Today I finally bit the metaphorical bullet and went to Darty, the French Best Buy, to obtain a replacement camera. After a few minutes spent helplessly gazing over the wide selection of appareils photo, a salesperson sauntered over to offer assistance. With a sinking heart I realized he was young and attractive-- an excellent candidate for my ongoing and unintentional bid to embarrass myself thoroughly.
"Vuadserjloui'eauxfedsa'qujole'csieu?" said the Darty guy, presumably asking whether or not he could help me.
"Uhh... I have a question... what's the difference between a stablisateur optique and a stablisateur numerique?"
"Lelecsi'edse'rjlouauxfedsaloui anticipates the motion of the subject, maesisfluisoveusrtr."
"Oh. Okay."
He left me alone to puzzle over the feature summaries propped up behind the cameras, which had enough English words in them ("zoom," "pixel," "détection") that I could at least understand the gist. I narrowed it down to two choices, the first being the same model as the one that I lost, which was a good camera overall minus the fact that it had a substandard zoom function and devoured batteries like bonbons. The other contender was substantially more expensive but it was also prettier and had a much longer summary of features-- which are, let's face it, pretty much my sole criteria in buying electronic equipment. Midway through my ponderings, I called Cute Darty Guy back over to clarify whether or not it was necessary to buy the battery and charger separately-- he looked askance and said "no... not at all... where did you read that?" At that point I realized that accessoires furnis probably meant "furnished with these accessories," figuring it out, as usual, minutes too late to preserve an intelligent facade.
The real confusion began at the register, though, when Darty Guy said something else in yet another rapid strain of French (can't he tell I'm a foreigner?? Have a little pity!) and I stared dumbly for a moment and had to admit I didn't understand. He repeated it again, and this time I discerned words like "not included normally" and "good for a year," and realized he was probably trying to offer me an extended warranty. Hoping that I understood correctly, I murmured that no, I was not in need of it. Further confusion arose after I failed to comprehend his inquiry about my preferred mode of payment-- the blank look on my face and credit card clutched in my hand were apparently enough of an answer. "Par carte?" he prompted, eyebrows raised. "Oui," I sighed, ashamed of my inability to answer yet another straightforward question. "Par carte."
Then he wanted my postal code ("Um, in the United States?" "Oh... no.") which necessitated the involvement of a supervisor to enter my nationality in the Darty computer and led to a humorous note on the printed receipt that claimed that I lived on "America Street." The final obstacle was the fact that my American credit cards are notoriously temperamental in France and refused to scan. I must've looked like a shopaholic bimbo by the time I handed over my third one and said, apologetically, "the last time usually works..."
Back at the apartment I found Diane online and told her the tale of my ineptitude.
"I don't think the cute Darty guy will be asking me out for a glass of wine anytime soon," I lamented.
"Of course not," said Diane. "Because you live on America Street, with the rest of the fools."
The moral of this story is that despite a general fear of electronics boutiques and a language barrier made maddeningly more pronounced by my innate aversion to technical jargon, I did manage to select and procure a camera using only my mediocre French and some well-placed moments of stunned silence. As I wished my poor salesman a "bonne soirée" and carried my overpriced purchase out of the store, I decided that another victory had been won. Go ahead and try to steal this one, camera thieves of Europe. I dare you.
Inaugural picture with the new camera!
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