On the first Thursday night that I was in Paris, three days in and with less of an urge to crawl under the covers at 8 p.m., I found myself wandering by a window containing a big bucket full of wine. “Vins sur Vingt,” said a sign above my head.
Wines under 20—perfect.
But as I approached the door I realized that the shopkeeper was staring straight at me, and upon entering I would be his only customer. Uh-oh.
This is France, after all, and unless you are in a large supermarché, shopkeepers are friendly and talkative—a problem if you have difficulty being talkative back. I would have to talk to him. And I would have to talk to him about wine, a subject intimidating even in my native tongue.
At that point, there was no turning back. I greeted him with a friendly “bonsoir” and began to browse, nervously, waiting for him to make the inevitable march towards me. When he finally did come over to ask me if he could help, I turned and gave him the blank, quizzical look that defined all of my interactions during my first week.
“Uh…” I started.
“Are you English?” he asked immediately. I quickly muttered a shameful “oui.” It was only after that I noticed his accent—distinctly from somewhere north of la Manche (the English Channel, or sleeve, in French).
He had asked me if I was English, not if I spoke English. Now even more embarrassed, I backtracked to explain that no, I was not actually English, I was American. I launched into my story about studying here for the semester, and living just down the street—but I had only been here four days and could not yet hold most conversations in French without difficulty.
“It’s okay,” he told me. “I’ll give you three weeks. Then we will start speaking in French.”
At that moment, he became one of my favorite people in France. Not only is he fluent in my native tongue, he’s also willing to speak to me in French—the native Parisians would rather practice their English—and fluent in wine, another one of my favorite subjects.
The second time that I visited the shop, a week after the first, I got so far as to greet him in French and explain that I was looking for a not-too-expensive Côtes du Rhone. Progress. But as he started in on the different kinds of Côtes du Rhône that he had—he grabbed five of them from around the room and lined them up from cheapest (about seven euros) to most expensive (a whopping 22 euros)—my eyes glazed over again.
“Vous me comprenez?” he asked. Sheepishly, I shook my head. It’s a slow process.
But all the same, I walked out with a nine-euro bottle made by a woman near the Rhône valley. It was fruity (fruité), a little spicy (un peu épicé), and delicious (délicieux), and I shared it with a few friends sitting under the moon on the banks of the Seine.
Shane Ferro is a Columbia College junior studying abroad at Reid Hall in Paris. La Vie Culturelle runs alternating Tuesdays.
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