Parisians take their pharmacies seriously. This is not a place to grab a magazine or an inexpensive tube of lipstick or a Twix bar or a Swiffer or whatever you forgot to pick up at the grocery store. Pharmacies in France focus on dispensing medicine, skin care advice, and beauty products, not necessarily in that order. (Also, umbrellas. The moment the rains appear, so do les parapluies, at the checkout counter of every pharmacy in Paris.)
In the final throes of packing for our move, hours before we were supposed to leave for the airport, my suitcase wouldn’t zip. I had to choose: the Nespresso pods and the power adapters, or the toiletries and cosmetics? I chose poorly, mes amies. My first morning in Paris, I realized I had no Nespresso machine for the pods, very few outlets for the adapters, and no moisturizer, shampoo, nail polish remover, deodorant, or soap. So I searched for pharmacies on my phone and found three nearby. The first pharmacy I walked by was closed. The second was the size of a closet. The third was bigger (about 750 square feet) and looked more promising. Did I go in? I did not.
Have you ever done a party drive-by? You know the drill: there’s a party to which you’ve been invited, and which you plan to attend, but when you drive by the party you just can’t bring yourself to go in. When you see the lights on inside, the people milling about, you think about what the party will require: the small talk, the remembering of names, the polite conversations about various kinds of sports-ball. You imagine walking through the party, ending up alone by the food table, struggling with the cheese platter. Eventually, having had your fill of tiny things on toothpicks, with no trash can in sight, you will start stuffing toothpicks down your bra, and that never ends well. So you don’t go in.
This is what happened at the pharmacy. Well, not exactly that. On the first day, I walked by briskly, as though the pharmacy was not even on my mind and I could not be bothered to glance in. On the second day, I walked by slowly, peering in through the open door. On the third day, I gathered my nerve and went it. By this point I had no choice. I’d been bathing with dish soap and using my son’s deodorant, which is marketed to teenaged boys and promisingly called Swagger, and I was tired of smelling like clean dishes and a young man who, you know, swaggers.
As I began shyly browsing the shelves, a beautiful woman on a ladder looked down at me and asked me something in French. I think she was asking if she could help, so I proceeded to tell her in broken French that I needed moisturizer. “Anglais?” she replied.
“Oui, desole.”( In Paris, I find myself constantly apologizing for not speaking the language, but I’ve also found that people are incredibly nice if you just make a bit of effort. You’ve heard it before, but I’ve really found it to be true: no one seems to mind if you can’t speak French, as long as you know enough words to get the conversation started, and as long as you try.)
“Anti-age?” she asked. She said it in such a helpful, genuine way. Imagine Sephora, and then imagine the opposite. You know how, at Sephora, you go in to buy a tube of mascara and the sales associate greets you with, “You must be looking for something for redness, fine lines, dry hair, large pores, deep wrinkles, dullness, and general bad attitude? Come with me.” And you walk out $300 poorer with a clownish makeover and a sack full of products you’ll never use, many of them involving sponges and complicated spray nozzles that always spray in the wrong direction.
No, this was the opposite. The beautiful French woman came down from the ladder and started to show me products she thought I might enjoy. She had me sample them. She had me smell them. She asked a lot of questions I couldn’t understand, and I replied with weird, mostly irrelevant hand gestures that do not translate in any language. Occasionally I said, “Oui!” or “Vraiment!” just to show I was trying. She was in no hurry. Even though she’d been busily stocking shelves when I arrived, she appeared to have all the time in the world to devote to me. She began with Caudalie and worked her way up. When we got to a pretty little glass jar that cost 178 euros, I whispered, “Je pense, peut-être, trop cher,” and we went back to the Caudalie.*
Of course, I set off alarms as I was leaving the store. I seem to do this everywhere I go, in both America and Paris. The clerk waved me back in and went through my bag and noticed she’d forgotten to take the plastic tag off of one of my purchases. She laughed and sent me on my way. When I went back a few days later, the same thing happened. I’d think it was a French conspiracy, except that I recently bought a pair of jeans online from Madewell back home, and the jeans arrived with the big plastic tag still attached to the waistband. Plastic retail tags find me. They stay with me. I can’t explain it.
*Culture tip: According to indispensable guide to French language and culture, The Bonjour Effect, French people love to complain about the cost of things. It’s accepted and sometimes even expected to try to find bargains, and okay to talk about it, because being flashy and ostentatious is considered bad taste. Quality shoes? Definitely. A small Chanel handbag? Certainly. A handbag emblazoned with logos, especially the LV so ubiquitous in America? Non! (In upscale Paris neighborhoods, only tourists carry Louis Vuitton bags, although you’ll see a lot of them at Paris Disney, which I totally do not admit visiting). Our Uber driver on the way to Costco (which I also do not admit visiting in search of an air conditioner) excitedly told us about La Vallée Village, an outlet mall near Paris, where one can find back-to-school clothing at fifty percent off, “because in France everyone has this problem,” he said, the problem being finding reasonably priced kids’ clothing.
