#3 Supermarkets In Malls

   Cruising through the mall window shopping.  Men's clothing store, women's clothing boutique, perfume and cosmetics store, book store, shoe store, lingerie store, fine chocolate shop, grocery store, jewelry store.  Wait, grocery store?

   On my second day in Noisy-le-Grand, France, I was asked by my soon to be hubby if I would like to go grocery shopping.  'You bet!' was my enthusiastic response, as I love grocery shopping, and was excited to see what discoveries there were to be made in my new country's stores. So, off we went.

    Grabbing a shopping cart outside the large, plain-looking building we'd parked outside of that didn't look anything at all like a supermarket, I pushed it through the door that future hubby opened ahead of me.  And found myself (to my horror ) in a mall.

   And not your typical quiet weekday afternoon in small town America type mall. We were amidst a Christmas season sized throng of bustling, smartly dressed shoppers though it was in the middle of August. With embarrassment, feeling out of place, I managed to follow him, maneuvering the unwieldy cart through the masses wondering why on earth we were in a mall if we were supposed to be going grocery shopping.

   We hadn't gone too far when I saw to my relief a grocery store looming up ahead. We proceeded to wind up and down the isles, filling the cart up with all sorts of amazing, exotic to me goodies.  Just as it seemed we had found all we needed and were ready to go, it was then proposed by future hubby that we head to the upper level of the store.  I followed, at first puzzled, then horrified, at seeing the only way up was by way of a steep automatic revolving ramp!

   Valiantly trying to look as nonchalant as was possible while exhausted with jet-lag and in my Sunday best that included high heels, I held tight to that full cart of groceries and braced myself against it with all my might as discreetly as possible, trying to seem cool and casual. All the while in a flat out panic of in trying to prevent it from rolling backwards down the ramp during the loooonnnng sloooowww ascent.

   Finally making it to the top and feeling triumphant, thinking I had made it look effortless despite the beads of sweat that had formed on my forehead, I looked askance at my companion, expecting acknowledgement of some kind for the feat I'd just accomplished.  But no, he continued on as if it were no big deal.  And indeed, looking around, both the people in front and behind us looked as unconcerned as he by their own ordeal with the ramp.  Cool as a cucumbers. Very french.

   I later learned that the reason no one else's face showed signs of strain was because the cart wheels grab hold of the ramp treads and carry them up without the need to hold them whatsoever. Argh.