Le Home Depot

Roberto visits the French hardware store

Once we had the basic household furnishings in place—plates, silverware, cookware, bedding—there were a few handyman tasks that needed to be done. Since I’m the architect and contractor these jobs fall on me. There were curtain rods to mount, a water filter to install for the refrigerator’s ice maker, and we needed to buy a ladder. How was I going to put up curtain rods or change light bulbs on a four meter high (12 feet) ceiling with no ladder? I also needed a few basic tools: hammer, power drill/driver, drill bits, wrenches. This meant a trip to the hardware store, which was exciting for me; I love a hardware store!

A Google search revealed that there was a big box store called Brico Depôt in the neighboring town of Lattes. The word bricolage was already familiar because I had purchased a measuring tape and a few screwdrivers at the neighborhood hardware store called M(onsieur) Bricolage (it was like a small True Value hardware store in the US). I thought bricolage meant hardware, but the dictionary translated it as “DIY.”

The tram ride was as easy as I expected, and after disembarking, I quickly found a bike/foot path that was heading in the right direction. It only took about fifteen minutes to walk from the station to the store, but the sun was bright and I was sweating a little by the time I got to Brico Depôt.

First things first. I desperately needed to find the rest room. After searching unsuccessfully along the perimeter of the store, I asked an employee in my quiet, nervous French, “Pardon, monsieur. Où sont les toilettes?”

“Alléz à allée dix-huit,” he replied pleasantly, pointing towards the edge of the store. Hmm— I must have walked right past it. Now swelling with pride because I had understood his French (or maybe that was just my bladder), I scurried towards aisle 18. No bathroom sign, no door of any kind. Gahhh—it must be here somewhere?! Then I noticed the neat row of toilets lined up along the far end of the aisle, lids up like a row of whooping maws, laughing at my predicament and poor language skills. The nice young employee thought I wanted to buy a new commode! Dammit.

I quickly found another employee and asked for the salle de bains. I was directed to another aisle that turned out to be full of sinks, faucets, and shower stall fittings. AGGGGHHH! I briefly considered returning to allée dix-huit and using one of the floor model toilets.

No. That was the urgency talking. I decided to ask a cashier at the front of the store and if that didn’t work, I’d go outside and find a tree. Fortunately, the cashier spoke English, and she directed me to the entrance foyer where the shopping carts were. Mon dieu! I was never so happy to walk into a public restroom.

Now to find what I’d come for. First, I went to the power tool aisle and surveyed the selection of drill/drivers. There were probably fifteen options and the only brands I recognized were Stanley and Bosch. Bosch has a decent reputation, but I knew I wanted a brushless motor (it’s newer, longer-lasting technology and delivers more torque) so I bought the Stanley, which was also the most expensive option. I quickly found an assortment of twist drill bits suitable for masonry (our apartment has stone walls) and a set of driver bits for different types of screws.

The hand tool aisle was disappointing—all the tools were made in China and didn’t feel very sturdy. I hate cheap tools. The US box stores sell a wide variety of hand tools. Most are cheaply made in China, but there are usually a few high-quality made in USA or made in Germany options. Not so here. I picked out a basic pair of needle nose pliers, and a box cutter and figured I’d bring some of my tools from home on our next trip.

The store was impressively neat and organized with the selections for each aisle mounted to a peg board up high, each with a prominent number that corresponded to a numbered bin below. The employees were buzzing like bees keeping everything tidy and in the right place. In the US any hardware store aisle with small parts is a festival of misplaced, jumbled up goods. I can’t count the number of times I thought I was buying (say) a handful of 5/16” x 1-1/4” lag screws only to get home and find that two of them were 1/4” x 1-1/2” because someone had replaced things carelessly.

I paid for all my merchandise and went outside to call an Uber. I was carrying two heavy bags full of bulky merchandise and a two meter tall aluminum ladder. Walking back to the train station was not a realistic option. Unfortunately, Uber in France doesn’t allow you to request a large car or SUV—you get what you get. My heart sank as the compact Toyota Corolla pulled up. The driver was shaking his head “no” as he spied my ladder and rolled down his window. I remembered one of the lessons from The Bonjour Effect: the French often start with Non, but can be brought around to Oui with a logical argument, politely delivered. I quickly typed into the google translate app and showed him the screen.

He shrugged, tilted his head to the side, and said “Ok.” Logic and politeness win the day! He opened the trunk and loaded the long ladder into the back of the car along with my two big bags. The top of the ladder overhung the front passenger seat and was denting the roof liner of his immaculate new car—I got in quickly, and he drove me home. What was my solid argument, politely delivered, you ask?

Maybe this wasn’t the elegant argument the authors of The Bonjour Effect had in mind, but I felt no shame as I got out of the car and tipped him €20 for the 7km ride; I was home with my new tools and had avoided boarding a tram with a seven foot ladder.

Jusqu’à la prochaine fois (until next time),

Carolyn & Roberto

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