Serenity, No

I had two experiences this week that were supposed to bring a bit more tranquility to my fast-paced, jet-setting, ultra-urban life (ha ha), but left me feeling a bit deflated and more than a bit cheated.

France may be more expensive these days due to the low value of the dollar against the euro, but some things are just plain cher. Sodas at restaurants shockingly cost over 4 euros. Apparently McDonald’s is in a higher price bracket than in the States, even without the conversion rate. The price of gas is clearly a global crisis, but to put things into perspective, in France it costs roughly double the price in America (when taking the conversion rate into account). And as if those things weren’t enough, we can now add mani-pedi’s to the list of Egregiously Expensive Things.

I’ve been wanting to get a pedicure for months, but I’ve been told by many a femme how pricey they are here – over 30 euros. That’s crazy. I’ve never paid more than $15 for a pedicure, even at a relatively nice nail salon. The other day when I was walking around the Opera district, from one client’s office to another’s, I was utterly delighted to come across a nail salon that boasted a 15 euro beauté de pieds on the price list hanging in the shop window. I couldn’t believe my good fortune to have found the one good deal in town! What suckers all those other ladies must be, paying over 30 euros for a pedi. Ha! I poked my head into the place and quickly asked if the listed price of 15 was indeed for a pedicure. Getting an affirmative response, I dashed out to make it to my client on time and resolved to return later that afternoon.

I did just that, got a lovely pedicure, and was super relaxed from this rare moment of pampering. But then it was time to pay. “Quinze euro, c’est ça?” I asked at the register. “Ah, non, madame, ça fait quarante six.” Cue the Bernard Herrmann screeching violins. My jaw dropped. “Comment?” I said, to clarify that I had indeed heard her say 46 and I wasn’t imagining it. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a hallucination. She then went on to explain that because I don’t have a membership at the nail salon, the cost of a pedicure for us peons is actually 36 euros. Plus, getting your toes painted with polish costs another 10 euros. OH.MY.GOD. I have entered the fifth dimension. And apparently the laugh’s on me--who’s the sucker now?

But wait--I received some fishy information. I had, after all, been told that the price was 15. Although I rushed out right after getting this information, the employee, at the time, had pulled the oldest page in the book of French illogical behavior: don’t give any more information than what someone has asked for. As I didn’t think of the remote (and, quite frankly, ridiculous) possibility that there was member and non-member pricing, I didn’t ask about it, and therefore, she didn’t consider telling me. (Believe me, this is typical and part of it is because the French don’t want to insult your intelligence by giving you information you may already know; the other part of it is, as I’ve indicated in the past, many of them just can’t be bothered to “draw outside the lines.” But I digress.) If I had known the true cost, I would've never come back and spent nearly two hours of my life gearing up for the priciest pedi imaginable.

In situations like these, when you have been clearly misled or swindled, it’s time to put on your game face and aggressively pursue some consumer justice. Many expat friends who’ve lived here much longer than I have advised that if such situations arise, and if you don’t have the French vocabulary to voice your grievance, just start going off in English. Loudly. With a vengeance. That’s what I should’ve done, but a) I was so shocked at the reality unfolding before me, b) I was exhausted from a super long day of teaching and couldn’t muster the energy to go ballistic, and c) inconveniently forgot the English tirade advice and instead used my meager French. Big mistake. Without the requisite amount of righteous anger and accurate language, I was no match for the manicure mafia—all seven employees got super defensive and claimed that blah blah blah blah blah. There was some back and forth, and in the end all I got was a discount for a future pedi. Big friggin’ whoop. I stormed out of the place, livid at them for their chicanery and absurd price points and at myself for not putting up more of a fight (how do you say 'pushover' in French?). If there’s a next time, WATCH OUT. At least my toes look fabulous.

The next day, I decided to finally check out the yoga class offered at my gym. In truth, I had low expectations to begin with. I assumed there would be no chanting in Hindi, no meditation, no “Namaste”-ing. Fine. I assumed the type of crowd to attend a yoga class at a gym would be nowhere near the level of hardcore practitioners I was familiar with in my past yoga days. Fine. So it wouldn’t be the warm, fuzzy, SF-style yoga group hug I was used to, but then again I hadn’t done yoga regularly for years and I was happy just to run through the poses and get back into it.

I was right about the lack of spirituality. The teacher went straight into breathing and sun salutations. Not a whisper of Hindi was spoken. He didn’t guide us through the final relaxation exercise; we just kind of lay there. Throughout the hour, you could hear the soft thumping of the cheesey techno music coming from the main exercise room adjacent to the studio (good luck trying to completely relax yourself!). I found that I missed all the regular spiritual trappings of a yoga class, but, fine, whatever, I could do without it this time. Just happy to be doing yoga at all. However, as I was really rusty, I really would’ve appreciated some support from the teacher. He did nothing but talk us through the poses and model them somewhat. He walked around the room but not once did he ever adjust anyone’s warrior pose or assist people to get into a shoulder stand. I’d made lots of assumptions about what this class would be missing, but the one thing I had thought for sure was that the teacher would do what I consider to be the bare minimum of teaching—that is, to help the students! Guess not. I didn’t feel as bilked as I had at the nail place, but I felt cheated in a different way. Even though it had some positive physical results, it was the most soulless, uneducational yoga class ever. At least I was semi-prepared for the possibility.

The real punch line came at the very end of the class, after we’d climbed out of our pseudo-meditative corpse poses and started gathering our things. The teacher turned to one of the students (probably a regular) and in his best kvetchy tone, started whining about how annoyed he was with his job and how much he had to work (OK, ‘soulless’ really is the mantra at this yoga class). And his anti-work comment was an amusing reminder that not only am I at a yoga class at a gym, but I’m at a yoga class at a gym in France.