Shopping

Sometimes I have to go out into the world of high street commerce - for example, because R or B has been invited to a party and I have to buy a present. I dress in proper clothes and take the RER to La Defense. When I am there, I like to pretend I am in New York. I have never been to New York, which helps. I climb to the top of the Four Seasons Mall where the light is all sparkly through the heavily engineered glass roofs. I seek particular pleasures for which I have to rely on American outlets:

1. Staff who are friendly and helpful if not by nature then at least by training
2. Ordering savoury food before 12.o7
3. Ordering savoury food which is not a baguette sandwich (today, warmed chicken cesar bagel)
4. Ordering just what I want and just how I want it, like Sally in When Harry met Sally, in my case, coffee as God intended, mashed up with milk and ice, sugared and topped with a cornet of whipped cream and lashings of toffee sauce - WITHOUT ANYONE SAYING NO, rudely, without explanation or expressed regret - instead they say YES CERTAINLY MADAME

I enjoyed the coffee and bagel experience alone in a large leather armchair.
I bought the present; a magic trick, heavy on magnets and light on magician skill, and went in search of a hands-free handbag. I browsed some French shops and received dark and defensive looks from assistants selling dull and expensive handbags.
Then I spotted a window of jolly coloured bags which would not be out of place on the set of Lord of the Rings. I was drawn to a blue pouch on a long strap worn across the chest. The tall fair assistant gave me a pink and friendly look and asked me how my day had been so far. Never, in all my time in France, has a French shop assistant said such a thing. I was so shocked I was unable to respond with a coherent sentence. And then she added, undeterred, that she loves to ask this question, and started exposing personal details about herself and asking my opinions! UNHEARD OF. She was too young and full of life to notice her supervisor's dark and predatory look. I soon uncovered the explanation - she was English, with a French father, just over from Brighton. The outlet was American. I bought the bag.
Yes, I want service, I want Nice, I want indulgence, I want satisfaction, I want well designed luxury goods, I want YES CERTAINLY MADAME I want it all. Is this the menopause?
No shopping trip in France is complete without at least one customer services altercation. This time it was the 'security guard' who had obviously learned his stop and search techniques in gangland, who forced me to open my bag as I left the DIY shop Castorama. Did I agree to this when I went in to browse the kitchen spots? I don't think so. Was I caught on camera pilfering the power tools? I don't think so. Made straight way to the 'customer services' desk where I was given a dark and defensive look and my complaint was duly devalued and contradicted. I was directed to write my comments on a small blank paper which left no room for my contact details and made no promise of response, and which was to be posted into an unmarked mail box which had the air of a black hole; no matter, the deed has to be done. French Customer Services know this: I will never surrender.
I left at 12.07, just as ten thousand office doors burst open and La Defense was overwhelmed by an army of suited warrior-employees off to crowd into unfriendly restaurants and eat baguette sandwiches.
Any anglophone who has lived in France will understand all of the above.
Ho hum, back to the spiritual drawing board.