Went to bed about 1920 hours on Monday night, woke up about 2300, then back to bed at 0100. Hit the alarm at 0630 hrs and slept until 0800. (They use the 24 hour clock here. See how "continental" I am already?) One would have thought that'd fix the jet lag problem, but one would be wrong. By 1700 hours I was dragging again.
Went in, met the implementation team, got some work done. (That's enough about work.)
Leaving work I decided I needed to venture further than 1 kilometer from my apartment and job (there's that continental thingy again; ain't I so proud). Anyway, down the highway...the narrow, 4-laned, tree lined, claustrphobic highway, full of traffic I go in my teeny, weeny Toyota something or other. About three kilometers. Wow! I pass many smaller, more narrow roads, with roadsigns too confusing and passing too rapidly to comprehend, so I follow the signs pointing toward the one I could read: "Commercial Centre." Arriving, I find a small shopping center and determined to try out my "French" wings.
Parking, I go inside and meander around a little. The main store is a Carrefour, sort of a French WalMart. I enter, pick up a little red hard plastic "bag" looking thing one assumes is the equivalent of the Amercian shopping basket, non-wheeled variety, and I pick up a few things and head to the checkout lines. Seeing one with a sign saying "something, something, <10 articles," I get in line behind an older gentleman in the process of checking out. While he was completing his transaction the line behind me grew, naturally, at an alarming rate. That was so there would be plenty of witnesses to my first grocery store French transaction.
When the guy finished I pushed my hard plastic bag toward this cute, young, checker girl and smiled. She didn't. She proceeded to cut loose something like 2,000 to 3,000 words, none of which I understood. My mind just blanked. I froze. As she is speaking she's removing the things from the bag, having to stand up. (Can you believe it, they actually set it up so the check out folks can sit down.) I finally figure out she's telling me I was the one who was inefficient because I didn't remove the items from the bag and put them down allowing her to scan rapidly. Meanwhile, the lady behind me is smiling...I think. But the people behind her aren't. So I commit the second faux pas (see, I can speak French).
I don't have a bag. I'm looking around for the ubiquitous plastic grocery bag and not seeing it. I croak out, "Uh, uh, I don't have a bag," in English, of course, and the checkout girl reaches over, picks one from just to her left and, charging me something like .10 Euro sort of pushes it toward me. I, rapidly for a change, pick up my stuff and sortie (exit for you non-French speakers). I'm laughing practically out loud at my helpless, and chaotic, first "commercial" experience, thinking, well, boy, you learned a thing or two there.
Went to work this morning and spent the entire morning in a meeting where almost every word was French. I was actually quite surprised at how much I could grasp (evidently, when I kept my mouth shut). I think most know you have to develop an "ear" for the cadences of a language before you can really begin to understand it. I was very encouraged, by this. At least until I went back to the grocery store.
I was looking for a bank and thought I remembered one in the little shopping center. So, merrily I go, back to Carrefours. The bank was closed. In fact, it looked permanently closed so I determined to pick up a couple more things, you know, "while I'm here."
I pick up a couple things, place them in my hard plastic bag and go to the front check out area. Looking around I see lots of busy lines and, directly in front of me, some with no one in line at all. In one, an older gentleman, like yesterday, is completing his check out process. Thinking, "Okay, now I've got this process down," I come up behind the gentleman and wait. While he is finishing I take my purchases out of the bag (you don't have to hit me over the head), and place them on the conveyor, followed by the little end-of-order plaque they have here. Reaching over I pick up a little better environmentally friendly shopping bag and place it on the conveyor as well. I'm ready. Boy, am I ready.
When finished the guy bags his few items and departs. I move forward and say, "Bonjour," to the young lady there. She replies "Bonjour," and scans my stuff. When she is finished scanning I see my total is something like 7.60 Euros so I hand her a 10-Euro note. She looks at me like, "What is this?" Realizing I'm faux pas'ing again somehow I, smartly, say, "What?" She then indicates the sign that says something about "cards," as in credit card. I say, "I have a credit card," (in English, of course) and reach for it as she calls a supervisor who comes over, prints off my ticket and, taking it with her, indicates I should follow.
At this point I think I'm being hauled before the cheque-out policia and wondering why I didn't bring my passport (with my residents visa) with me. Turning into another, evidently cash, line she hands my receipt and 10 Euro-note to the clerk, says something to him, then indicates to me he'd take care of me. I look up at the twenty or so people standing in line, looking at me, and start to head to the end. The clerk indicates I should stay where I was and then, after completing the checkout that was in process, he makes my change and hands it to me. I mumble "Merci," look at the long line I have just cut and wonder if I've reached George Bush status in American-French relations yet. I expect, for the people in that line, I have. Knowing I can't recover the situation, I turn, sortie (again), find my little car, and go home, another "cultural retail experience" behind me. Older, but, probably, not wiser, I, at least, have something to eat tonight.
But, hey, I'm gonna get better at this.
I couldn't figure out if this was the name of the play, or a critique of it.
