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I’m a White Woman, We’re TERRIBLE
Karens are just the whipped cream topping of the iced low-fat soy latte with two pumps of sugar free vanilla syrup.
Late one Parisian afternoon wearing oversized sunglasses and a designer dress I walked from the Paris metro station nearby to the Opera House to join the other tourists posing in front of the historic façade riddled with the statues and names of deceased composers and take my own pictures for Instagram. Having finished I strolled slowly down the avenue passing the many expensive boutiques selling expensive brand name clothing, jewellery, and occasionally chocolates.
Deciding I wanted to journal I wafted into, not a local café or proper coffee house in the European style, but a Starbucks and ordered in French so openly terrible that the cashier rolled his eyes at me and replied in English, a grande java chip frappuccino. I found myself embarrassed, not by my failure to speak the local language but that the young woman in front of me in line, slender, lithe, and likely a ballet student had only ordered water while I was waiting for an absurd sugary drink.
Having received my drink — and the barista handed it directly to me evidently warned that my French was not suitable for even the shortest conversation — I noted that yet again, my name had been…
