Wrong and wrong

I consider myself a reasonable person most of the time. I can admit when I am wrong and change my actions accordingly. I like to choose my battles, instead of transform my life into a battlefield. But this person I must meet with today baffles me. He is a wealthy man, he is successful, and he has chosen to take issue with a $100 bill for a book. He believes he is not obligated to pay the $25 international shipping and handling charge, and wishes a discounted price for the book.

Perhaps I am being sheepish, not defending my rights enough. But he should pay the bill. I looked on this publisher's websiste, and yes, they were offering a discount for a book on mediation, but that is not what the man ordered! He ordered a book about alternative dispute resolution in general. Not the same thing.

Today, we received an e-mail from the publisher conceding a 20% reduction, but no reduction of shipping charges. Mr PEJ will not be happy, but then again, he never took the time to look at his order confirmation with the important figures listed within, nor does he have the time to pick this sort of ant fight.

This is small stuff, and when it sours people's afternoons, I see no point in arguing. It's a book, they sell, we buy. There bigger fish to fry in the Parisian sea.

Les soldissimes!

These are strange times. "What?" the interrogative spirit may ask. Why, the season of sales in France. Already, I fail to grasp the concept of government-sanctioned sales, but I find myself waiting in front of the Zara store on the Boulevard Haussmann in Paris nonetheless. I had called at 10pm two days before the beginning of the sales to verify that they were indeed opening early. Great, I could get my shopping done before work, and avoid the crowds as well!!

Well--that was what everyone else was thinking. I arrived at Zara at 7:30am, and I was not the first one there. By 8am, the crowds gathered around store entrances such as the Galeries Lafayette and H&M had swelled to nearly 50 at each one. Emotions ran high when the crowd at Zara saw the doors swing open around them, and Zara's remained closed. I felt a little antsy myself.... Finally, at 8:03am, one large metal door swung open, and 50 eager early shoppers squeezed through as the store employee desperately tried to both dodge them and open the second door. As for me, after one quiet push along the edge of the crowd, I was in.

I will admit, I had scoped out the store the weekend before sales to find the items I liked best, but during sales, stores empty their inventory, stuffing the front hangers with clothes. I knew what I wanted, so I quickly spied two skirts, and then darted upstairs to gather the shirts and dress I had chosen the weekend before. All right, I will admit it, I am crazy. But no more so than my fellow clawing, clothing-hungry camarades.

I was also short on time, with only one hour allotted to shopping before beginning work. So much the better, I could have stayed for hours. I ended up with exactly what I wanted, and some things left behind, either because they were not practical, or because i felt low on cash. No matter, it was a rewarding experience. I left Zara exactly one hour later, my small bag full, my list crossed out.

The sales are not over, so I may be back...you can catch me on the Boulevard Haussmann or Les Halles.

Unisex bathrooms

I finally have the chance to live one of those experiences many of us only dream about—unisex restrooms. My office has one. The head partner at my firm is a man, and I think he has a stigma against using the restroom when other people are around. I could understand that, since there are only two other men in the office, and about ten women. All of the awkwardness I imagined comes with sharing a bathroom with ALL of your colleagues was real. I never knew what to say, we would always smile and say hello, and then lock ourselves away for a bit of privacy. You never know who you may run into. My biggest fear certainly was that I would run into the head partner. He is a tall man, quite distinguished, and he knows he makes an imposing figure.

Well, during my second week on the job, it happened. He and the other head partner, a longtime friend, were in the restroom preparing to go out for lunch. I walked in, but by the time I realized who was there it was too late. “Hello PEJ!” I tried to muster cheerily. He smiled at me in that distinguished way, and tried to strike up a conversation! “Oh please no,” I was thinking. “Not here.”

“What do you think the chances are of having an Asian president one day?”

I started my answer succinctly, one sentence. Maybe two. Not any time soon. Not very many Asians gravitate toward a public life. But it was in the bathroom, and I wanted to leave.

So there it is, folks. Unisex bathrooms.