We survived our first ripoff this morning. It's inevitable when traveling in a foreign country that you'll be penalized for your ignorance and taken advantage of by savvy local merchants and crooks. It is kind of a relief actually, to get it over with. A bit like the first few moments of a race, or the first play in a football game or something. You're really nervous. You don't know what to expect. You hope that your training and preparation will be enough to get you through.
The Euro is really expensive these days, so I'm trying to be even tighter with the wallet than normal. I see myself as the last remaing bulwark against the flood tide: a spendthrift wife with Parisian glamour in her eyes and the nineteenth-century architecture clouding her better judgement.
Anyway, we wandered out of our friend's apartment this morning to see about some breakfast food. Happily (?) there was an outdoor market just nearby. Wait a second. 10am? On a Thursday? And this was probably 100 vendors. Seafood, bread, freshly killed duck, rabbit, chicken, vegetables, the works. This is just near Place de Breteuil for those into maps. You can even see a view of the Eiffel tower down the street. The only thing missing was the sound of an accordian player, which, in retrospect I must admit is something of a disappointment.
Anyway, you can imagine the scene. A beautiful summer morning. In Paris ("We're in Paris!"). The market, the sights, the sounds. Old ladies shopping for their vegetables. Mustachioed fishmongers with a knowing, Gallic smile. Local artisans selling jewelry. Pretty much every foodie/hipsters dream. So we went to ATM stratightaway to arm ourselves with some cash money.
That would have been an ideal time for me to reflect on the setting, make a mental grocery list, and give a pep talk to Rebecca. I did nothing of the sort. As we ambled further into this collection of delicious collection of vendors, we increasingly fell under their spell. I should also mention that we were both hungry.
Anyway, we bought a baguette first. Pretty affordable, tasty. Good value. Next stop, some tomatoes. Check. Yum. Continuing down the market path right past a vendor selling Rebecca's kryptonite: a vastness of olives of every flavor and shape imaginable. The plaintiff cry cooed into my ear: "can we...?" Of course we can, dear. Who am I to deny you your every wish and need? This is Paris!
The gimlet-eyed olivesmith watched us carefully. His mind worked at a furious pace as a rung up the previous victim and sent him packing. Swiftly he offered us some 'free' samples from his bounteous collection. Bonjour monsieur. Bonjour mademoiselle.
Hey buddy: I know what you're up to, and it's not gonna work. I'll take your free sample and be on my way. That's what I should've said. Instead, I watched silently as he plied his trade. "Une melange, mademoiselle?" Yes, a mixture.
That's it. We're toast. Bag open, olives spilled in. His practiced hands worked quickly. A little of this, a wee bit of that. Oh, you must try some of these. Olives d'ail? Garlic? Just a couple. Pourquoi pas?
"Okay, stop! "That's Good!" He took his bag over to scale and weighed our precious treasure. One little bag of olives? 9 Euros. The look on my face as I did the conversion to dollars? Priceless. Who knew? Olive pits are aparrently fashioned from 24karat gold!
So, we left behind a little more cash than we wanted to at the market. And for myself, a sprinkling of pride and dignity was also surrendered. We met the enemy, and he is an olive vendor named Jean-Luc. Or Pierre, or something. I don't really know. But these olives were memorable.
