would be a problem and he’d get to see a little action.

  “I’m not stealing,” I said as my face reddened. Everyone in the checkout line stared at me. “I just couldn’t find what I was looking for.” Except my French wasn’t quite that smooth so it was more like, “I don’t steal. I don’t find the thing I search.” This didn’t win me any points.

  “Mademoiselle.” Now the cashier was mad, as if I had been wasting her time. “Like I said, you must go around.” She pointed to the entrance. Which was the same as the exit, but required going all the way around the checkouts, down the front aisle of the store, and back through one of the turnstiles. Just to end up two millimeters from where I was currently standing.

  I considered making a break for it, but Officer I-Don’t-Think-So-Honey read my mind and stepped in front of me.

  “Fine!” I let out an exasperated sigh, then squeezed back past the stupid lady with the stupid cart. I walked all the stupid way around their stupid store, shaking my head and muttering under my breath like the lunatic I’d become.

  As I neared the entrance and was about to pass through the turnstile, the same blasted security guard stopped me. What now? What could I have possibly done wrong? Was I supposed to push the turnstile with my left hand? Tap dance as I shimmied through? Whisper the secret password in Officer I-Don’t-Think-So-Honey’s ear?

  “Mademoiselle, you’re using the wrong exit.”

  “C’est pas possible!” I threw my hands in the air. “You’ve got to be kidding me. The cashier told me to go this way. You were there, remember? It was two seconds ago. Will I ever get out of this hellhole?”

  I said that last part in English, and the security guard raised an eyebrow in confusion. He then pointed to a sign over one of the turnstiles: Sortie Sans Achat. Exit Without Purchase.

  This infernal store, a store with literally millions of products, was so accustomed to people leaving without purchasing any of its crap that there was even a sign for it. Perhaps time would be better spent, oh, I don’t know, stocking products people actually want to buy?

  The store’s weekly management meetings must go something like this:

  Assistant Manager: “OK, next on the list, the stationery department. What types of new cards could we add to the collection? If we offer a wide variety, we could boost sales.”

  Manager: “What? No. That’s way too much work.”

  Assistant Manager: “But…”

  Manager: “Plus, if we offer a limited selection, they’ll be forced to buy from the stock we already have, and we’ll finally get rid of those horrible cards from ’86. What was Gérard thinking? We’ll never sell those birthday ones with squirrels in sequined dresses.”

  Assistant Manager: “They’re pretty funny, though.”

  Manager: “True. There’s nothing funnier than an animal in a dress. Oh, by the way, can you hang this new Exit Without Purchase sign? It just came in from You Shouldn’t Need a Sign For That R Us.”

  Assistant Manager: “Très classe! Could use a few sequins, though.”

  While Auchan must not get much business, You Shouldn’t Need a Sign For That R Us clearly does. I see absurd signs all over Paris.

  When boutiques redo their window displays, they post a sign to the effect of “Window Display in Progress.” You don’t say. Here I thought this store sold naked mannequins.

  Though I wonder: Do they hang a sign in the naked mannequin store so people know the window dressing is finished? “This window display is NOT in progress. Buy your naked mannequins today!” Without a sign, people would stand in front of the window for days, waiting to see the final arrangement.

  Or how about at McDonald’s? Not that I’ve ever been there, cough, cough. You’ll stop by the Golden Arches, in the mood for a Royale with Cheese. But, zut alors! The picture of the juicy burger on the menu is covered with a sign stating: Indisponible: Victime de Son Succès. Sold Out: Victim of Its Success.

  The Royale with Cheese is so popular it’s sold out! Congrats! But wait... the Royale with Cheese and Bacon is still available. How is that possible? Is the bacon stapled to the cheese? How come I can’t get the burger without the bacon? And, more importantly, why did they waste time making a sign instead of getting more Royales with Cheese?

  I spotted the best sign on the day I nearly electrocuted myself. I was strolling this fair city with my fiancé, one hand clasped in his, the other swinging freely by my side, when I nearly made contact with a live wire dangling from a building. How did I know it was a live wire? Because a vinyl sign affixed to it informed: Haute Tension: Danger de Mort. High Voltage: Danger of Death.

 
; At first glance, it seemed thoughtful of them to have put up a warning sign. Thanks, guys! I’ll refrain from touching the cable, tempting as it is. But upon further reflection, I had a few questions. How many people zapped themselves with the cable while the workers were out purchasing the sign? Unless they had an interim sign that said, “Don’t touch the wire—we’re out buying a better sign.”

