It's the end of the week as we know it

Just before the dawn of the millennium, Americans prepared themselves for the end of the world that would surely accompany the crash of the almighty computer. The most paranoid of Americans hoarded precious resources into makeshift shelters in anticipation of the post-Y2K apocalypse they were certain would strike.

I’m not sure what the French were doing at this time--at worst they probably feared their systems would become more efficient. What I do know is that the temporary pandemonium Americans endured in the months before everyone partied like it was 1999 for the last time was like an exaggerated version of what the French have traditionally experienced every Saturday. I say this because every Sunday something unheard of in America happens here in France; stores close. The fear of total deprivation of resources that never materialized in America is, in fact, and institutionalized reality in France.

This reality requires constant vigilance. By Saturday night, if you haven’t already shopped for your Sunday rations, then you’d better get over to the Monoprix before closing time. Easter added an extra challenge to last weekend's shopping because the French observe the holiday on Monday as well.

Jean Philippe and I found ourselves in the precarious position of having put off shopping until the last minute on the Saturday before Easter. There is always the temptation to assume (wrongfully) that you can make it through Sunday on the food already in the house. This is a decision most come to regret when they are spreading butter on the boiled remnants of two different kinds of pasta or tossing a salad of wilted lettuce and cocktail olives.

“Do you think we should maybe go grocery shopping and get some things?” Jean Philippe directed the question to me, laying down on my bed with my head propped on my elbow , reading my book. I was tired and didn’t feel like getting up, not to mention my long-harbored aversion to grocery shopping.
“I don’t know, should we?” I asked, my tone suggesting that I had already thought of my answer.
“Well, we have to be prepared to get through tomorrow.”

Then a look spread across Jean Philippe's face that I recognized from the many other times he had acted as voice of reason for me. A light had gone on somewhere in his mind and he remembered the Easter holiday. The situation quickly escalated to an emergency when we realized that it was 8:40 in the evening and the Monoprix would close in twenty minutes, leaving us bereft of groceries for the next two days. Both simultaneously sensing the urgency of the situation, Jean Philippe and I swung into action, grabbing tote bags and rushing out the door.

We managed to slip into the store with time to spare. The Monoprix was crowded with people on similar missions. We traversed the aisles, grabbing at random like contestants on Supermarket Sweep. We filled an entire basket with vegetables, cheese, milk and potato chips. We carried wine and beer in our arms. When we left the Monoprix 20 minutes later, our shoulders slung down from the weight of grocery bags, it was clear we had made the right decision in coming shopping.

The fact that in France, I can’t walk out the door and buy what I need at any hour of the day is not a concept that I have grown up with. As an American, I beleive that anything is possible. Behind every need is an inherent optimism leading me to instinctively pick up my keys, get into my car and drive to the place that will satisfy my need--and quickly. To not be able to go to the grocery store and buy toilet paper on a Sunday afternoon would be greeted by an American with sheer incredulity.

In the many discussions about Europe that I held in the months leading up to my trip, hours of operation always made it into the conversation. "What if American stores closed earlier?" is always a hot topic, often followed by an exultation of the 24-hour convenience store.

To inculcate a shop culture equal to that of France in the States would require much more than adjusting our hours of operation. The 24-hour culture is uncompromising. The French have never been introduced to the philosophy that convenience should reign supreme. The American who finds comfort knowing that the nearly-empty roll of TP on Saturday will no doubt be replaced tomorrow, maybe by hitting the store on the way home from church and picking up a 24 pack. The Frenchman finds comfort in a tradition of mutually assured inconvenience. Or at least, that tradition has taught him to be prepared; to stock his home for the day of rest and remain home on Sunday with no reason to go out.

I still don't know how to settle the debate between the 24-hour establishment and French business hours. It is easy to idealize France, when the reality is that there are some people who would prefer to be able to open their stores on Sunday and make more business. It's also hard to keep up a cynical view of American efficiency when it really is quite nice to be able to complete a successful beer run after midnight. Sitting in the Champs du Mars on a sunny Sunday afternoon drinking wine in the grass while families picnic together does sway my mind in one direction, though.