Grocery Store Adventures

Doc and I have come to understand that GEM families across Europe accumulate certain stories—stories about cultural adaptation that one cannot escape. Amongst such tales are those of adults “crying in the grocery store.”

So far, our grocery experiences in France have been relatively easy. Comical and embarrassing, yes, but not yet bringing us to tears. It must be said that we've gained important tips from others. We bring our own bags to each market and weigh our produce before checkout. (Thank you, Jenn and Joy.)

Our first grocery shopping in France was in Chantilly (October 2011), at a small, indoor market where we needed to buy just a few things. In order to show respect for those with whom we shopped, we’d practiced some French travel phrases. Still, nervous giggles plagued us. We questioned why the milk wasn’t refrigerated, wondered at the arrangement of seemingly unrelated goods, and guessed the contents of items based on pictures and packaging.

Twice, clerks asked if we’d found what we needed. In the States, such a question is expected, but French salespeople usually wait for the customer to ask for help. We’d been trying to keep our chuckles quiet, since we knew inside voices are highly valued in France.    The stern look on the face of the second man helped us settle down to business. We loaded our basket with a few canned goods and headed to produce. Unable to locate a price for the lettuce, I braved the question with a fellow shopper. “Combien?”

Immediately realizing I’d violated standard protocol, I mumbled apologetically, “Excusez-moi. Bonjour, Madame,” then repeated, “Combien?”

The graying matriarch pointed as she answered in clear, resigned English, “The price is right there.” A thin smile graced her lips.

We’d been humbled, but we’d acquired our needed groceries. “Victoire!”

A day or so later, also in Chantilly, we ventured into a larger market. Unlike the helpers in smaller shops, the clerks seemed happy to speak English. After our purchases were scanned, Doc moved left, attempting to return our cart. Suddenly an alarm sounded. A kindly clerk switched off the noise, telling Doc not to worry. “Happens every day,” he said, yet his eyes narrowed. More training, more embarrassment, but “Victoire!”

On our second trip to France in July, 2013, I hurried into a larger grocery in Aix les Bains. Our prayer team member, Donna, and I were making a quick trip for two items. We found the wonderful ginger cookies we liked right away. But we both searched the aisles in vain for French thank-you notes.

Once again, I approached a fellow shopper, this time with more correct protocol. “Bonjour Madame. Excusez-moi de vous deranger. (Excuse me for disturbing you.) Parlez-vous Anglais?”

“Non!” She shook her head briskly.

With a slight smile, I tried to describe thank-you notes as best I could in French. The woman flashed a grin then muttered to her husband. All I heard was “ecriver,” which I’d spoken to say “to write.”

“Ah, oui!” he beamed to us both. “Un stylo, n’est pas?”

“Non, uh oui,” I hesitated. “Vous ecrivez avec un stylo, mais (you write with a pen, but). . . I began a demonstration of writing a small thank-you note, pointing to the imaginary card in the air.

Another couple rounded the corner and joined our game of charades. A single man chimed in, too, increasing the noise level as each tried to deduce the answer, sharing uneasy laughter when our combined efforts yielded no help.

I tried to say (in French) “No problem. I’ll continue to look for them myself,” but the first woman would have nothing of it. She was going to find what I needed if it took her all day! I knew I should hurry. Donna had disappeared around the corner minutes before.

Eventually, the cordial couple led me to an end cap near checkout, chattering louder in French with every step. There stood Donna. “I figured you’d all find me if I just stayed here,” she chuckled.

“Voila!” I cheered, and my five French friends applauded beside us. In that moment, the tension subsided. “Merci beaucoup!” I bubbled.

“De rien!” (You’re welcome, or literally “It’s nothing”). Grinning broadly, they seemed reluctant to leave, though we waved to one another and enjoined, “Bonjournee!” (Have a good day.)

Two cashiers looked at us disapprovingly. Donna and I ignored them as I chose some notes and moved into line at a third stand. While paying, I pulled my credit card from the reader too quickly. Frustrated, our clerk cleared the machine for a second attempt. I made a note to self—remain calm and wait a few seconds with these machines. One more lesson—“Victoire!”

These grocery store scenes increase our appreciation for the ways of the French. Yes, more humiliation, but that’s to be expected. Surely, more training lies ahead—"Victoire!"