  And, I can’t believe I have to ask this yet again, but why buy a sign instead of solving the problem? “This here wire? Oh yeah, it’ll kill you. That’s why we don’t want to risk fixing it. Like our sign, though? It’s so vinyl-y!”

  I survived that incident, and I survived Auchan. Barely. I’d escaped the clutches of that blasted store without eating anyone’s arm.

  As I returned from my fruitless shopping expedition, I fumed. The employees had been so concerned about me following the correct process to exit their labyrinthine store that no one even bothered to ask why I hadn’t purchased anything. No offer to help me find what I was looking for, no apology for having wasted my time. What happened to service clientèle?

  I called my fiancé and vented. He sympathized with me. He was usually proud of his native country but could admit its flaws. Reason #248 why I loved him.

  “If it’s not too much trouble, do you mind picking up a baguette on the way home?” he asked.

  With plaisir. I was famished.

  I swung by our local boulangerie, but was greeted with closed doors. Oh, right. August. Like the rest of the neighborhood, they had closed up shop for vacation.

  Before I turned green and Hulk-ed out, I noticed a sign. A pretty little sign with the perfectly neat handwriting that all French people seem to have mastered. “We are closed for the summer holidays, but invite you to visit one of the following boulangeries for your bread needs. Thank you and good day.” And they listed the three nearest bakeries.

  My rage subsided, and I remembered why I loved this gloriously infuriating city. It may hide its thank you cards and Royales with Cheese. It might electrocute you. But when it counts, Parisians are there for you.

  They will never send you home without your bread.

  La Vie de Vin

  DryChick

  I’ve always had romantic notions of Paris, just like any other francophile. I learned the language well enough to get by on my own, and had good friends who lived there. So when I visited, I considered myself almost Parisian.

  I also loved wine and drank plenty of it when I was there.

  I had a favorite sidewalk café, Café Pierre on place de la République, where I always ordered rosé and a salade de chèvre chaud. My usual waiter with the ponytail always treated me kindly and with respect, suppressing any sign of a grimace when I first pronounced chaud with a hard “d.” Without embarrassing me, he repeated my order slowly and clearly so I could note the proper pronunciation, for which I was grateful. And later he complimented me—in French—for trying so hard to speak the language. French waiters don’t have a reputation for being nice to customers, especially foreigners (think the Griswolds in National Lampoon’s European Vacation), but he seemed genuine. Or maybe he hoped for a fat tip from the foreigner (which I happily obliged).

  So Paris was the last place I wanted to visit after I quit drinking and became “dry.”

  Yes, I was worried I would be tempted to indulge in wine. But I had an even deeper, more overriding fear: Maybe I wouldn’t love Paris as much as I used to. The thought was heartbreaking.

  I loved Paris so much that I never wanted to live there, even though I’ve had the opportunity to do so. I wanted it to be the special place I fled to when I needed the three Cs: culture, color and cuisine, which truly nourished my soul. (And champagne, of course.)

  I longed to join the young, hip Parisians who brought bottles of wine to the banks of the Canal Saint-Martin every evening. They laughed and imbibed as the sun set, the epitome of joie de vivre.

  Nearby was Chez Prune, another café I used to frequent. Last time, I went alone on my birthday. I ordered a carafe of house red and a cheese plate, and sat facing the canal, surrounded by those young, hip Parisians who had moved on from the canal to drink and smoke at wobbly sidewalk tables.

  The waitress was foreign herself and took pity on my French. I was feeling really good, until my food and wine were delivered.

  The snotty French girl smoking a cigarette at the next table burst out laughing and said to her friends, “La touriste needs a big spoon to eat her food.”

  “Is she going to drink and eat all of that herself?” her equally snooty friend added.

  My face fell. I looked down at the plate and acknowledged that it was definitely big enough for two, but I hadn’t known that when I’d ordered. And the carafe—well, I was pleased with it (and that was just for starters!)

  I gave them a death stare that said, “I understood all of that, and I won’t dignify it with a response.” In reality, I didn’t know how to respond.

  Defiantly, I ate my cheese and bread, drank my wine and promptly ordered another carafe. The bitchy birds finally left, and I started to cry. The waitress asked me what was wrong, and I told her in broken, sobbing français what the nasty French girls had said.

