Yesterday, at Zara:

- Hi! I’d like to return this blouse.

- Hold on, let me get my manager.

Manager (with a look of disgust on her perfectly made-up face):

- We can’t take this back.

- Errrr… why? I’ve never used it, it stayed in the bag, the tags are on it, the receipt is there.

- That’s exactly the problem. You kept it in the bag. You’re not allowed to do that. Now it’s wrinkled.

- You’re saying you won’t let me return it because it’s wrinkled?

- That’s exactly what I’m saying. I think I’m being very clear.

- Have you ever heard of a steamer?

- We don’t have one. I’m supposed to put this back on the shelves? How dare you bring this back wrinkled?

- Um. How about I iron it at home and bring it back? Then it’s ok?

- No. Not if you put it back in the bag. Because then it’s wrinkled.

- Of course. That makes perfect sense.

(There is a happy ending to this: I returned the blouse to another Zara just a few blocks away. This is one of so many incidents in French customer service that make me think I haven’t quite grasped the art of French communication just yet).

I’m sure everyone says this but what I miss the most about NY are the bagels. No, scratch that, I miss EVERYTHING: the cupcakes, the bagels, the amazing food choices, delivery, cabs, affordable yoga and pilates, Riverside and Central Park bike paths, Fairway, Trader Joe’s, East River Ferry, Red Hook, Juice Generation, my incredibly solid and diverse group of friends, and hellz yeah, even the weather - because you know what? In the dead of winter, when you’re freakin’ freezing your ass off in NY, it’s still sunny and all you have to do is layer. In France, when it’s cold, it’s also gray and raining and the buildings are gray and the people are gray and they’re FRENCH. Oh so French. Not in a romantic, let me get you eentou bed weez maye Frrrrreeeeench accent French. Just grumpy, rude, and pale because they’re probably all lacking in vitamin D.

Which brings me to bagels. Bagels have become a craze here. It’s trendy to say “I’m grabbing a bagel for lunch” - or better yet - they get bagels for dinner. But they have no concept of what a bagel really is. As usual with everything here (and there will be more posts on this later), the French pick up on what they think is a trend years later and mess it up. Or try to make it FRENCH. 

I am currently in Lyon, where tons of bagel shops have been popping up over the years (some of them selling exotic imported goods, such as, say, a box of Lucky Charms for 11 euro), and where there is absolutely no fresh-made dough for bagels or homemade cream cheese. The fabulous assortment of bagels vary from sesame to - wait for it - you’re going to fall off your chair - poppy seed, and if they’re not smearing a paper-thin layer of PHILADELPHIA cream cheese on a frozen, toasted bagel and calling it a day, they’re trying to make it into a French sandwich with chèvre cheese, sun dried tomatoes and an assortment of Italian or French ham. Which I actually can appreciate - as long as I look at it as a French sandwich, and not as my beloved New York bagel.