In search of coffee

Today I woke up in a new city: Paris

My kids and husband still asleep, I set out in search of coffee.

And I was reminded very quickly how humbling it can be to do ordinary tasks in a different country.

I thought this might be as easy as going down to the hotel lobby and finding a coffee pot. They were serving water there yesterday, so it felt relatively likely that they would replace the water with coffee in the mornings.

I took the elevator downstairs, and with an air of optimistic certainty went over to the table that housed water yesterday. No dice. I felt simultaneously excited and bothered to have to venture out for coffee, and wondered if this is what it is like to be a tiny human on this planet. And by tiny human I mean a kid. I wonder if they have general ideas about how things might work, and have to deal with being wrong, many more times than we do. And then, with their lower emotional regulational abilities, have to deal with the disappointment or the excitement or the annoyance of not finding their equivalent of coffee, only to be condescendingly be told by big humans to chill out, and told where the thing is, as if it were obvious.

So I ventured outside. I prefer to wander around when I’m travelling, rather than put into google maps “cafe”, and walk there, nose pressed into my phone, missing everything around me. So I took a right out of the hotel, and then another. I passed galleries, closed stores and restaurants, but no coffee. I retraced my steps, left and then left, back past the hotel, and turned left again. I passed an interesting looking restaurant, and went back a few steps to look at the menu, feeling the eyes of someone nearby. I wondered if it was obvious that I had never walked on this street before. I gave a meek, polite smile, and noticed how different my personality seems to be when I’m in an unfamiliar place, compared to a place where I have the lay of the land.

Ok, we were getting closer. More people, some seemed to be getting to work. Although it was 8am, it felt more like 6am in NYC. Maybe it was just my jetlag making it feel earlier than it was, but I do know (substantiated by my French friend the night before) that the work day starts later in Paris than in NYC, and it felt evident due to the mostly closed shops, and before business hours sorts of activities going on.

I passed many of those cafes where people all sit outwards, with some people enjoying coffee and croissants. I wondered if it is much less common to get coffee to-go here, as I Europeans are much more thoughtful about wasteful items like paper cups. I wondered about stepping into one of these cafes then, but realized that I don’t have any cash for a tip, and wondered if you can tip by card here. And would I seem so American and touristy to order a cappuccino and a croissant?

I decided that a cafe would be a second resort, and thought I’d look a bit more for a to-go sort of coffee shop. I saw a few places called “cafe“ but couldn’t tell if they were sit-down places. So when I saw a Monoprix across the street, I decided I should be able to find something there, even if it was just canned coffee. I remembered Monoprix from the last time I was in Paris four years ago. A sort of supermarket/department store. Anyway, I got to the Monoprix, and saw clothing inside, but it was open and I was pretty sure that part of it was a supermarket. I went down the escalator, and found a small supermarket. There were little swing gates to enter the supermarket part, and luckily I noticed that I needed to grab a basket before entering the gate, which was automatic, and seemed to only be one way. I found some drinkable yogurt and fruit for my kids and husband, and then, finally, a little space to order pastries and coffee! I went to the counter, was greeted with a French question which I responded to with “just a latte please?” and heard my strong American accent, especially on the word “latte.” I usually order lattes with skim milk, but felt that may be unbearably American, and that would probably be told that they don’t have it. I tapped my credit card, and then went over to solve the puzzle of the self checkout kiosk for the fruit and yogurts that I was beginning to regret picking up so automatically.

While scanning, I heard “madame!” The man at the counter called me back over and asked me to select if I wanted to be charged in dollars or euros. I smiled apologetically, pressed euros, and waited, in case there were other things I was unknowingly leaving unfinished. Would I need to sign the receipt? He printed the receipt and asked if I needed it, I said no thank you, wondering if he would find it more or less polite if I attempted a “non, merci,” and went back to the kiosk. I figured out how to pay, but realized there were no bags, even for purchase. I hadn’t paid yet, and knew I wouldn't be able to carry three drinkable yogurts, two packs of pineapples, and an open cup of coffee (no lid, the French way), so I started looking around the market. There would probably be little grocery totes I could buy, right?

The man at the coffee counter noticed I was looking for something, and so I asked, “can I buy a bag somewhere?” He nodded, and went back to helping his current customer. At some point, he gave me a paper bag, which I am pretty sure cost €.30. I was saved by the kindness of a stranger.

Travelling is always a humbling reminder of what it is like to be more vulnerable, less confident. To be sympathetic to others when you are on your own turf.