Paris dispatch

When acclimating yourself to a new country or culture, there are certain things that you must get accustomed to. And these are all the little things, all the little nuances of a new place that newcomers have to face, like a test. Like looking right, then left, when crossing a street in the United Kingdom These intricacies must be confronted and overcome, lest one doesn't truly adapt to their new environments. They become rites of passage, and one always feels more acquainted with their new home after accepting them.

In Paris (indeed, in France) one of the key rites of passage is buying vegetables at the supermarches. Now, this might seem like a trivial matter, and for the average Parisian, it is - but not for us expatriates and foreigners. I have checked with other foreign students who are currently in Paris, or have been here recently, and we all have had the same experience.

I remember my vegetable incident very clearly. It was a sunny autumn afternoon, and I was going to the local supermarche, Monoprix, for some standard Parisian goods.

It was rush hour at Monoprix, and the store was packed with people just off work. But I fought my way through the crowds and managed to find the essentials: a sesame baguette, a cheap rouge, some camberet and tomatoes en branche. The latter I bagged in the internationally standard clear plastic bags, and then I queued up in line at the caisse.

The young lady running the register was having a rough day. She was visibly frazzled. People were taking too long writing checks, didn't have enough money, weren't bagging their groceries, etc. (The latter is a Europe-wide phenomenon. There are no high school baggers; the job doesn't exist. You are responsible for bagging your groceries on your own. The creation of this position alone could solve the current unemployment crisis.)

But I wasn't worried. I had plenty of cash, I knew to bag my groceries and even if I couldn't understand the total amount when she said it, I could just read it on the LCD display. All the bases were covered. I was safe.

Or so I thought.

She began ringing up my items, and I was staring aimlessly around the store, not a care in the world. She picked up my bag of tomatoes, and looked at me like I was an idiot. I was confused.

She started telling me something. Of course I didn't understand. I was still confused.

Her voice started to rise. There was obviously something wrong with my bag of tomatoes. But what?

The line of people behind me was growing bigger. She started yelling and pointing furiously in the direction of the vegetable aisle. I was flustered and my ability to comprehend any French was plummeting.

Damn. The jig was up. Everybody in the store now knew that I wasn't French, and they also probably suspected that I was American. I grabbed my tomates and ran, nay, sprinted back to the veggie section, hoping to find a clue on what I needed to do. Tie the bag with one of those little baggie-tie things? Maybe Americans weren't allowed to buy tomatoes? What the hell was it?

A nice old man, seeing the panic on my face and the tears beginning to form in my eyes, came to my rescue. He pointed out to me a little machine in the corner of the veggie section. It was a little automated weighing machine. There was a little scale, and a display that had a button for each fruit or vegetable. You put your veggies on the scale, find the corresponding button, push it, and a little sticker pops out of the machine with the weight, the price and a barcode. I quickly found the tomates en branche button, got the sticker and stuck it on the bag.

I fought my way back to the front of the line, avoiding any eye contact with the people waiting behind me, lest their fiery gaze melt me where I stood. The tomatoes passed inspection; I paid for the whole lot, and left Monoprix in a dazed and disheveled state.

I arrived home, and I collapsed onto my sofa in a dilapidated state. I was emotionally and mentally drained.

But I also realized what I had just accomplished, what I had just learned. I had passed a key rite of passage, as uncomfortable and as unsettling as it might have been. My journey into Parisian-ness was that much more complete due to every trial and tribulation that I overcame. And the Monoprix fiasco was definitely one of them.

I now navigate the local Monoprix like a seasoned veteran. And when some rookie talks about the difficulty of buy vegetables at Monoprix, I can say: "Oh yeah, I remember my first time."