Someone Stole My Caddy and No One Believed Me!

I am incredibly proud that I ventured out to do food shopping as soon as I arrived in Paris. I refuse to let the potential humiliation of speaking French badly — or speaking bad French — stop me.

This is not false modesty. Particularly under stress —on a check-out line or anywhere in public for that matter — I barely remember nouns and never their gender. Verbs and their myriad tenses intimidate me. Some days, I get by; others I can’t string a sentence together. I know just enough to ask a question and then struggle to comprehend the answer.

To wit, I visit to “our” épicerie, a small supermarket nearby. I offer the customary “Bon jour,” quickly switching to “Bon soir,” because it’s past 17:00, (5 pm). The manager says something and looks at me. I smile, because that’s what Americans do when they’re anxious. I begin to comprehend when I hear “le caddy.” He points to a corner near the cash registers.

I dutifully wheel my blue canvas cart next to a black faux-patent-leather model, relieved that there is no dog tied up next to it. In principle, I love that shoppers have a spot inside for their dogs while they shop. But this is my last stop before home, and my cart is filled with delicacies from rue Cler.

It takes me ten minutes to find the items I came for, return to the register, and begin…