Auld Lang Syne at the Parisian Five and Dime

Betsy Palmer

Word Count 1080

Paris. New Year’s Eve. 1980. I have had to cancel my plans for dinner with friends to meet my father during his three-hour layover at Charles de Gaulle airport.  Swollen with the kind of self-pity I excelled at, I wandered the aisles of Prisunic,  a Parisian version of Woolworth’s that supplied the kind of hodgepodge one might call “sundries,” toy cars and plastic baby dolls sat disturbingly close to mousetraps and feminine hygiene products. While my neighborhood was hardly a tourist hot spot, a souvenir case stood near the store’s entrance, packed with made-in-Taiwan Eiffel Towers, and dusty Arc de Triomphe snow globes. 

The purchases I typically made were of the chocolate variety. Walking up and down the rows of candy, I studied the selection of chocolate with the intensity normally reserved for shoe shopping. Lindt, Valrhona, Callebaut, and Guittard, done up with gold and ribbon, like overdressed Easter bonnets. Some of the high-end bars were heavy with hazelnuts or crammed with caramel truffle, all too dark and bitter for my plebeian palate. I wanted Cadbury, sweet and milky smooth, but still a notch above Hershey.

My mind, as usual, had a different plan. The refrain was always the same. If I indulged in all this sugar tonight, I’d invariably feel sick tomorrow. If I kept binging, I’d never be thin. How could I spend what few francs I had on candy? I was in France, for God’s sake! Why not walk across the street for some good cheese and a fresh baguette? 

In the chocolate aisle,  I picked up a single-serving Cadbury bar, then abandoned it for the 12-Assorted Value Pack. I felt the familiar racing heartbeat of an impending binge. Keeping my cool, I casually chucked the chocolate into my hand-held basket and continued shopping with practiced nonchalance. I added two large bags of Smarties Europe’s rendition of M&M’s, and for variety’s sake, I tossed in a pouch of Swedish jellies, and some chocolate-covered shortbread.

I moved on to the salty snacks, and as I browsed the chip selection, I glimpsed a man at the end of the aisle looking at me. He wore a spotless navy pea coat, a New York Yankees knit cap and a deliberate five o’clock shadow. The look worked. We smiled at each other before I turned away. After some thought, I moved closer to where he stood near the magazines and considered the choices. 

The indulgence of buying junk food was one thing, but spending $18 on an English-language fashion magazine was lunacy. I had several good books to fill my night, but I longed for the lightweight read of Harper’s or Vogue. As a young woman obsessed with thinness, looking at bony models was the ultimate in masochistic pleasure. I chose the January issue of Elle, dropping it into my basket where it covered my shameful contraband. Pea coat man was now clearly faking an interest in the latest issue of Femmes Coiffeur. I squeezed by him toward the sodas. He smiled at his feet, and while making room for me to pass, murmured, “Pardon.” I blushed and sucked in my stomach.

I was flattered. Sexy French men did not flirt with me. My closest encounter up to that point had been more sex-crime than flirting when an over-sharing pervert flashed his business at me across a metro platform. 

I moved to the check-out, noticing my guy was now standing near the exit. He looked my way, held my gaze, and smiled. Was he waiting for me? I recall the fleeting hope our kids would get his lovely teeth. I panicked when I remembered the garlicky tapenade I’d eaten for lunch. Taking momentary refuge behind the ice cream freezer, I pulled myself together. I straightened out my backpack and checked my teeth for parsley. I ran my fingers through my slightly crunchy hair and popped a tic-tac. 

Emptying my basket onto the checkout counter, I camouflaged the pathetic cache with some orange juice and a jar of capers I would never eat. “Merci,” I chirped to the blasé sales girl. I collected my bag, and, bright with the confidence of a new crush, headed toward my future.

He walked straight to me, as I knew he would, reaching me just as I approached the exit. 

He spoke. “Mademoiselle, désolé, mais puis-je voir votre sac?”      

You would think that after four months of living in Paris, I would understand his French. You would be wrong.

What I did know was that he had stopped smiling. He was gesturing toward my backpack. And at that instant, I understood. 

I slipped the bag off my shoulder and let it slide to the floor. I watched him shake it upside down, dumping my belongings on top of the sock display (Trois Pour Deux Francs!). Several shoppers began to watch, with their French feigned indifference. A familiar lump formed in my throat. I sputtered a fusion of French and English gibberish to anyone who would listen. 

“I didn’t steal! S’il vous plait! I’m shopping!” I wondered what the French was for lawyer.

 As it turned out, I didn’t need to know. The proof of my innocence lay scattered amidst the tube socks. There were no stolen items, only two notebooks, a metrocard, and my school-sanctioned knife roll. The butter-stained canvas held the tools I used daily to julienne and chiffonade my way through the basics of French cuisine, the school’s logo clearly visible. Pea Coat picked it up and looked it over. Impressed and fully grasping his mistake, he smiled. Then, fumbling all over himself, he jammed my belongings back into my bag. He apologized in his best English and, way too courteously, helped me put on my backpack.

“So sorry, I am, Miss. You are American? You are the student?  À l'école de cuisine?”

Leave it to the French to assume if you cook, you’re honest.

While he continued to fluster about, I took my first deep breath. I sheepishly reached for my shopping bag that lay between us. He caught my hand, pulled me toward him, and placed a faint kiss on each cheek. I detected notes of garlic and Irish Spring.

“Bonne année.” Now his smile was wide as he stepped back, granting my dismissal. 

“Yeah…bonne année.” I managed, my smile a reflex. 

He turned away, and strode back to his post near the front of the store. I walked toward the exit, comforted I’d gone with the extra pack of Smarties.

  *

Betsy is a native of Connecticut, but has lived in the DC area for 28 years, where she misses snow. Her essays have been published in The Washington Post, Washingtonian Magazine, and Bethesda Magazine. She has worked as a pastry chef, owned a catering business, and taught pie-making to legions of the crust-phobic. Betsy currently spends a lot of time in the garden of her empty nest, where she lives with her husband and their overweight Chihuahua.