Tim realized our last day in Paris that he was one pair of socks short. So, based on the theory that you can never have too many socks, he decided to go ahead and buy a pair.
As luck would have it, there was a men's clothing store nearby named Old England. Perfect. In we went and began the great sock seach.
We found shoes, suits, shirts and pants. Sweaters, scarves (in June?!), scented candles (cucumber, melon and vanilla...hmmm curiouser and curiouser), body lotion and spray (lavender and rose...apparently, French men are very secure in their masculinity. It must be all those years of eating quiche.). Everything a man could want, except socks.
Spying a clerk, Tim asked (in English, which seemed a safe bet in a store named after the mother of all English speaking countries) where he could find men's dress socks. Blank look.
He lifted his pant leg, pointed to his sock, and repeated the request. Semi-blank look, but the guy directed us downstairs, where we repeated the whole process with a different clerk. He directed us upstairs.
Clearly, the pantomime method was not working.
As I dug in my purse for our dictionary, Tim tried again with yet another clerk. "Socks," he bellowed, his patience at an end, contorting himself into a strange yogaesque pose.
His antics were rewarded with a puzzled look as the woman backed slowly away and tried to surreptitiously signal for security.
"Chaussettes!" I interspersed before the woman could direct us downstairs again where I would have to watch Tim melt like one of those sixty dollar melon candles.
"Ah." A tentative smile lit her face as she cautiously stepped around Tim. Keeping an eye warily on him, she led us to a counter where she proceeded to unearth an array of men's dress socks from various drawers and compartments.
Success at last! As Tim sorted through the socks, I couldn't help thinking how glad I was that he hadn't run out of underwear!
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