Disorientation

In this foreign land, the locals gape at the American as she saunters by,
Out of her element in front of the French Relay newsstand,
Her style compared to theirs--impressionist at best.

While passing the Galeries Lafayette, she stumbles,
Stunned by the sight of male mannequins with more eyeliner than she would ever dare put on.

The teller at Banque Populaire hands her pages upon pages in some hieroglyphic size 8 font French,
But all she can do is sign each page blindly, initialing her life away.

A bit more at home at Carrefour in all its Walmartish grandeur,
She takes a stairway to the heaven of all grocery stores,
Awed and confused by the aisles of eggs, the miles of cheese,
and the "American/Canadian" section with its usual fare: marshmallow fluff, Hershey's Chocolate Syrup, and Skippy Peanut Butter--5 euros per 12 oz.

And when back in her dwelling, she sits safe and sound (for a few hours, at least), condemning the French microwave to appliance purgatory,
For even its pictionaric buttons cause the misery of bewilderment.