in which cari meets her (cultural) limits

I tend to think that, after several years living abroad, I have become a more open, accepting individual when it comes to foreign cultures.  I've learned to stop judging things like eating rabbit brains or the fact that the grocery store closes at 8, to stop seeing these things as signs of being behind the times and to start accepting them as valid and integral parts of a culture that is, ultimately, no better or worse than my own.

But a few days ago, I found the limit to my zen-cultural-openness attitude.  To set the scene:  my parents are visiting, and with their friends they decided to go up the eiffel tower.  Having been up the eiffel tower approximately 49 times, I decided to skip out, meaning I have an hour and a half to kill.  The tickle in my throat from earlier in the day is becoming a full-on nasty sore throat, and it's windy out.  I head straight for the first bistro on the corner to get a cup of tea.

This being France, there is a pharmacy on the corner opposite the bistro. (In France, there are more pharmacies than traffic lights.  It's their version of Starbucks.)  I thank good fortune and head in, to get something for my throat.  

In France, there's really no such thing as over-the-counter medicines, in the sense that you have to ask the pharmacist for everything, even throat lozenges.  (As you might imagine, this bars any discretion in delicate situations. On the other hand, my father once convinced a French pharmacist to give him penicillin without a prescription.  The power of the French pharmacist has its pros and cons.) 

So I walk up to the counter and explain that I have a terrible sore throat, and that I need strong lozenges and possibly some ibuprofen.  The pharmacist replies "The best thing for a sore throat is a suppository.  It's the strongest and most efficient treatment."  She looks at me matter-of-factly.  She has experience offering suppositories to Americans.  She already knows what's coming.

I concentrate on keeping my eyelids and eyebrows in a relatively normal position while I ponder the efficiencies of suppositories for a sore throat.  My italian roommate in Spain (a young, pretty, Versace-wearing Sicilian) used to expound the glory of the suppository for every kind of malady, but I, in my cultural-insensitivity, thought the idea bizarre and outdated (given the advanced state of development of, um, PILLS) and pretty much made fun of her.  Standing in front of the pharmacist, I found that certain parts of my judgmental, no-way-I'm-trying-that attitude have not changed at all since my arrival in Europe.  I tell her that actually, my throat isn't that bad, I take some lozenges, and leave.