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So remember how yesterday I tried to get my phone and couldn’t find the store? Turns out that the underground train stations here are like cities (no joke, fucking huge) and I went out the wrong way. Anyway, today I tried again, better informed after asking people at work. When I got to the train station to begin my journey to the mall (Forum des Halles), I was trying to figure out which was the faster train that the other interns had recommended, and an American intern recognized me from work and showed me the way. It was significantly faster than the way I took this morning, which took me about 50 minutes. With the faster train I could be at work in less than 30 minutes, which buys me a whole lotta time in bed!
I finally got my phone, which cost all of €29 (plus €50 for the prepaid card). The guy helping me at the store obviously knew I was “American” because my French is very heavily accented and I don’t know all the phone lingo in French, but he was nice and decided to force me to practice. He spoke slowly and pointed at things, and I was able to give him all my information, which was nice. Shout-out to Franck over at Orange.
After that, I went to this store called Darty, which reminded me sort of like a Sears store. If it has a plug, Darty has it. I needed to get a blow-dryer, since my voltage converter can’t take the one I brought and I need power to turn this afro into something decent. The way that store works is that you pick out what you want and tell a salesperson, they write you a little ticket which you then take to the caisse (cashiers) and there you pay for whatever it is you’re getting. THEN they give you a receipt, which you take to the back of the store, and you finally get your shit. (I’ve figured out this much in my two days here: the French are always sending you to someone else. What the flip.) The cashier gave me the wrong receipt, which Stockroom Dude explained. I go back to get the right one, and I explained to her, “You gave me someone else’s receipt,” and she says she didn’t charge me for that. I tell her, yes, just a minute ago, you were over there and charged me for this. No, I wasn’t over there, I’ve been charging people here. Well, am I speaking to your evil twin?! The right receipt magically appears.
Anyway, I finally got my blowdryer, and Dude asks me where I’m from. I say I’m from Puerto Rico, dans le Caraïbe? He doesn’t know… wait, no, he does! Ricky Martin!
“You’re lucky, Ricky Martin doesn’t like you, he doesn’t like girls.”
“Well, I don’t like him either, so we’re good.”
