Café Oy Vey!

Illustration by Equin-co Designs

When leaving the house and emerging onto the streets of Paris, unlike in New York, I actually pay attention to my appearance. None of this "run out in Randy Goldstein's party favor Bar Mitzfah t-shirt, with Uggs and a pair of sweatpants" malarkey. That just won't fly in these parts. While I'm not saying that we are all prancing down the street in Dior Haute Couture 2012, in Paris there is somewhat of an expectation to be presentable, at the very least. 

I woke up on this first cool morning, turned on the espresso machine and realized that there was no milk. I had forgotten to pick some up at the market yesterday because I was too distracted by their "autumn wine fest" promotion they've been hosting this week. Instead of the two cartons of room temperature milk that I was supposed to pick up, I grabbed two bottles of half-priced Bordeaux, which seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm also a sucker for visual merchandising and the fake plastic grapes and vines they have hanging over the aisles were just hypnotizing, making me feel that I was personally invited to the celebration.
Needing immediate coffee consumption, for the first time, I repeat the first time in my Paris history, I ran outside in my pajamas. I supposed I could have thrown on a pair of jeans, and perhaps I was just being defiant, but I simply did not want to get dressed to go across the street. In my oversized, butch cut-off sweatpants that makes me look like an extra in "Million Dollar Baby", a shrunken turquoise t-shirt that reads "Somebody Loves Me in California", and red patent leather Repetto ballet flats, off to Franprix I went. The outfit was completely ridiculous but for a three minute trip across the street, it was worth offending the Fashion Gods. I didn't care. I needed my morning latte tout de suite!I arrived at the sliding glass doors of my neighborhood Franprix, and they didn't open. I waved my hands around to notify the sensor but it still wouldn't open. I looked inside, the lights were all on, the cashiers were at their posts looking back at me, and one of the workers approached the door and just stared at me from the other side of the glass. "Bonjour" I mouthed to him. Actual human contact like this was not what I wanted as this was supposed to be a three minute trip to get milk, which was now turning into a five minute trip. The man, a middle-aged Indian man, looked at me and nodded his head no. No what? He mouthed that they were closed. Closed? What time was it? I don't own a watch and barely own a cell phone these days, so I certainly didn't know the time. "Il est quelle heure?" I dramatically and clearly mouthed which came out looking less French and more yenta from Brooklyn. He nodded his head no...again. What was with this "no" business? No what? What time is it?It wasn't worth interacting with him anymore, he was annoying me. A senior citizen who had suddenly appeared with his cart behind me, and was also waiting to give business to Franprix, informed me that it was 8:58. They open at 9. All of the clerks were there. The market was ready for business, but because it wasn't 9 on the dot, they wouldn't open the doors. They preferred to stare at us awkwardly from inside. In all fairness, I guess I wouldn't want to work two minutes for free if my shift started at 9. Fine.During this downtime, I had a chance to get a good look at my outfit through the door's reflection. I looked like an asshole. The outfit was just wrong, I had a black shadow from yesterday's eye makeup under one eye, and a fresh pimple planted on my chin. The only plus was that my hair actually looked amazing. Since we have a few mintes, two to be exact, I'll fill you in on last night's beauty treatment. I had put in a thermal hair mask by a company called Nubian Heritage, and I have to tell you, this stuff works. I look like a lioness, think Diana Ross in her disco days. My curls are shiny and fabulously out of control. All these years of spending money on "anti-frizz" products, when I could have spent less and gotten better results with products for African hair. What an awakening.The two minutes of waiting were going by painfully slow, and the gusts of cool autumn wind was making my appearance go from heinous to absolutely offensive as I was peaking out from my thin t-shirt like bullets with butterfly wings. I was avoiding all eye contact with the monsieur who was properly dressed in a tailored navy blue peacoat and perfectly knotted scarf. He made no effort in hiding his confusion, and made several comments on how cold it was and that perhaps I should have left the house with a coat and pants.Thank you, sir. Had I known I'd be waiting on the street for the longest now, three minutes of my life, I would have certainly reconsidered this morning's look. The doors officially opened at 9:01 (sadists!) and I beelined for the milk, bought the two bottles and ran back home, never again to disgrace the streets of Paris in last night's old rags.I have learned my lesson that curveballs happen, especially in major cities and especially in Paris, and to always dress accordingly, because you never know what will get thrown your way. All this for the love of coffee.