Starting all over again in a new country has been a daunting prospect for a while, but having passed my first week without any major problems, I can already feel myself settling in. However, I have had my moments. For example, when I discovered that my nearest supermarket is a big Carrefour, I felt some comfort on seeing its familiar colour scheme, as memories of food shopping in Salamanca came flooding back, and I let my "cultural awareness" guard down, thinking of myself as some sort of a European Carrefour expert. How wrong I was.
The first thing that hit me as soon as I walked in to the store was the price of everything. The cheapest apples were double the price of the ones in Salamanca!! My heart began to pound. Maybe I'm remembering incorrectly, I told myself. Or perhaps the French have some sort of "Apple Tax"? I tried to stay calm. However, as I made my way up and down the aisles, it gradually began to sink in that my renumeration won't go as far as I had previously thought, as almost every product is significantly more expensive than its identical counterpart with a Spanish post code. I immediately wrote my 348372nd email to the Durham International Office - I'm going to need that Erasmus grant ASAP.
Having gotten over my initial shock, and comparing prices against a few other local alternatives, I decided to return the following day. I had been so unsettled on my first visit that I didn't really buy anything useful for a meal. (Tin of olives, butter and pasta, anyone?) I tried to be as stingey as I could, whilst trying to avoid going down the "How many types of cheese, and how much of it does one country need" aisle. (In case you were wondering, yes, some camembert may have made its way into my basket....) The store was packed, I was tired, and I couldn't really find where anything was. By the time I came to pay, all of the queues were long, and I didn't think I'd have the energy to try and understand somebody speaking French to me, or hold back the tears as I handed over my money, so I decided to go to the self service machine, after all, it had served me so well in Spain.
MISTAKE.
Fighting my way through the crowds, I began scanning my shopping. About halfway through, I realised I would need more than one bag - I would have to go back and get another one. I turned my head to try to work out how I could discreetly make my way back through the queue. It was at this exact moment I saw the "Maximum 10 items" sign dangling above my head. There was no going back now. My face got suddenly very hot as I could sense the many gazes of judgement increasing. I turned back round and scanned as fast as I could, stuffing my well over ten items into my one bag, trying to conceal my shame. My shopping came to more than I was expecting, and the machine refused to accept my 50€ note. I tried to sound as nonchalant as I could when I ended up having to a) speak French to the very unimpressed employee and b) still handing over my money to a person rather than a machine which is unable to read emotions. Notes exchanged, I scooped my bulging shopper bag into my arms (the last thing I needed was it bursting everywhere) and struggled home, shaking with fear and confusion at the person I have become.
A few days passed and I was forced to make the trip again. More confident with my language skills, as well as knowledge of the store, I was able to whip round quickly. The shorter queue of the self service section was tempting, but I had learned my lesson - I did actually have fewer than ten items, but I wasn't going to risk anymore traumatic experiences. Choosing a nearby queue, I had loaded my items onto the conveyer belt and all was going smoothly until the man in front of me was not permitted to pay in cash. Confused, I listened to the cashier's explanations and followed her indication to a sign next to her till. Life seemed to go in slow motion as I turned to look at the horrifying words "Payment with Card only, no cash." As I am yet to receive my carte bleue to signify my successfully opened bank account, I was in yet another awkward situation. Wishing for the ground to swallow me up, I quickly dived backwards, grabbed a basket and proceeded to remove my items from the conveyor belt, mumbling to Unimpressed Employee #2 that I only have cash, very sorry, didn't realise, very sorry, I am English, very sorry. Pushing my way back through the queue, avoiding more stares, I was forced to do a quick recount (seven items) and return to the self service machines with my tail between my legs...
I have now developed a strange fear of the place, and although I have since been back without any problems, I have definitely learned that I must not become too complacent. France is not Spain, and it's going to be a while before I become knowledgeable on all things French.
On the other hand, I am very pleased to have escaped the world of tomate frito to return to the joy of pasta sauces...
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