This past weekend, whilst returning from a visit to see a friend in Heidelberg, Deutschland, I stopped off in Sarreguemines, France. If you’ve never heard of Sarreguemines… well, that’s normal. Most French people don’t even know where that is. I, however, had the pleasure of living in this quaint (meaning relatively boring) little town in the Moselle (the northeastern département of the region of Lorraine, which you might have heard of in the context of Alsace-Lorraine, the two regions historically slutted back and forth between France and Germany) for seven months during the 2004-2005 academic year. At the lycée Jean de Pange, I worked as an English teaching assistant, which primarily consisted of staring at little French bastards thinking about how I could never possibly be a teacher.
If in Paris people say that I’m a foreigner and speak to me in English, that wasn’t the case in Sarreguemines. After realizing I wasn’t a Frenchy, people would start speaking to me in German. You might think this has something to do with my height or blondness, but my students had names such as Lutz, Mueller, and such ridiculously long Germanonames as Wingenheimerschulenbach. That’s a little bit of an exaggeration… a little.
To better explain Sarreguemines’ proximity to Germany, I frequently recount that I would walk from my apartment down a hill, over a bridge, around a corner, and across another small bridge to go to Hanweiler, Germany. Why would I make this relatively frequent pilgrimage to a German town even less exciting than Sarreguemines? ZIGARETTEN!
In Germany, a pack of cigarettes is cheaper than in France. In Germany, for the same price essentially as a pack of 20 cigarettes, you can get a big pack of 24. I realize this isn’t that impressive, but when you’re living on a meager monthly stipend, you try to cut corners (although not quitting smoking, evidently). If that means walking a kilometer to get to another country, so be it.
I have fond memories of what I’ve always called the Cigarette Shanty. It was a tiny white building resembling an outhouse. It sat there just west of the bridge, upon which you could see two signs, one indicating you had left Sarreguemines and one that you had entered Hanweiler. The fact that you had just crossed an international border was in no way recognized.
From what others told me in the smoking teacher’s lounge (which still existed back in 04-05), people drove from far and wide to stock up on slightly cheaper cigarettes at this tiny little shanty, which inevitably was the busiest enterprise in Hanweiler, Germany.
Upon my visit, I told my friend I was gonna walk over to Germany real quick to visit my old cig shanty. I made it to the bridge and walked across. The door to the cig shanty was closed, dead-bolted. “What’s going on,” I asked myself. I walked across the street to a newer, bigger shanty with a sign reading: TABAK – BISTRO. I walked in and purchased an Orangina and a pack of ciggies. The man behind the counter didn’t even bother speaking to me in German. He bust straight into French. It was an odd sensation to be taken for a Frenchy. I was somewhat disappointed, as this would prove an opportunity to practice my (now ever-fading) German.
It was, after all, at the Zigarette Shanty that I had my first encounters with German. At the time, I lived with two Germans, so it was actually at home that I learned my first random words in German – pot holder, hot pad, apple, juice, bitch, whore, asshole… I remember my first time visiting the shanty. I was so nervous I wouldn’t know what to say, but my roommate assured me all I’d have to say was, “Ein Big Pack Marlboro Lights bitte.” It was so easy. Eventually, I’d add in niceties, like “Hallo,” “Vielen Dank,” and “Tschüss.” As my German got better, I also found myself explaining to the Sarregueminois more and more in German that I didn’t speak Germany, which was confusing.
Anyway, I returned to my friend’s house from my little walksy and recounted to her (a teacher with whom I once worked and chatted daily in the salle de prof fumeur) the cigarette shanty not being open. Her response broke my little heart. It had closed… forever. The bigger, newer, fancier Cigarette House had won out, causing the shanty to go out of business. However, the remains of my shanty still sit there, a reminder of simpler days gone by, of a time when French folk only required four shoddily constructed walls and a tin roof to exploit transnational pricing differences in tobacco products. I guess that’s how the world works. Build a bigger building and add some cheap booze and German nudey mags, and people forget all the cheap cigarettes that good-ole shanty had brought them…
Well, here’s to you, ZigShanty. Vielen Dank. Tschüss.