So That's...Different.

I cannot wait for visitors.  My mother, father and sister arrive in a few weeks, and some of my friends (you know who you are) have been making some noise about popping over for a spell.  I sincerely hope that you do because a) it means that the bumbling mistakes I make are made in the name of "research" for your benefit and b) ok, fine, I do actually like you.  And so for those of you who plan on coming to see MontEnchantedFairyLandsouris and The Great Glass Pimple for yourself, the following is for your edification and benefit.

Some of the differences between Paris and cities in the States are well-known and much talked-about (soccer=football, the French really love their wine), while other differences like to stick their foot out ever so slightly while you look the other way and knock you on your ass. 

For example:  if I told you I was visiting a department store, what would come to mind?  If you have the same cultural/consumerist context as me, then probably something along the line of Macy's.  And so being that my quest for a spring coat has so far been fruitless (sorry, GAP, but you don't get 100E of my husband's money for a coat that makes any woman with hips look like a lumpy bag of potato chips), I decided to look into the department stores, or grand magasins (literally "big stores"), of Paris.  A little internet research told me that the originals were Printemps and Galleries Lafayette, and that they were architecturally stunning enough to warrant a view whether or not one is interested in handbags.  And so, mentally prepared to spend up to 150E on a new coat, I trekked.

But as it turns out, the grand magasins, unlike Macy's or Dillard's, are not a place to find decently made if slightly uninspired clothes endorsed by B and C-list celebrities.  They are, apparently, where one goes to purchase goods designed by Karl Lagerfield or Marc Jacobs.  And they are large and labyrinth-like, so that even once one has discovered that there is no way one is leaving with a coat for under 600E, one cannot easily find one's way out.  (Of course, by "one"  I mean "me").  Lost among the Prada and Cleef Van Arpels, I secretly thanked the Heavens that it was still winter and that therefore my old shirt from the Jeffersonville, OH, GAP outlet remained hidden beneath my black wool coat.  I put on my best disinterested Parisian face while frantically looking for the exit and hoping that no salesperson would approach me and speak to me in French, thus shattering my poorly crafted illusion.   

My anxiety may seem unwarranted or silly, but it has its base in a very true fact of Parisian life: window-shopping (or leche-vitrines- literally, "licking windows") is encouraged here because if one enters a store, one is expected to buy.  If a salesperson asks if they can help you, you'd better be able to tell him or her what you are looking for- "I'm just looking" ain't going to cut it (ah, that would have been nice back in my days at that Lingerie Company Which Shall Not Be Named).   And there is no way in hell I can afford anything made by Kaiser Karl or any of his couture ilk.  Thus the panic.

Luckily, the grand magasins really are grand and crowded enough that, unlike in a small boutique, no one much bothers you unless you are more seriously investigating the merchandise.  And so I was able to eventually find my way through the couture without breaking or knocking anything over and find the doors.  And what should greet me immediately upon my exit?  H&M.  Ah, sweet, mass-manufactured bliss...