Friendly French

The French are friendly.

It's more noticeable when you're in a hurry. Sometimes climbing Everest is quicker than buying milk.

Supermarkets are peppered with tills, aren't they? There's one in Manchester with 58 and god knows how many self-service places.

It's the same in France.

The trick is to ﬁnd a green light with a real person.

A gathering, furthest from the exit is often a clue. Celebrity style cashier entrance is another.
Like the queen on a walk-about, those she knows are kissed on both cheeks. A handshake or, in the case of a child, a pat on the head. Compulsory acts of friendship observed, almost to extremes before she takes her seat, smiles all round and applies hand lotion.

All eyes are on the lens.
It lights up.
Bright Green.
Her day (And ours.) begins.

Something of an orderly queue form. Covid-19 finds us evenly spaced. Ten of us in the line stretch it almost the breadth of the building. I'm number four, clutching a bottle of milk.

Madame Giraud is at the head of the line, first to be served. She's looking after her granddaughter, little Elise whose mother is working, and who has beautiful hair.

The old guy behind them agrees…

So does the loved up young couple behind him…

And the woman in front of me, gripping a trolley which looks more like famine relief than a weekly shop.

I pretend to be deaf.

Enquiries cease there. The guy behind me has an armful of bottles and vegetables. Looking at his face, I'm not sure whether he feels cheated or just pissed off.

Madame Giraud opens a bag into her trolley and begins to fill it, the cashier timing scans in between chatter, allows it to be organised. Something's wrong with one of the items. An animated discussion takes place between the cashier and little Elise, culminating, with a pointing gesture and a broad smile from the little girl. She's lovingly watched by all of us, as she scampers down one of the aisles, out of sight. The cashier, beaming with pride, stops her operation to smile at each of us in turn; until she gets to me.

Madame Giraud stands patiently waiting for the last couple of items. I get a glance of disapproval, the defunct article gets scanned, then placed aside to resume chatter and completion of the sale. The girl with the beautiful hair returns with a replacement. Lots of smiles and complimentary noises, before the total cost of purchases, are displayed. The elderly lady takes out her chequebook and puts some glasses on.
I wonder if the cashier might enjoy being a receptionist at a doctor's surgery.

It's a bit weird, safe-distancing? A metre of empty space puts everyone on a small stage. Out there alone, exposed.
Under scrutiny.
The old guy waiting to be served next is standing, almost forlorn, clutching a newspaper, a baguette, two croissants and what looks like a packet of Durex. Even I shudder at the thought, and I'm probably older than him.

At a safe distance, on a separate stage, the young couple, probably mid-to-late-teens. Eyes only for each other. Essential food. A six-pack of Kronenbourg and a box of chocolates respectively in one hand and each other in the other. I muse that the old guy might be their granddad, about to encourage an element of control, other than the 'self' type.

Another metre, another stage. The woman with the famine-relief shipment stands nonchalantly poking her finger at a mobile phone, a concentrated expression that conveys authority. She thrusts the phone into her handbag, only for it to vibrate the instant, it's put away. A combination of the old guy, the couple and a vibrator make me smile.

My stage? Just me, alone, clutching a bottle of milk that seems to be warming up.

The guy behind me, arms piled with bottles, vegetables, a packet of rice and a newspaper, is expressionless, but looking decidedly peaky. He probably should've used a trolley.

Madame Giraud, holding her granddaughter with the beautiful hair's hand, expedition completed, makes several attempts to leave, only to be thwarted by the cashier's interruption for more chat and offers spewed from the till that could save a tree.

In unison, we all move forward one safe space. In the UK, I'm told its two metres. I try to imagine this queue at that distance. It reflects British arrogance… Stand alone in a safe space here… In the UK? Enough room for Pans People and the Tiller Girls!

The old guy passes through the payment process without event, the cashier, efficient, almost to the point of being rude, but polite and disinterested.

We all move forward again. I'm getting a bit concerned about the guy following me. His face has taken the hue of a harsh sunset. Beads of sweat dotted around the bit of his face I can see, now he's had to catch the packet of rice between his chin and chest before it dropped to the floor. Still expressionless, he moves forward gingerly.

"Bonjour Madame, Monsieur!" The cashier welcomes the couple to her domain. "Ca va" She continues, basking in the demonstration of young love. They ignore her, concentration focused only on each other. The young man holds out a twenty euro note without speaking or removing his gaze from besotted eyes. The cashier shakes her head, takes it and smiles as she puts the change in his outstretched hand.

The woman with the shipping order checks her vibrating phone and with an angry expression leaves the queue, obviously to get more rations for the front line.

The cashier's still smiling as I approach the conveyor belt and lie the milk on it.

"Bonjour Monsieur!"
She almost sings the greeting. I reach into empty pockets.
Nothing there.
The wallet?
Still nothing.
Shit! No money, no wallet. Damn!

I try to explain my predicament, with a glance toward the guy behind me.

He's Apoplectic!

Scarlet with rage, sweating and struggling to contain a bulky cargo, he barges inside my safe-space and literally dumps his load on the conveyor, muttering something in French I didn't quite understand. However the tone in his voice seemed a bit crabby.
He pushed past, thrust a two-euro piece into the cashier's hand, placed the milk in mine and literally propelled me toward the door.

"Go… Go!" With words of perfect English, he guided me toward the exit, having paid for my milk!

"Merci Monsieur, Merci... Merci beaucoup." I beamed, holding my gift.

The French are friendly; I said that at the beginning of this piece.