A funny thing happened as I left the Chalabre pharmacie the other day. It took awhile before it hit me what the pharmacist had said. When I related the story to some friends at the marche gourmande last night in Leran, Doug commented, "This would never happen in America". He's probably right.
Earlier in the week we had stopped by a pharmacie in Mirepoix to inquire about getting our prescriptions filled. I was told that my medication wasn't sold in France, which puzzled me (as most things here do) because last January I purchased the same med a few km away in Chalabre. So, a few days later I took my pill bottle to Chalabre and the young lady said it would be ready "apres midi" or, in the afternoon. I told her I would be back the next day.
We stopped in Chalabre on the way to our French lesson Thursday, and a gentleman sadly informed me once again, "Apres midi". I suppose my disappointed face combined with, "Je habite en Leran," indicated that I really didn't want to make yet another trip. When I said Leran, however, his eyes lit up, and I caught the words, "Je mange a marche gourmande" accompanied by the universal sign language of eating and a huge smile. Still not certain where this was going, he said in English, "I bring".
There are several hundred people at the marche gourmande, everyone milling around. By the time things settle down, it is getting dark. How was I ever supposed to connect with someone I barely recognized, whose name I didn't know, never set a time to meet or left a phone number? All I remember saying to him was, "Le Leran Bar? D'accord!"
We were sitting at a table at the Leran Bar laughing about me making my drug deal right there on Cours St. Jacques, when, as if he were wearing a pink lycra suit I picked him out of the pack headed our way. Just like in the movies, I grabbed my dossier, handed it to him, he passed off the goods and with a profound "merci" I was on my way. Never, never in America.