The French Shopping Experience

I know it's shallow but shopping has to be done on a regular basis, and I'm taking hits on a regular basis, so I need to vent (again).  I'm not talking about glamorous clothes shopping in French Boutiques (Never in a Million Years) I'm talking bread and butter shopping.

Example One
We decided to invest in some wire waste paper baskets for R&B's made-over rooms, because apparently one of these in black or grey is 'cool'.  So I made the trip to Carrefour Montesson, the largest hypermarket in Europe to buy the bins which I had previously seen there.   I wondered the aisles under the quivering fluorescent lighting, battered by trolleys (French driving standards apply to shopping trolleys) and in a state of increasing desperation,  I happened upon a member of staff who was stacking shelves in a relevant aisle (who could not say 'I don't know I am not from this aisle) and who's escape was barred by a large stock trolley.  Wasting no time, I formulated my polite enquiry, beginning with a smile-free bonjour.

"AH NO!"  she replied triumphantly.  (Please, STOP DOING THAT, saying NO as a first response, in the time-honoured fashion of French Customer Services:  Happy to NOT be able to help you).

"We don't have any more of them, wire waste paper baskets are ONLY for the Rentrée (back to school after the summer hols, September), I may order some more then."

I have learned to restrain myself in French shops, as I do not want to be prosecuted for Aggressive Behaviour and in some cases Actual Bodily Harm.  I nodded sagely, yes of course, silly me.  Silly me to think that French people might want to use waste paper baskets in April.

Example Two
I have been frequenting the same somewhat seedy supermarket for seven years, and I always wheel my trolley to the car parked opposite, and religiously wheel the trolley back to the shop and collect my coin.    I was wheeling my overflowing trolley on Tuesday, when the cashier actually abandoned her post, ran after me, shouting 'MADAME MADAME', and just before I got to my car she got within shouting distance of me and I realised she was shouting at me;      "YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TAKE THE TROLLEY OUT OF THE SHOP, FORBIDDEN, NOT ALLOWED, AH NO!".

I have trained myself not to reply in such circumstances, and instead stared at her unblinkingly (a technique inspired by reading Paddington Bear as a child and very useful in France).  Then I stared at my trolley, loaded with shopping.

I considered for a brief moment emptying all my shopping onto the street and handing her the trolley but I have resolved not to respond to such attacks with self-violence.

The cashier, unaccustomed to running in high heels and without her coat, was starting to to shiver and clutch her arms to her chest, the moment for me to strike:

'Madame, I have been taking my shopping to the car for seven years in one of your admirable trolleys and I always return them'

"Oh no, it is Not Allowed.  You are not allowed to take the trolley out of the shop!"  (did her job depend on it, would she go to the death?  Probably.)

"You can see that I'm parked right here, in front of the shop!"

'No!  You must park in our underground car park' (the one which forces me to make a mile long detour to get out of).

I stared, in a considering kind of way, just long enough for her to realise she was in an uncomfortable position - just what was she intending to do about it?

"Madame, I ask you to place your confidence in me just one more time, and I promise I will return your trolley, recover my 1 Euro coin,  and Never Do It Again'.  She returned to her post with a snort.

But, will I be returning to this supermarket, I ask myself?

Example Three
They've recently changed the parking arrangements at the other supermarket, installed barriers, you get first half hour free, if you spend 60 Euros at the supermarket, you get another half an hour.  It is always a bit stressful in the queue to pay,  with a particularly slow cashier, wondering whether you've gone over time.  I went to leave the car park, put in my ticket in the barrier, but the barrier did not raise.  When I re-entered my ticket, it told me my ticket was not valid in this car park.  I was trapped.

After buzzing for human contact I was interrogated lightly over the intercom, asked to re-park and make my way to the 'office' (clear instructions not given, took me 10 minutes to find it in another underground car park where the reception area was under renovation and the office temporarily housed in a prefab with a door marked 'private do not enter').  Here I was very thoroughly interrogated,standing in front of the desk of the seated parking official.  If I am ever arrested for a terrible crime I will be well-prepared;  had I inserted the card incorrectly, had I reversed, had I tried again, what time did I arrive, when did I press the buzzer?' etc.  I have trained myself to keep calm in such situations and answer all questions obediently never once claiming my human or customer rights.   When he finally agreed to release me, no apology or explanation was forthcoming and I was lead to understand that it was somehow my fault.

So I won't be going to this car park again either, my shopping options are becoming seriously limited...

Bach Together Again

There's something about the St Matthew Passion, and I'm not the only one who has felt this, but the final act leaves you feeling...calm...complete...really down here right now and ok.  Actually, I can't ever remember feeling this before.

Before the final rehearsal, I was confident;  I had worked hard  and I had it licked, oh yes, all by myself (sometimes with JC or another singer, the odd group rehearsal...).     I knew the words, the music, the musicality came to me, I learned all the solos, oh yes, I was good all by myself.

Then we got together to sing as a choir and a few more things came in to play...the unexpected things, and some of which had to be Overcome.

My immediate singing neighbours
The strange beast which is the ensemble of all the singers
The weather, the dust, the heat, the dark, the day
The accoustic
The instrumentalists and their tempermentalists
The listeners
The Direction

Oh boy.

But, he got us together (Eric Noyer eric-noyer.fr).  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3f3jk8ml9p4

Here is a taste of what I've learned

You can have a bad accoustic with cloth and building dust, but a wonderful 'echo' from your audience. For example, for the concert at the school for children with learning disabilities, Eric boiled down the story of the arrest and crucifixion of Christ to the essential, and the children were absolutely scandalised that anyone would want to nail him to a cross; as one they drew in a horrified breath  "Why did he keep silent?"  they shouted out.  Isn't this how we should all feel?  This gave us a charge of righteous energy for some hard hitting singing!

Seeing the audience meditate, weep, come back for a second concert, say how moved they were and how they feel they have heard the story for the first time...this is what music is about for me (and not competition, personal glory and technical or expressive 'perfection').

There is something wonderful about a bunch of amateurs getting it together, for an audience who thinks...perhaps I could do that, and when an amateur makes a mistake, warbles, and perseveres, it is moving, attention grabbing, and a wake-up call.  It reminds me of Shakespeare's plays performed by travelling troupes in market places - brought down to earth for us to understand and live.

There is something which I call 'living music', when the music touches us, rattles out internal organs, makes us ecstatic, fills us with a total-being understanding, makes it seem as though the concert is full of angels rejoicing...rare, has to be heard to be believed...a privilege to take part, whether audience or performer.

The Community of Music is important, among the performers, and between them and the audience.

Music is my sublime expression.