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We were in a Big 5 (a sporting goods store) in LA to buy rashguards for the kids. They were boogie boarding every day and their backs and shoulders were getting fried and the skin of their bellies was being scraped off at an alarming rate.

I had to go find somebody to unlock the fitting room doors and Vincent asked why they were locked in the first place. I said it was to keep people from just walking in and putting on clothes and walking out with ‘em. He said, “So you automatically assume everybody in America is a criminal?” “Pretty much,” I said.

A couple of weeks later, just the other day, I was in CVS (a big pharmacy) looking for things I can’t get or don’t know where to find in Paris to take back with me. At a certain point I noticed the same tall skinny guy appearing at the end of every row I was in. Young guy in his twenties, better dressed than any of the customers, didn’t have anything in his hands. He just stood there pretending to shop (and failing miserably). I saw him watching me in my peripheral vision.

OK, I must have looked a little weird, I admit. It wasn’t quite as bad as what I described at the end of this post, but it wasn’t exactly normal. Most people don’t go into one of those giant pharmacies and troll along every row scrutinizing everything in sight. But that’s what I was doing because I didn’t have a list.

So I stood there reading the saddle soap tin and fingering the knee socks. My stepdaughter is very finicky about her socks. Hesitated over whether to get the big or little bottle of witch hazel. You can’t get it in France. The pharmacist I talked to looked at me like I was crazy (I’d looked it up in the dictionary and everything). Stared at the kitchen utensils. The French haven’t figured out how to make a sharp potato peeler.

Weird, maybe. But criminal?

What else made me look suspicious? I had a very big purse (very practical in Paris, where you have to carry around everything you buy in the 25 stores you have to hit in a given day of errand-running). But it was an expensive one (not so expensive for me, since I got it at the Nordstrom Rack, where end of series and last season items go to be bought up by those of us who can’t afford or refuse to pay full retail). I’m quite skinny. Wasn’t wearing make-up. Maybe they thought I was a drug addict. Most of the other CVS shoppers were bulbous. Anyway, skinny is rare here, unless it also includes the tan, the boob job, the short shorts, and the bleached blond hair…

Why me, really? I’m over 40. White (sadly, that does come into play in this context). I wear my great-grandmother’s ruby and diamond ring on my pinkie. I had a nice, newish pair of gray Levis on, a cute little sleeveless blouse. I just don’t get it.

I’m going back today for a couple more things. I think I’ll mimic my shopping pattern just to see if they follow me around again. Maybe I’ll confront the skinny kid. I’ll let you know.

Oh, America, you make me so sad. You are paranoid. Your priorities are up your ass. You’ve become a police state. It breaks my heart that you haven’t been able to prevent the loss of freedom, intellectual curiosity, tolerance, courtesy. And so much more. Saddest of all, you have no idea that you’ve lost these things.

I am so not American anymore. I’m going home today, to France. I can’t tell you how relieved I am.

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