Collegiate Times

For Christmas, my parents gave me a lime green backpack. While on my travels studying abroad in Montpellier, France, I found other uses for it, such as carrying groceries.

The grocery store was a half hour walk from my apartment, and on this particular March day, the weather in Montpellier was cold.

Wanting to be comfortable, I decided to dress like an American. I paired my lime green backpack with my multi-colored Asics sneakers and my shiny white puffer down jacket. I definitely did not look French, in fact I probably
looked like an oversized marshmallow.

So began the walk to Carrefour.  To me the name sounded like a Star Wars planet, but it was the cheapest place to buy food, a fact that was common knowledge and contributed to long checkout lines.

I took my time shopping, got what I needed and headed to the checkout.

As usual, the lines that day were long. There were people everywhere. Weeknights at Carrefour looked more like those at a sporting event than at a grocery store.

I was standing nervously in line, hoping to avoid any confrontation. I just wasn’t that confident with my French yet.  Any time that I had to interact with the natives, I got a little nervous.

I would try so hard to pay attention that I would miss the obvious things that people said to me.

When my turn came I began to put my endless amount of groceries on the conveyer belt, hoping that the cashier wouldn’t speak to me.

With nervous energy I was swaying back and forth, all the while focusing so hard that I didn’t even notice I was continually setting off a security alarm!

With each sway, the alarm beeped again and again.

Still intent on not embarrassing myself in front of the French cashier, I also missed her reach for her phone and call security.

The entire store was watching me now. To my surprise, (but no one else’s), the store manager approached me a few moments later.

She started to question me in French. Question after question. Reading the blank stare on my face, she realized that I spoke no French.

“Parlez-vous anglais?” she asked me.

“Oui!” I said.

However it soon became clear that she spoke as much English as I spoke French.

The next five minutes were spent searching me: my backpack, my coat, my coat pockets, my jean pockets, everything. My personal space had been compromised; there were hands everywhere.

By this time, the entire store had become involved in solving this mystery. Shoppers ignored their groceries, and everyone was looking, pointing, and whispering.

I stood frozen as all the while; the alarm was still ringing out.

Then I had a thought. This has happened to me before in the States. New clothes from Gap always equal alarms. The clothes contain small sensors that you are supposed to remove before wearing. 

I grabbed my shirt and pulled it high. Sure enough, there was a “Remove Before Washing” tag. The sales woman gasped, I gasped, and the rest of the store cheered. Success. I felt like I deserved a prize.

Before I could say anything, the manager had a pair of scissors in her hand. She grabbed my shirt and then, snip. She cut the tag right off.

So much for keeping the tag.

I packed up my backpack, steadied it on my back, and marched out of the store with a strange mixture of embarrassment and pride. My white jacket and green backpack glowed like highlighters.

And so went another day in France.