How to Get What You Want in France

I went to the outdoor Saturday market last weekend, which is something I haven't done in a long time. The Saturday market is further away, and smaller, and I don't know it as well, but I was in the mood to get the weekend started with a chore out of the way.

When I walked up to the poultry stand I remembered another reason why I don't visit the Saturday market as much: the chicken guys always fuss over me.

It's not a bad fuss, really, and I should take it as a compliment, but it always flusters me a little because I'm not entirely sure what they're saying.

Anyway, Saturday morning the chicken guys were both in a good mood, and when I got to the front of the line one cheerfully took my order while the other stopped what he was doing to smile and ask how I was. Plus something else I didn't understand. When my order was complete, the guy wrapped up my meat while he asked "What is your origin?"

If I'd been confident in my French, I would have said "You ask me this every time". But I'm not, so I gave the non-sassy answer, "half Vietnamese, half American". Which wasn't an easy task in itself, considering the difficulty of pronouncing the word "Vietnamese" in French. Isn't it embarassing when you can't even pronounce your own nationality? You see, this is why I hate coming to the Saturday market.

Anyway, he smiled and said it was "a nice mix". By the time I translated that in my head, considered why he used "beau" instead of "belle"-which would have been a prettier compliment but finally, grammatically incorrect-and blushed, he'd already walked off to fetch my change.

He had barely dropped the coins into my upturned hand when both chicken guys suddenly lit up and started whooping greetings down the aisle of the market. I turned to see a glamorous woman in her early 40's, strutting though the market with her wheelie bag in tow. She was dressed in a preppy little argyle sweater, short pants, and stylish boots, with flashy Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses and perfectly coiffed hair. I was suddenly awkwardly aware of my oversized hooded sweater, tattered sneakers, and lazy ponytail. And I wondered with amusement at what time she woke up to look like that.

She smiled broadly and waved a casual hello to both of them as she continued past. I was glad I got my change before she walked through and everyone got distracted.

I proceeded to the other side of the market and finally found myself at a large vegetable stand. I got a young merchant who wasn't as amused with me, but put together my order efficiently enough. I asked for a lot of stuff, enough to earn me a free kiwi from my favorite fruit guy in the Sunday market, but no dice here.

I was just stuffing the last broccoli into my bag when I noticed the somber young man smile and greet a woman beside me like an old friend. I glanced up to see Madame D&G lean forward with a sweet smile and ask for a bunch of "not too ripe" bananas.

"Oh", he cut her off, "let me take your chariot" (this is the French word for wheelie cart but I like my term better..it doesn't invoke images of horses and Ben Hur).

He ran around from behind his stand and quickly took her bag from her. He brought it behind the stand with him and proceeded to carefully pick through a box of bananas in the back, the reserve bananas for those especially glamorous customers. Then he carefully placed a not-too-ripe bunch in her bag and leaned forward expectantly, waiting for the next request.

I stood there for a minute and watched the scene in awe. There you have it, I thought: the real way to get what you want in France. You have to work it. I reconsidered my wardobe and wondered if Dave would take me shopping for clothes to get the best fruit out of store merchants. Probably not.

And then, two days later, I dashed into the local hospital to ask the night reception what time their lab opened the next day (I needed blood tests done. My French doctor requires a battery of tests before she'll give the time of day. There's another rant for later). The bored guy behind the desk told me that the lab was closed tomorrow, but there's another lab that's open around the corner. He wrote down the address and handed it to me.

"Ok, what time are they open?" A long shot.

"I don't know."

"Well what time is your lab open?" My desperate logic: if his lab opens at 8, then there's a good chance that another lab that does the same thing will open at the same time.

He didn't understand me. He asked in English, "What are you looking for?"

I began to answer him in English when he stopped me and pleaded: "Say it in French".

I paused and looked him. He was smiling.

I had heard that the French find American accents cute, but I never really believed it.

I remembered the woman in the market and tilted my head to the side and smiled back.

"You say it in English". It didn't even make sense.

He shook his head, still smiling, and I plowed forward in bad French. He gave me my answer, and I left with a wave and an au revoir, bonne nuit. I bet I could have asked him to call the other lab for me. Or even find someone in his hospital to take my blood that very evening.

Must work on this "working it".