Thursday, January 12, 2006
All hail Gluttons!
My chemical imbalance got the best of me yesterday, as I boarded the 8 line at my university stop to chug two stops to the terminus, to the pot of sunshine at the end of the line : Creteil-Soleil. Those of you who have visions of Paris as full of little specialty shops (one for your bread, one for your fish, one for your equitable commerce goods, one for your homemade toys, one for your robots, one for your clown shoes, etc.*), are correct. Of course, Paris is also the birthplace of the department store, Bon Marche opening during the Belle Epoque, and I must say, department stores are magical here. Galeries-Lafayettes has the world's largest lingerie department, which I inevitably drag all of my visitors to. For some reason one square block of underwear is more impressive to me than a pithy roomful of Monets.
But we are no longer in Paris. We are in Creteil. Remember all that news about cars burning in France? Yeah, we're in Creteil, where I go to university. And Creteil-Soleil, literally the sun of Creteil, is a mall worthy of New Jersey, of the Chicago suburbs even. And yesterday was the first day of the semi-annual sales. And I needed shoes.
The moment I got off the metro and was carried away by the current toward the doors, I knew I would need my armor. I turned up my iPod, prayed to iGod and made a bee-line for the shoe stores. Except that I didn't exactly know where the shoe stores were and there aren't those convenient little mall maps all over the place like in the US. So I wondered through the 3 floors of consumer gluttony, eyes-wide open, each store like freakshow booth. Women tearing sweaters out of each other's hands. People whose tiny frames had become obese with boxes and bags, trying to shove through the entrance of yet another store.
I came upon the first shoe store, only to find women on the floor weeding through a pile of shoes, that had most certainly not been on the floor at the beginning of the day. Next store I remember all too well. They were the ones responsible for the pinky toe homicide of 2004. I finally stumble upon Andre, my old standby, and there they are. The world's most perfect pair of red sneakers...for only 24 euros. I pause a moment to reflect. I know full well that buying these shoes completes my French transformation. The red shoes. The ones that MizMaya and I used to amuse ourselves by counting every day. This country is obsessed with red shoes.
After this touching moment, I brought my box to the register. I hustled out of the mall, stopping momentarily in front of the multiplex to see if I could extend my procrastination for another few hours. Nothing good playing, so I took the 40 minute metro ride back to my neighborhood, in the land of belgian beer boutiques and Apple accessory lofts.
Only when I got home did I notice that the name of my shoes, according to the box, were the Gluttons. And so we are all.
But we are no longer in Paris. We are in Creteil. Remember all that news about cars burning in France? Yeah, we're in Creteil, where I go to university. And Creteil-Soleil, literally the sun of Creteil, is a mall worthy of New Jersey, of the Chicago suburbs even. And yesterday was the first day of the semi-annual sales. And I needed shoes.
The moment I got off the metro and was carried away by the current toward the doors, I knew I would need my armor. I turned up my iPod, prayed to iGod and made a bee-line for the shoe stores. Except that I didn't exactly know where the shoe stores were and there aren't those convenient little mall maps all over the place like in the US. So I wondered through the 3 floors of consumer gluttony, eyes-wide open, each store like freakshow booth. Women tearing sweaters out of each other's hands. People whose tiny frames had become obese with boxes and bags, trying to shove through the entrance of yet another store.
I came upon the first shoe store, only to find women on the floor weeding through a pile of shoes, that had most certainly not been on the floor at the beginning of the day. Next store I remember all too well. They were the ones responsible for the pinky toe homicide of 2004. I finally stumble upon Andre, my old standby, and there they are. The world's most perfect pair of red sneakers...for only 24 euros. I pause a moment to reflect. I know full well that buying these shoes completes my French transformation. The red shoes. The ones that MizMaya and I used to amuse ourselves by counting every day. This country is obsessed with red shoes.
After this touching moment, I brought my box to the register. I hustled out of the mall, stopping momentarily in front of the multiplex to see if I could extend my procrastination for another few hours. Nothing good playing, so I took the 40 minute metro ride back to my neighborhood, in the land of belgian beer boutiques and Apple accessory lofts.
Only when I got home did I notice that the name of my shoes, according to the box, were the Gluttons. And so we are all.
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