Your Unfriendly Neighborhood Shopkeepers

A big part of life is interacting with the shopkeepers, especially here in France.

So you'd think that after three years, the guy at the tabac would recognize me by now.

Seriously, for the past three years, every 10 - 12 days, I go to the tabac and I order an entire CARTON of Marlboro Lights. How many other Asian-American girls go into his tabac every 10 days to buy a carton of Marlboro Lights? I mean, it's absolutely stunning the way he stares at me gruffly every single time as if he has never seen me in his entire life. And I always pay for my carton with my credit card, so you'd think he'd at least have the little terminal thingy ready for me, but instead he always sighs inwardly and stumbles around looking for the machine, like it's a huge inconvenience. The worst part is that two years ago, I said to myself, "Well, I've been coming here for a year, and I always order a carton of Marlboros, so surely he must recognize me by now. Maybe if I make the first move and I'm friendly and ask him how he's doing, he'll recognize me and not be so mean." Ha! What happened was, I walked in, he looked at me blankly, and said, "Oui?" in gruff manner. "Bonjour! Comment ça va?" I'd asked, only to have him stare at me blankly with a look on his face that clearly said "Who the hell are you and what do you care?" So, after an awkward minute of complete silence, I was all, "Er....une cartouche de Marlboro Lights, s'il vous plaît."

Anyway, I happen to know for a fact that the French are not immune to this either. My French best friend Simon had been living at the same apartment in the 7th arr. for about 5 years now. He explained that more or less every other day for the past 5 years, he would go to the same bakery and order a loaf of bread. Every time he went, the baker would ask, "Do you want the bread sliced?" and he would say no. For FIVE YEARS. Finally, the day before he moved, he went to the bakery and when the baker asked if wanted his bread sliced, he spoke up. "Well, I've been coming here every other day for 5 years now and I never have my bread sliced," he said. "Pppppphhhhht! It gets busy in here! How am I supposed to recognize every single customer who comes in? Huh?" huffed the baker defensively. At this point, Simon just let it drop and was all, "Yes, I know it gets busy. I was just kidding," to which the baker responded, "Hmmmmmmph! I mean, really, how I am supposed to keep track of what people order?" "So you see," said Simon, trying to comfort me when I complained about the tabac, "it happens to French people too."

I suppose if I tried hard enough I could maybe feel a little bit of empathy, but I have worked as a waitress and as a cashier in a bookstore, and I was able to recognize the regular customers. So I really think it's not THAT hard.

Although, to be fair, a couple of people at Inno, where I do my food shopping, recognize me. One is the French-Asian female cashier who wears tons of blue eyeshadow and has a deep voice. She is actually very nice, always says hello and asks how I'm doing, and even lets me double bag my groceries. The only other person who recognizes me is the butcher at Inno, but I'm not sure I really appreciate it because whenever he sees me he launches (very loudly, I might add) into some weird French song about the "little Chinese girl with the slanted eyes" or something to that effect.