One of the greatest things I’ve struggled with since moving to France is learning how to be the same person in two languages. I didn’t start learning French until I was 19, not old by any means, but not with the ease of a 6 year old either. When I arrived, even the most basic interactions required advance preparation and painstaking concentration. It was endlessly frustrating not being able to express myself. I absolutely hate to be misunderstood.
One of the biggest compliments I received in my first year here was when a French friend told me my sense of humor was pince sans rire, literally pinching without laughing. I like to think of myself as relatively witty and quick to respond, and yet I was having a very hard time expressing my sense of humor in this foreign language. Many people will say that you have achieved fluency in a language when you find yourself dreaming in a foreign tongue. For me, it was when I could seamlessly incorporate jokes, sarcasm, and even jeux de mots (puns or word games) into a conversation.
The other big moment for me was when I began to stand up for myself. In any big city, it’s easy to be knocked about, insulted or taken advantage of. I grew up on a rather friendly island, so not only was I not used to having to defend myself, I had to learn how to do it in a different language. I remember the first time I tried to assert myself—I was in the metro and a cranky lady pushed passed me with her shopping bags to get to a seat, hitting me in the face. I didn’t react, as this happens relatively often, but then she refused to move said bags for a small child who wanted to sit down. The mother kindly asked if she would make room, and she shot them a death stare the likes of which I’d never, ever (ever!) seen. The little boy started crying, and this old woman started yelling at him, saying he was a spoiled brat. I tried to intervene, saying that she was terribly rude, to disastrous results. I jumbled my words, got red hot in the face, and slinked out of the train at the next stop. Never again will I intervene, I vowed.
But life just doesn’t work like that. You have to stand up for yourself, especially in an urban jungle, or you will literally get trampled on. (That is a reference to a time last year when I was picking up a shopping basket at Monoprix and a man bowled me over, then yelled at me to “watch where I was going”. When I responded, explaining rather politely that I was static and he, in fact, ran into me, he called me a “fucking American” and stomped off.) And so I’ve slowly but surely mustered the courage to point out injustices when I see them.
In a particularly good mood for a Sunday morning, I grabbed my shopping bag and headed outside to find sunshine and piles of autumn leaves along the Marne in front of our building. I was hosting a get together for some ladyfriends—a tasting of the seasonal Mont d’Or, and needed to acquire some bread worthy of such tasty cheese. So I headed up the hill towards Charenton, where the Atelier de Christophe makes the best baguette tradition within a 2km radius (yes, I have tried them all). Sunday mornings are busy for the popular bakery, and the line was out the door.
A woman, probably in her late fifties, blonde and well-dressed, got in line behind me. She picked up a bag of house-made candies, studied it for a moment and slipped it in her bag. As the line moved forward, she did the same with a small bag of chocolates in the window. Not wanting to assume anything (yeah, yeah. You’d think I’d stop being an optimist by now), I waited patiently for her to order. Un croissaint au beurre, s’il vous plait !, she said with a slight smirk. She nodded her head up and down when the cashier asked her if that would be all.
I took a deep breath and went for it. I looked her straight in the eye and asked if she planned on paying for the two bags of candy she’d slipped in her purse. She was visibly flustered, first smiling and insisting ‘yes, of course’ then, changing her mind, she said that it was ‘ok…I put them back’. The ribbon on one of the bags was poking out of her purse. She was trapped in the lie. The cashier was a bit confused, so explained to her that ‘madame had two bags of candies in her bag that she forgot to mention’. The woman kept trying, in vein, to dig herself out of her own grave. ‘This young lady says I took two bags of candy…’ I guess she was hoping the cashier would laugh it off? I’m not really sure of the strategy, but instead the cashier smiled and asked to see the famous, and by now, totally ridiculous bags of candy, then asked her for ten euros that she already had in her hand to pay for her croissant.
The woman had no choice at this point but to pay, and I got a huge smile and a whispered merci from the employees (though I don’t think a free pastry should have been out of the question). And I moseyed back down to Maisons Alfort feeling, let’s be honest, pretty proud of myself.
One could argue, I suppose, that this women’s transgressions were none of my business. But in a time of financial crisis, when good bakeries and shops are closing left and right or being pushed out by chains and shops only selling frozen bread, I couldn’t stomach the thought of someone stealing from my boulangerie. Particularly someone who had the means to pay for whatever she wanted, and was possibly stealing out of opportunity or because she was bored.
Later in the evening, while chatting with my girlfriends, enjoying my triumphant bread and Mont d’Or, I learned that in France, the laws when it comes to shoplifting and protection of personal freedom are quite complicated. The employees of the shop, even if they had seen the woman swipe the candies with their own eyes, are legally not allowed to force anyone to open their bag. They can stand with someone for a certain length of time until the police arrive, but on a busy Sunday morning, this simply wouldn’t have been feasible or reasonable for a couple of euros of candy. In my experience, people tend to turn a blind eye here, preferring not to get involved with situations that don’t directly concern them. I’m sure that the boulangerie thief was banking on these factors, seeing the Sunday morning rush as an easy opportunity to get away with murder (Ok, fine, candy).
It may have been a small triumph, but considering confrontation gives me total heart palpitations, it was a triumph no less. And it only took 7+ years of living abroad and multiple failed attempts at self-assertion. But the real moral of the story? No one messes with my Sunday morning boulangerie and gets away with it.