Saturday, May 22, 2021

Deconfinement

In French, you don’t say lockdown, you say confinement.  We’ve all been confined to various degrees for the last year, but the last six months has been an endless succession of soft-boiled restrictions, not enough to actually stop the sharp increase in Covid statistics, but just enough to make everyone's life miserable.  Since November 1, 2020 there has been a 6pm (then 7pm) curfew, most non-essential stores have been closed, all eating establishments have been closed except for takeout (no outdoor seating), and all cultural institutions have been closed (museums, monuments, theaters, cinemas, concerts, etc.).  For a couple of months you couldn’t go further than ten kilometers from home.  Up until last week, Paris was a sad place.  Shuttered storefronts, closed cafés, dark doorways.  It is only now that the vaccination program has finally taken off, that change is in the air.

 

May 19.  First restrictions lifted.  First cup of coffee at a café terrace.  Went out with my husband at 8am, for fear that the one terrace in my neighborhood would be full.  It wasn’t.  It did fill up quickly, mostly with workmen who have been tormenting the nearby RER station for the last several months.  I breezed up to the counter and ordered, triumphant, as though I had just won a prize for being the best customer ever.  Not sure the barman agreed, as his face was stone, which quite normal for him, and since normalcy is what we are all longing for, I was pleased.  That said, when he brought us our coffees, I thought I detected a slight twinkle in his eye, a lift in his gait, a certain swagger even as he set the cups in front of us and quickly slipped away, not even giving us enough time to say ah, how good it is to drink out of something ceramic and smooth.  Goodbye, cardboard coffee cups, may our days of standing around like fools on the sidewalk, drinking coffee as we shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, be finally over.   Now it was time to sip the black brew.  It was good, hot and bitter, but gone too soon, as it usually is at a French café, where coffee is strong and served in reduced quantity.  Usual.  Normal.  Like old times.  Sort of.

 

May 22.  First movie at a theater.  Literally, at a theater.  There is no cinema in my suburban town, but there is a cultural center with a big auditorium where there are concerts and plays and where they pull down a giant screen and show movies.  To my delight, they were showing “Adieu Les Cons” which has gotten rave reviews but had be pulled from the screens right after it was released due to Covid.  The theater was quite full, according to protocol, with two seats between each small party, and masks and gel and all the rest of it.  So, it was really less than half full, but it felt full, and we were all full of anticipation and not a small amount of disbelief because we were going to see a real movie, dammit, not something on Netflix.  The lights went down and after various entreaties to behave sensibly and safely, there was a 30-second short welcoming us back.  I had tears in my eyes before the main feature began.


Wednesday, November 9, 2016

On Communism and Bottle Openers

I hated my sixth grade teacher, Mrs. Carson.  This was probably very unfair, because she really was just trying to get with the times, which were a changin’.  Without revealing my advanced age, let’s just say that she was prone to having us discuss our feelings, world events and asked us what our “bag” was.  I thought she was ridiculous and would complain about her being a phony, because after all, she was a middle-aged woman and looked like someone’s mom, not a young thing with frosted hair and go-go boots (like Miss Terry).  One morning, I was chatting with my friends in the school bus and we started dishing about Mrs. Carson.  As I warmed to the subject, Carrie—who lived in an gated community known for excluding minorities—had a scoop.  She lowered her voice to a whisper:  “My dad says that Mrs. Carson is….a communist!”  In Orange County, California, this was tantamount to announcing that Mrs. Carson participated in satanic rituals. 

I was taken aback.  Not only did I doubt Mrs. Carson was a communist, but I was flummoxed by the use of the word as an insult.  If she disapproved so whole-heartedly of WASP-y Mrs. Carson, what would she think of my parents, lefty Jews from New York City?  Was being a communist really that bad?  Did they even really exist?  After all, none of us had ever seen one. 

Imagine my amazement when a couple of years later we were living in France (thanks to my father’s sabbatical leave) and we went to lunch at my mother’s cousin’s house.  A cousin who was…a communist!  Favik had come to France from Poland before WWII to study medicine, and his doctoring skills and various strokes of luck helped him avoid being deported by Vichy. He sure didn’t look like a communist, whom I had imaged all being grey and thin and serious.  He was fat and jovial and lived in a big house in Argenteuil.   In fact, he seemed to have lots of money.  “How can a communist have lots of money?” I asked my dad, who waved me off as he parked the car.

