I went with a friend Hyper U inside, the steroids variant of the French supermarket chain Super U. “Oh,” she sighed, “I love this so much.” Almost everyone I know or anyone who has ever said anything about French supermarkets says that French supermarkets are great.
I don’t recognize that. When I walk into a French supermarket, I go nuts. Not in the fun way, where you laugh maniacally and load your giant cart with wine, cheese, sausage, Petit Bateauclothes and a lawnmower. The moment I walk through the gates, it’s like a reset button is pressed on me. I just know who I am, but I have no idea what exactly I am going to do and what groceries I need. The bright white light, the endless rows and aisles and shelves, full of possibilities, with choices to be made, disorient and paralyze me so much that I want to sit on the floor and rock until someone comes to pick me up.
My shopping lists are powerless against the violence of the French supermarket.
‘A cheese? Here you have seven hundred varieties of camembert.’
‘Rose? If you turn right at the very end of this path and then continue for a mile and a half, you’ll find a shelf the size of Keukenhof on your left with nothing but rosé. Don’t mind the skeletons.’
‘Mustard? We do not have.’ (On the day of our arrival, I instinctively searched for mustard for hours. When I almost cried, I spoke to a boy behind the till, who held out his hands and shook his head. I interpreted that as: dude, I’m behind the till , I don’t know where all that shit is. But afterwards I learned that there was actually a national shortage and there was nowhere to get mustard.)
No, rather French pharmacies. If you have to suffer from annoying but relatively harmless ailments somewhere, it is France. For the past few weeks I had the privilege of developing an ear infection and shortly afterwards an inflamed eyelid. The French pharmacist gave me drops for the first ailment, which seemed to burn through my eardrum. And where my own doctor advised me to wash my eyes with warm water and baby shampoo, the pharmacy Just bring me antibiotics.
No half measures at the French pharmacy, where you can walk in with a scrape on your knee, and a little later – without exaggerating – step out again with 10 grams of opium, a prosthesis and an atomic bomb. Try and find that in that great French supermarket of yours.