Emily in France: Monopoly money at the marché

It's only 9:16am on this cloudy Friday morning, but I already accomplished something amazing today. Every Friday morning, bright and early, Pertuis centre ville is host to a marché: a very typical French market at which one can buy anything from a live chicken, all kinds of fruits et legumes, local honey and soap, to cheap clothes and shoes. The first time I visited Ben almost 5 years ago, he took me to the marché, where he purchased his usual - a whole roast chicken, green beans, and fruit. These items are a fundamental basis for what he supplements at the big box supermarket, Hyper U. The vendors know Ben; the chicken vendor knows to cut his chicken into 4, the vegetable stand knows he always buys a bag of haricots verts. I've gone with Ben enough times so that these vendors may remember me by sight. Most likely because I stick out of the crowd enough as a foreigner that a curious glance draws the memory of that young American man's American girlfriend.

This Friday morning, the ritual was interrupted because Ben needed to go to Marseille for an appointment. So it was up to me to brave the marché alone and buy the essentials. For a few minutes I considered wimping out, but that's not what this year is about. Also, that's kind of pathetic - it's just buying food. Pull up your big girl pants and vas y! So I strapped on my backpack, stuffed the colorful Euro note in my pocket and set off up the street. (Still trying to get used to anything that isn't a bland, sickly green US dollar. Euros are so pretty they must all be fake...)

I know exactly where each of the vendors is, so I headed straight for chicken man. The French are notoriously inept at queueing (I have a theory that any bad blood between the English in French all goes back to a medieval misunderstanding whilst queuing up for a beheading or some such), so I was prepared to jostle myself into line and manhandle old ladies if need be. Luckily, right as I walked up, a trio of women dispersed, and I was in clear sight of chicken man. There was a young woman behind the table with him, and while chicken man was suddenly engaged with surreptitious side-swipe customer, I tentatively said to the young women, "un poulet roti s'il vous plaît?" She smiled at me, recognizing my foreign accent and elbowed chicken man to help me. He turned to me, and after a quick glance, I think he recognized me as Ben's girlfriend. He immediately knew I wanted a chicken and pulled one from the roasting rack. He then asked me something I didn't catch, but after repeating himself, I understood that he asked if I wanted roasting juice in the bag. I know Ben likes the juice and protein drippings, so I nodded, yes please! He began to bag the chicken, and I had a moment of panic as I realized he hadn't quartered the chicken as Ben asked I buy it. So with all the confidence I could muster, I said to chicken man, "Est-ce que vous pouvez couper en quatre?" Of course he understood, because chicken man is French and he speaks French, so my request was met with a delighted twinkle of the eye and a chop of the chicken.

High on my triumph at the chicken vendor, I turned to the vegetable stand behind me to buy green beans. There is usually a weary-looking middle-aged woman behind this table, but this time there was a younger man there with her. I walked up, caught his eye, and said, "des haricots verts?" He said something I didn't catch, so I said, "un sac" to let him know I wanted a small bag for the beans. He caught my accent and incomprehension, so he said, "one bag!" in English and handed me a plastic bag with a sly smile. I filled the bag, handed it back to him to be weighed, and told him, "oui, c'est tout," when he asked me if that would be all. When he told me the price, I realized I had a choice: hand him the 10 Euro note and force him to make a lot of change, or figure out which of the coins I could use to pay the small price. The price displays on the scale, but I proudly understood the words he said to me and handed him a 2 Euro coin. Discerning the difference between foreign coins can feel like it takes an eternity, but he didn't seem to care that I took an extra two seconds to hand him an easier amount of money to change.

My final task was apples and bananas. This vendor was by far the easiest. The bags are tied throughout the stands, within customer reach, so I didn't need to ask for anything. I filled my bags, and planted myself in line to pay. A woman slipped in line behind me, and her very close presence alarmed my rather sensitive space-bubble requirement, so I uncomfortably moved forward until it was my turn to pay (this is part two of my theory of the French and English: while attempting the doomed medieval queue, I'm betting some Frenchman got just a little bit too close to an Englishman, et voilà, a centuries' long enmity was born).

And that was it! This whole process took maybe 10 minutes tops, but it instilled in me a great sense of confidence. These French people either take no notice of me or think my foreign-ness is charming. A smile and an attempt to speak French go a remarkably long way. I thought about bringing my camera to document the marché, but I already feel so out of place, I didn't want to draw attention to myself by photographing a very quotidien Friday occurrence. Instead, here are some pics from our jaunt to Aix-en-Provence yesterday...