  “Et c’est mon anniversaire!” I added for effect. She grabbed my hand and brought me to the bar. She told the bartender that this poor girl needed a birthday shot, and that she would join me in having one.

  In a better mood now, I skipped out of Chez Prune and moved on to another little restaurant. I sat down in a zebra print chair in the corner, surrounded by stacks of magazines with French versions of Hello and OK. I ordered more wine and immersed myself in celebrity gossip. Suddenly, I heard a table in the back singing “Happy Birthday” in English. I felt as if they were singing to me. The waitress apologized for the noise, and I told her I didn’t mind: It was my birthday too! She left and reappeared with a slice of cake.

  My faith in Paris had been restored.

  So returning sober was going to be bittersweet. There would be no drinking rosé at Café Pierre or the house red at Chez Prune. Could I even enjoy cheese or steak-frites without wine?

  Yes. Paris has much more to offer, and I couldn’t avoid the situation forever. I planned a weekend back to my beloved city and packed a bottle of my favorite alcohol-free red wine in case I had any cravings.

  My friends who lived in the 10th arrondissement made sure I had amazing meals with fancy lemonades, polished off with mind-blowing desserts, which I savored bite by bite. Instead of my usual visits to the caves à vin, we hit the Marais for teas from Mariage Frères and Palais des Thés, where I discovered teas could be as varied—and as expensive—as wine.

  But the canal still beckoned.

  So I borrowed a wine glass from my friends and headed there with my alcohol-free bottle of red.

  The sun was setting on a beautiful fall day, and I brushed away leaves to sit amongst the crowd. I poured myself a glass and smiled. A boat navigated its way past the Antoine et Lili boutique and under the hallmark blue cage-wire bridge.

  I was relieved. Nothing had changed. The young, hip Parisians were too busy laughing, drinking and smoking to notice my wine was alcohol-free. I felt silly that I had made such a big deal about it. The problem—as always—was solely with me.

  As I walked back to my hotel, I passed more of my old favorite haunts. The sidewalk outside La Patache was swollen with trendy Parisians smoking cigarettes and drinking wine. The last time I was there, I was outshone by an older woman who seemed perfectly fine until she abruptly stood up and started Greek dancing to what I can only imagine was the My Big Fat Greek Wedding soundtrack in her head. She stomped around the bar for a good half hour, all the while watching herself in the mirror. At first, people laughed and clapped, but after 10 minutes, they went back to their charcuterie and didn’t take further notice. However, I remained fascinated by her because I had never seen anyone visibly drunk in Paris before.

  Ironically, the weekend I returned to Paris dry, the newspap
ers were talking about a growing problem with “Le Binge Drinking.” (Of course they used the English version of the word because the French never translate anything negative, as if it were a plague sent from outside their shores, and they’re not to blame for it.)

  Maybe I was finally ahead of Paris on something.

  On my walk home, I spotted a few new bars where I easily pictured myself, chatting up the bartenders in my “charming” (i.e. crap) French. I could’ve gone in, but immediately thought, “What would I order?” I could be chic and order an espresso, but then I’d be up all night.

  And I was already dreaming about my pain au chocolat and dentist’s rinse cup of cappuccino the next morning before I headed back to London. (Paris, I will never understand why your boulangeries serve the most decadent pâtisseries but have utter disdain for caffeinated beverages to go with it.) No, better to head home, sans alcohol, but full of new memories of my favorite city.

  I’m probably the only person who has ever brought alcohol-free wine to Paris. And upon reflection, I’m so glad to realize I could have actually done without it.

  This One Time in Paris

  Sarah del Rio

  So I thought I’d start this off with a multiple-choice quiz. (Don’t stress. It’s only one question.)

  Who is the best choice to write an essay for a book about Paris?

  Choose one of the following options:

  A) Someone who lives in Paris

  B) Someone who has traveled extensively in Paris

  C) Someone who has visited Paris even just the one time

  D) Someone who has at the very least read a book about Paris

  E) Any/all of the above people will do, as long as it isn’t someone who has never been to Paris and knows absolutely nothing about it.

  I don’t think I need to tell you the answer is E. Pretty obvious, right?

  Yet here I am.

  That’s right. Not only have I never been to Paris, I’ve never been to France at all. Nope. Not even once. Sure, I’ve been to other places in Europe—in fact, I even married a European. Just not a European from France (or “France-man,” as some call them.)