Since then, I have learned that in France, you can be a communist and still have fun.  You can have a good job and lots of money, you simply have to vote and talk a certain way in certain situations.  A dinner with a communist need not involve Molotov cocktails but simply alcoholic ones, especially now that the Iron Curtain and the Berlin Wall only exist as material for historic spy novels.   Aside from a supporting role during the social explosion of May of 1968, the masses of communists in France were never much of a threat to the established order, even if they did and do continue to march in the streets at the first whisper of a labor dispute. 

Because even if they have lost all semblance of political clout (though the party keeps huffing and puffing along), the communist spirit is alive and well in France’s powerful labor unions.  And perhaps that is as it should be.  Someone has got to at least shout back at the Captains of Industry, who have so clearly taken over the show on a global scale.  And while they can be painfully earnest (take a gander at the prose at Lutte Ouvrière), being French, they still know how to enjoy themselves.  A while back a friend of ours who has the unenviable chore of being a union representative at IBM, brought us a unique bit of paraphernalia from the CGT (Confédération Générale du Travail), the country’s largest trade union.  It’s a bottle opener (décapsuleur) with a metal bit that starts to play the Internationale when it comes into contact with a bottle cap.  I gave one to my younger brother as a gift, but the poor guy didn’t recognize the tune.  Ah, the days of revolution seem to be far behind us.  Or are they?  Who knows what might be required after the startling election results of last night.  It’s enough to make you want to start humming the opening lines…hey, come to think of it, this stanza sounds rather timely:

Let no one build walls to divide us
Walls of hatred nor walls of stone
Come greet the dawn and stand beside us
We'll live together or we'll die alone
In our world poisoned by exploitation
Those who have taken now they must give
And end the vanity of nations
We've but one earth on which to live
  

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Medical Tourism Comes to France


Ever since my un-expected encounter with mortality and the French medical system back in 2007 (see my post “Thinking about Having Brain Surgery During Your Stay?”), I have been encouraging my fellow Americans to come to France for medical care.  Not only do they have some of the best doctors and hospitals in Europe, but the price is definitely right. For example, a friend told me that an MRI can cost up to $6,000 in the US, while here it would cost $200 max (and I should know, I get them every two years).   For that price, you could come to France, take a tour of the Loire Valley, get your MRI and still have spare change.  The only tricky part would be the paperwork: stuff like visas, insurance papers, and making sure your prescriptions/doctor’s instructions would be accepted on this side of the pond. 

But it seems that is no longer an issue.  After watching from afar as Germany, Belgium and the UK profited from US medical pricing excesses, France has finally jumped on the medical tourism bandwagon.  As of November 1, the French public hospital network (Assistance publique-Hôpitaux de Paris) is launching a medical tourism program aimed directly at foreign visitors who wish to benefit from competitive prices and quality care.  And while that care usually comes in a plain brown wrapper here in France (bland waiting rooms, ugly doctors offices, minimal creature comfort options), this new program offers packages that include medical care, hotel stay and concierge service.  You simply send in your application with your medical records to a hospital specialist with a secure server, and they send you back a quote for the package. 

The only catch is they want you to prepay. Though some are complaining that the new program is meant to attract Arab sheiks and millionaires, I suspect that your average American could enjoy major savings, especially if they could get their insurance company to agree to pay part of the cost.  I can’t find an actually fee breakdown for the 110 treatments covered by the program (for both adults and children), and rumor has it there is a 20-30% price hike for foreigners, but judging from my own experience (a visit to a GP costs 23 euros here), I’ll bet the rates are quite competitive.

While I loudly applaud Obamacare, it is but a first step towards a democratic health system in the US, a mere thumbtack in the toe of the mega-monster that has grown out of unregulated medical fees (remember Stephen Brill’s amazing article in Time Magazine in 2013? Here’s an update). So why not make the most of medical tourism?  Especially now that it’s official:  you can visit France AND have hip replacement for a fraction of the cost in the US!  What are you waiting for?