Further reading:
10 French cosmetic brands you should know, via culturetrip.com
19 phrases locals to use to say “expensive” and “cheap” in French, via FrenchTogether.com
And now, for the promotional part of the post (stop reading if you’re not into cosmetics…)
Here’s what I snagged at the pharmacy (in addition to un parapluie). You’ll find many of these products mentioned in any article about classic French beauty brands. One thing I love about French beauty brands is that the EU has tighter regulations about what chemicals can go into cosmetics, so the products tend to be more environmentally friendly and made with natural ingredients. They also have less fragrance, so you don’t walk out of your house in the morning smelling like you slept on a bed of bad potpourri (then again, is there a difference between good potpourri and bad potpourri?)
Caudalie night infusion cream/ Resveratrol creme cache mire redensifiante – This is an overnight cream with resveratrol. It felt richer than my usual retinol cream and didn’t irritate my skin. When I woke up the next morning my skin really did look different–a bit glowy and rested. It could be the cream, or it could be that I finally had a decent night’s sleep. At any rate, I expect I’ll continue using it, because my husband, who is allergic to just about everything, didn’t start sneezing.
Price: $65 – $69 at the time of this writing
Buy Caudalie night cream on Amazon Buy Caudalie night cream at Dermastore
Nuxe dry oil / Nuxe Huile Prodigieuse – I had to toss my Moroccan Argan oil on the day we left California, so I was delighted to find this inexpensive oil that can be used on hair, skin, and cuticles. I always add a few drops of oil to my body moisturizer morning and night, and Nuxe will be my new go-to. The first time I used it, I went for a walk in the park later in the day and noticed a wonderful, light scent. I thought it was something in the park, but then I realized that the scent followed me out of the park and all the way home. That’s when I realized it was the Nuxe oil. The air in Paris has been extremely dry, so I rub a couple of drops into the ends of my hair after washing. Price: 14 euros for 1.6 oz. In the US: $38 for 3.3 oz on Amazon
Bioderma Créaline H2O Solution Micellaire – I first started noticing ads for micellar cleansing pads in the U.S. last year. I bought some and was unimpressed. A 500 ml bottle of this cleansing water that every French beauty blog praises was about 8 euros. You just soak a cotton pad with the fragrance-free solution and then press it against your eyelids to remove eye makeup (although you won’t be wearing much eye make-up in France–more on that in another post). Swab it over your face to remove makeup and dirt. That’s all the cleanser you need before applying your moisturizer. If you’re in the U.S., you can find an impressive range of Bioderma products at Walmart. Price 9 euros per bottle, or in the US, about $18 per bottle at Walmart or $14.90 per bottle at Amazon.
Bioderma Serum / Bioderma Hydrabio – Sérum concentré hydratant – I’d been using Boots No. 7 serum for years. Although I first discovered it on a trip to the UK, it’s available in the U.S. at Target and Walgreens. It goes on silky smooth and is very light. My Boots went in the trash with my moroccan argan oil, so I wanted an inexpensive new serum to get me by until I figure out what French products work best for me. The pharmacist recommended Bioderma, and I’ll be sticking with this one. It’s light, silky, and has no noticeable scent. On days when you don’t need sunscreen, this serum is all you need for moisturizer. Price 13 euros In the US $24 on Amazon or $59 for two, at Walmart
Klorane shampooing nutritive et reparateur / Klorane shampoo – I’ve seen Klorane shampoo mentioned everywhere, so I decided to try it. Klorane shampoo comes in several different formulas for different hair types. Living on the Bay Area peninsula, surrounded on three sides by water, accustomed to the fog, I’d forgotten how hard dry air is on the hair. I also bought the corresponding Klorane conditioner. Price 11 euros each In the US $20 per bottle on Amazon or $15 per bottle at Walmart
Klorane dry shampoo – I’m a big fan of dry shampoos and have been using Amika dry shampoo ever since I discovered it through Birchbox about three years ago. Vogue editors and other American beauty magazines frequently recommend Klorane dry shampoo, so I thought I’d give it a try. I didn’t bring a blow dryer to France with me because mine wouldn’t work with French outlets, and I haven’t bothered to buy one yet. Anyway, in Paris, the preferred look for hair is always natural–nothing over-styled, sprayed, bleached, or obviously blown out. Since I don’t want to wait for my hair to dry in the morning before I go out, I wash it before bed and then spritz a little dry shampoo on the roots in the morning. This gives you a tousled, natural look (at least, that’s what I’m telling myself). By the by, I remember when U.S. magazines used to talk about “French hair,” as if it French women obtained magically sexy hair by washing it only once or twice a week. That’s a myth. Parisian women don’t walk around with dirty hair! The look is undone, not unwashed. Klorane does the trick: it’s has a fresh, light scent and disappears instantly. Price: 16 euros. In the US: $20 on Amazon
If you’re visiting Paris, skip it or try it? Yes, I’d definitely recommend a trip to a French pharmacy. It only takes a few minutes, and it’s an easy way to experience a slice of everyday French life and bring home something you’ll actually use. Consumables make the best souvenirs.
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