Going to Canada to visit a fromagerie was an amazing experience.  Growing up in the northwest I have never been a minority.  I have never experienced what that could feel like until I went to the cheese shop. 

I have been to Canada many times in my life.  The street signs are different.  Some are in French.  In the stores, some things are in French and English.  Everyone speaks English.  Even as a child I was aware that it was different than I was used to, but still similar enough to be comfortable.

I thought this experience would be the same as all my previous visits to Canada.  The only difference would be that this time I was going into a cheese shop.  How different could that be from a cheese shop in the states?

I learned quickly that I was wrong.  A short drive from the border after a scenic drive though farmland we came to a small shop.  It was easy to find a parking spot and we walked into the store.  That’s when I knew this was going to be different from anywhere I had ever been. 

This little shop was busy, packed full of people who all seemed to be in a hurry.  They all wanted cheese and they were on a mission to get it quickly.  The people working behind the counter were hustling to take orders and package up the cheese for the customers.  Around the room were breads, chocolates and condiments for sale. 

For an English speaking person who has never traveled to a non-English country, I suddenly felt very out of place.  The labels on food, the signs in the store, the quick spoken words of the customers and employees were all in French.  I had no idea what anyone was saying.  I didn’t know how or what to order. 

If I was traveling to a different county (besides Canada) I would have learned some of the language before going.  Or at least I would have been prepared to not understand anything.  I had been to Canada so many times and everyone spoke English, so I wasn’t prepared to walk into this French speaking store.

I felt lost, confused.  For the first and only time in my life I knew the helpless feeling of being a minority, in the middle of the hustle and bustle of this little fromagerie.  It was not only confusing and uncomfortable, but it smelled like rotten cheese.

They had hundreds of types of cheese and all the signs were in French.  After wandering around in the store for a while we figured out that we needed to get a number for our place in line.  It took a while but we found the numbers back outside the door.  We got our number and waited for our turn, hoping they would speak English.

While we waited we noticed they had about 5 different samples of cheese.  We tried each of them.  Some were okay and some were awful.  When it was our turn we went up to order from the best of the samples.  I ordered half a pound of each, not realizing until later that if they speak French they probably don’t measure in pounds.  Luckily they did know English and they gladly measured out our cheese in pounds.

We purchased some bread to go with our cheese and some marzipan for desert.  They had picnic tables outside for us to sit and enjoy our snack.  The kids were eager to taste these new flavors. And they were glad to get out of the smelly shop.

Even though this had been one of the most uncomfortable experiences of my life, I am so thankful for it.  It was something new.  It was an adventure.  Good things always happen when you step outside your comfort zone.  This had been my first experience in a fromagerie, but I’m sure it won’t be my last.