With no particular destination in mind, I strolled the side streets, passing the inevitable markets displaying row upon row of strawberries and raspberries. Fraise and Framboise, two French words that I actually know and blurt out with a proud smirk. (Let it be said that rarely have I passed up an opportunity to purchase fresh berries and eat them straight from the carton.) I bought a paper at the corner newsstand even though I couldn't read it. The funny grey-haired gentleman took both my hands in his and said, "Thank you, Miss." I stood in line with the businessmen and picked out a chocolate croissant from the bakery. I'd have chosen something less obvious, but I became anxious when I started to hold up the line with my indecision.
Then I happened to find it - a nail salon, tucked away in the middle of the block, small but simple and chic. That's what I'd do! I'd get a manicure as if I were just popping by on my lunch break from Galleries Lafayette. It occurred to me that I could ask for a French manicure, and I chuckled to myself at the dorkiness of it. Surely only a tourist would make such a request.
Tentatively I stepped inside, hoping they would accommodate a non-French speaker. Luckily there are only a few options at a nail salon, so after offering up my hands they got the idea.
"Manicure?" the woman asked in English. Whew. "How about a French manicure?"
I smiled and nodded. How sweet of her to humor me.
There were no other customers in the shop, just the two women running the place. They looked to me to be related, perhaps sisters, but maybe they just shared that lovely grace that French women seem to have. I was directed to a small table by one of the women while the other straightened up and fluffed pillows in the reception area. My nails were trimmed, soaked and buffed. My cuticles were softened in a bowl of warm lotion. The actual process was no different than any other, except that it seemed much more glamorous because I was in Paris. Finally came the polish, applied expertly with a deft stroke of white across the tip, the hallmark of a perfect French manicure.
The women chatted in their native tongue as I sat smiling. A picture window provided the perfect vantage point for viewing the bustle of the morning. Across the street, a woman appeared in the doorway of a dress shop. Her presence immediately grabbed the attention of the two women and they looked up and exchanged knowing glances with one another. They obviously had an opinion about her. The shop woman emerged with a large bucket and proceeded down the sidewalk. Reaching the curb, she poured out the entire bucket of, presumably, water. It seemed innocent enough to me, but the action prompted gasps from both women, who then set off on a whirlwind of chatter and accusing grimaces. Clearly she had done something completely unacceptable, and I doubt it had much to do with a bucket of water. Oo la la, French gossip!
The women continued on, clucking and whispering with hushed urgency. Every now and again they would nod at me as if to say, "Can you believe that woman?" I would look back and give them a reassuring nod. Meanwhile, I hadn't understood a word, but the tone was all that was needed.
My manicure complete, I stood to leave and expressed appreciation with my best "Merci." So maybe I didn't speak French, and maybe I wasn't really a local, but I had been privy that day to the neighborhood rivalries and jealousies that are present the world over. I headed out the door, admiring my nails. And as I passed by the other woman I gave her a suspicious stare - just for good measure.
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