The Sweet Life in Paris: Delicious Adventures in the World's Most Glorious - and Perplexing - City by David Lebovitz

to scoot in front. One that seems to be the most popular is to wear a small backpack. Those fall into the dreaded fanny pack category for me, so my chosen weapon to defend my turf around town is something that’s easier to wield: the shopping basket.
    My basket is wider than I am, with an imposing handle that I can spin to block anyone coming at me from any angle. When navigating a busy market, I hold it in front of me as I walk, like the prow of a battleship, to clear the way. That doesn’t always work, as Parisians don’t like to move or back up for anyone, no matter what. So sometimes I hide my basket behindme, then heave it forward at the last moment; the element of surprise gives them no time to plan a counteroffensive, and when the coast is suddenly clear, I make a break for it. It’s best used, though, when waiting in line, since it makes a movable barricade that I can manipulate and position, halting even the most tenacious
risquilleur
in his or her tracks.
    Unless you’re pretty courageous or your French is exceptional, don’t try anger. I caused an incident when a woman abruptly cut in front of me in line at Tati, our low-end department store. When she refused to budge, I muttered
“salope”
which, although technically the same word Americans use for a female dog, in France, it’s the equivalent of the c-word for women. I suppose that’s the price I pay for an imperfect French vocabulary. As she let loose on me, loud enough for everyone on the same floor to hurry over to check out the commotion, I certainly learned a few other new, and not very nice, words that day.
    I don’t recommend humor, either, which Parisians don’t seem to get. I once turned around and told the Frenchman of
un certain âge
, old enough to be my grandfather, who was nudging me forward from behind,
“Pardon?
But don’t you think you ought to buy me a drink first?” My humor was wasted on him, and he just blankly looked at me. Or maybe he was too cheap to spring for the drink.
    Even more fun when people start to push me from behind, as they inevitably like to do. I’ll slowly start backing up…taking a little step…hesitating a moment…then taking another backward. There’s no sound more satisfying than listening to the grumbling of people collapsing together behind me like a squashed accordion. You can keep your visits to the Louvre or the Eiffel Tower—this is one of my favorite things to do in Paris!
    Since wheeled shopping carts are the favored weapon of those fragile little old ladies (who you’ll find aren’t really so fragile if you happen to get in their way), Parisians have developed an instinctive fear of
le chariot de marché.
I’ve taken a cue from them and transformed mine into a demarcation line between me and others. If they want to cross it, they risk an inadvertent roll across the foot, followed by a
very
sincere
“Oh! Excusezmoi!”
But at least I have the courtesy to feign regret: those women would bulldoze a blind, legless invalid if he were in their path.

    After living here a while, I didn’t see any reason why I should have to wait in line behind anyone else either. So I trained my eye on Romain, who’s the pro. I watched him at work, sliding between everyone waiting patiently for their onions or Camembert, and soon joined the ranks of
les risquilleurs
myself. I now cut in line with impunity with no regard for others. And can I tell you how much time I’ve saved? So with all the free time I seem to have now, there’s nothing to keep me from passing on my tips to others.
    First off, you need to know
exactly
what you want to buy. When you’ve barged in front of others, it’s not the time for uncertainty. If you falter or hesitate or have a question, you’re sunk.
    Knowing the vendor helps a lot. But being French, they’ll want to chat with you. Be prepared with a few quick words, but don’t go overboard. Here, the typical “Ça va?” which can translate into either “Hey!” or “How’s