Paris Journal 2011 – Barbara Joy Cooley Home: barbarajoycooley.com
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France Telecom, also known as Orange, keeps on changing the rules for the Mobicarte – the prepaid sim card that I put in my cell phone when we’re in France. So, every summer, I’m prepared to deal with the changes. This year, they’ve decided to give 30 euros worth of minutes for only 25 euros, but those minutes have to be used within 2 months instead of 3. So on Saturday, I had to go to the Orange boutique, just around the corner and near the Café du Commerce, to recharge the card. As always, that boutique is busy as can be, probably because the entire rue du Commerce has become, in recent years, as busy and as trendy as can be. At the beginning of the summer, I was not surprised that the technician/sales clerk who helped me spoke English to me upon hearing my accent. On Saturday morning, there were four technicians/sales clerks working. I had to wait in line, but I didn’t mind because it is always fun to watch and listen to others having their phone problems/needs resolved in an oh-so-Parisian way. A couple of young Asian women were in line a few places ahead of me. Of course, they had to be assisted in English, and the tallest clerk did so very well. In fact, three of the four clerks spoke English. An older Italian or Portuguese woman bought a new phone for her apartment. It is new, and touchtone, and all so very sleek, but it also looks vaguely like the old fashioned table-top dial telephones that I remember from my childhood in the 1960s. I could see why she picked it. The woman in front of me was with her little grandson, who was becoming impatient. Fortunately, the boutique has been reconfigured this summer, and the process for handling customers’ needs has been streamlined. So the line moved right along. Soon, the little boy would be back outside, with his grandmom, to enjoy the weekend. My turn arrived. I hadn’t thought about what to say, but I wanted to be sure it was true that my card only lasted two months instead of three this year. I started out in French, but for some reason, I paused and asked the clerk if he spoke English. He looked ashamed, and he lowered his head a little, shaking it slightly and whispering, “Non.” He was the only one of the four clerks who could not speak English, and he knew he was supposed to be able to. Poor guy. “Pas de probleme,” I said, and I continued in my slow but steady French. He explained that it was indeed true that the card expires at the end of the weekend. I asked if I could recharge it for 25 euros, and he explained that yes, and if I did, the card would be good until November. That’s longer than I need it for, but renewing until then will probably help to ensure that I can keep my same phone number next summer. That would be convenient. The clerk and I moved over to the cash register. The old lady from Italy or Portugal came up and inserted herself at the counter between me and another customer, demanding my clerk’s attention. He was worried, because he didn’t understand her heavily accented French very well. She evidently thought she’d have to have a new phone number since she bought a new phone for her apartment. My clerk patiently explained that it wasn’t necessary. Her old phone number would work. All she had to do was plug in the phone. Just like the old days, I thought. The older woman must have been told by a grandchild that if you get a new phone (as in cell phone), you get a new phone number. And of course, that isn’t always true, either. It occurred to me that there may soon be kids who don’t know about landlines, only cell phones. Feeling reassured, the older lady left. The young man, slightly flustered by being interrupted by the persistent foreign old lady, spoke too quickly to me in garbled French. I had to tell him that I didn’t understand. He then looked right at me, and spoke clearly. He was asking for an identification card. I handed him my slick, elegant Florida driver’s license. He seemed to be mesmerized by it, with its different security photos, holograms, etc. It is the very latest; I just renewed my license in early June, months before it expired, because I wasn’t sure if I’d remember to do it after my father’s death. I didn’t know how much I’d fall apart and neglect details like this. The clerk took his time copying the information he needed from the license. He wanted to hold it and look at it as long as he could. It was foreign, strange, shiny, and hi-tech. “Floride,” he wrote on the stamped form, with flourish. Ah the exotic land of Floride! After a few minutes, he handed me my license, and I gave him my bright, shiny gold Mastercard, which evidently wasn’t anywhere near as interesting. He quickly processed the payment, pausing only momentarily to notice that the simplistic American card had no chip and therefore went through this slot of the machine instead of that one. When the transaction was concluding, I thanked him and thanked him for his patience. Magic words! They work like a charm every time I use them. I use these words when a French clerk helps me even though they feel badly that they don’t speak English. When I thanked him for his patience, the clerk smiled broadly, beaming, and said “Je vous en prie.” Sign
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Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Carpaccio de fonds
d'artichauts, copeaux de
parmesan, huile d'olive parfumée,
my favorite vegetable of the summer, found only at La Gitane. Below, the Tuesday night “spareribs”
special, with La Gitane’s own special barbeque
sauce and excellent homemade fries.
Beautiful,
very old doors on the rue Maitre Albert in the 6th
arrondissement.
A furniture
maker and restorer’s sign on the rue Maitre Albert. |