Friday, August 19, 2016

August in Paris

It’s August, and in the quiet of the Parisian suburbs that means there is not a soul on the streets.  What is normally just low-key is now silent, save a few lone inhabitants, aimlessly wandering the streets like survivors of a nuclear blast. There is nothing post-apocalyptic about the scenery though, which is a pleasant mix of cute little houses and boxy modern apartment buildings.  The best part is the greenery, which is lush.  We are just a few steps from a forest, and the neighborhood is dotted with some nice old trees, like the huge weeping willow on the corner, which is literally the size of a house. 

Most of the stores on the main drag, if you can call it that, are shuttered, with notes taped to the metal shutters announcing their summer closures.  The mini-super market is open, as is one bakery, to feed those few who are not on a beach somewhere, slathering the sunscreen and trying not to get stepped on by the hordes of fellow vacationers.

I prefer to stay on my deck chair in the back yard this summer.  When the sun is out, I can close my eyes and pretend that I am at a luxury resort on the Riviera.  After all, it’s the same sun beating down on my face, the same warm breeze caressing my limbs, the same quiet massaging my temples.  OK, I’ll admit that instead of the cry of seagulls I hear the twitter of sparrows and instead of the distant roar of crashing waves, I hear the distant thunder of the RER C.  But by and large, what I lose in pampering I gain in the relaxing effects of sleeping in my own bed and not needing to get to the airport. And it’s not like I could ever afford a luxury resort to begin with. 

Then I decide to go to the movies.  I waltz into my private screening room that the owner of MK2 Parnasse has so kindly opened for my personal benefit.  Or else it certainly seems that way—I am the only person at the 1:30 matinee and get to enjoy Florence Foster Jenkins without any one near me crinkling wrappers or munching on popcorn.


But the best part of my home-grown luxury vacation is the silence.  The muted calm that you pay for at a ritzy resort is a standard feature of any residential neighborhood in Paris after July 14.  In fact, Paris in August is what some evil-minded tourists dream of: Paris without the Parisians.  Be advised, however, while the Parisians might be gone, their places have been filled by thousands of out-of-town guests, who clog the arteries of every major attraction.  It may be a nice playground, but one you will have to share with the other kids, who might not want to play they way you want them to.  To them, it might be fun to scream or run around or push people.  

So beware.  Or be willing to strike out into the quiet corners and park benches where if you close your eyes, you could be just about anywhere warm and peaceful.


Sunday, December 27, 2015

Christmas Aftermath

There was a whiff of hangover in the air yesterday at the covered market.  It was strangely quiet, as if a mute pedal had been applied to the noisy instrument that generates the usual cacophony.  Both the customers and the merchants were bleary eyed:  this one walked off without his package of fruit, that one forgot the order he just took. 

I can’t say that I was much better off, as I was recovering from an epic Christmas lunch, one that started and ended with champagne and included all sorts of deliciously noxious substances in between.  Apèros with champagne are all the rage these days, so I started off with munchies and a flute of bubbly, which hit my nervous system like a spray of sequins and quickly infiltrated my blood stream.  Soon it was time for a succulent slab of foie gras with a glass of Sauternes from a bottle that was so old the liquid had turned the color of an antique wedding ring.  It tasted like pink gold too.  Chablis was required for the oysters and smoked salmon, and a nice Bordeaux for the leg of lamb and the subsequent round of cheese, and after all that, why not haul out the rest of the champagne for the bûche?  A bûche is a traditional, log-shaped, rolled Christmas cake that everyone complains about (eww!  It’s too sweet!) but everyone gobbles down when it appears on the table at the end of a long meal. 

Suffice it to say that I barely remember who gave me what when we unwrapped the presents and I am embarrassed to admit that I collapsed on my son’s Jumbo Bag and fell into a deep sleep at 6:30pm.


Today, I joined the ranks of those who doggedly attempt to eliminate the alcohol and calories of Christmas at the pool.  “I don’t know what happens,” a woman was moaning to her friend in the dressing room, “I just have no control when it comes to chocolates.  I can eat the whole box.” Just in case you thought that French women really don’t get fat.  It’s not easy to resist when exquisite chocolates are constantly shoved under your nose during the holidays.  But I’m trying to be strong.  After all, it’s only a week until New Years.

Monday, June 9, 2014

Politesse

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I just received a note in my mailbox that translates as follows:

“Ladies and Gentlemen,
We have the honor of informing you that a team from our company will proceed to clean the parking garage on the morning of Thursday, June 12.  We thank you in advance for kindly removing your vehicles.”

It is not at all unusual here to receive official letters from banks, plumbers, or other service industries that sound like an invitation to a fancy dress ball.  However rude a clerk may seem at the post office in person, in writing that same institution will sign off with “je vous prie d’agréer, Madame, l’assurance de ma consideration distinguée,” which roughly translates as “I beg you to accept, Madam, the guarantee of my distinguished regards.” 

It is difficult for an American (particularly one that lived a long time in New York) to understand why the note in my box didn’t just say “Garage cleaning June 12, please move your car before that date,” or something more menacing like “garage cleaning June 12, all cars must be removed by sundown.” I’m used to taking orders from faceless authorities, but apparently, the French are not.  Maybe it’s a leftover sentiment from the French Revolution, when outrage over being subject to the oppressive whims of the aristocracy led to a summary chopping off of its collective head. Maybe that’s why my husband gets furious when I ask him to do something in my direct, American way, like “can you take out the trash?” instead of “my, but the trash bin is full, do you think you might be able to take it out?”

It might a stretch to take a historic view of marital squabbles, but there has got to be some explanation for the overblown importance of politesse in certain French circumstances.  After all, in neighboring Spain, perfect strangers use the familiar form of “you” (tu). In nearby Italy, locals will enthusiastically throw themselves at your baby and ask if they can take pictures. Maybe it’s a question of personal space. In France, you must wait to be invited into someone’s personal space, and politeness creates a neutral territory where the two sides can check each other out.  Maybe the French just need more time to connect, unlike Americans, who hurl themselves at each other like overexcited puppies.

That still doesn’t explain the letters, however, or why my health insurance center keeps thanking me for confidence that I have in them.  Or why the sign on the bus about ticket prices “thanks me for my understanding.” Or, for that matter, why a subway strike is described as a “social movement” on the monitors in the metro station. Oh well, I guess some things just can’t be explained.  And so, in closing, I beg you to accept my most cordial regards.

Friday, May 23, 2014

Another Velib' Update

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It’s time to count our Velib’ blessings.  It’s been almost seven years since the mayor's office set up this low-cost rent-a-bike program, and today those funky looking bikes are part of the cityscape.  Similar systems have been set up are in cities all around France. 

For years, the futuristic city cycles were almost entirely out of reach of your average North American tourist, as they required a chip-enabled credit card, preferably of European origin.  Now there are options:  you can either buy your 1-day or 7-day subscription on line, or you can use a refillable cash card, like Travelex.  You an also find out how it works on the extensive English-language page on the Velib’ website, and even call an English-speaking customer service person.

So let’s say you actually got yourself a bike and are ready to take off into traffic.  Here are a few do’s and don’ts:

1)   Check your bike before you check it out.  Are the tires flat? Do the brakes work? Is a pedal missing?  (I once tried to pedal away and to my surprise…)
2)   Wear a helmet.  If you don’t want to bring one, you get a casque (helmet) for 10€ at a Decathalon store .  Once you take to the streets, you will understand why.
3)   Get a map, preferably a handy-dandy “Paris par Arrondissement” that lists Velib’ stations, so you won’t go nuts trying to find one when you want to check in.  For the smartphone inclined, there is also an app that you can download from thewebsite.
4)   Take a deep breath.  What you are about to do requires courage, patience and a certain amount of derring-do.

Actually, while the traffic looks crazy, it’s not as bad as it looks.  As long as you pay attention, most drivers will pay attention to you.  There are also an increasing number of dedicated bike lanes (though they often abandon you just when you were starting to relax).  The bike lanes should be on those maps I mentioned, but don’t count on it.  Look for the theoretically bike-friendly bus lanes (and then look out for buses and taxis).  Watch out for motor scooters—whose drivers seem to have little regard for human life, including their own—and other cyclists, some of whom appear to be trying out for the Evil Knievel Award for Stupidest Death-Defying Risk. 

Now that I’ve made you nervous, I’d like to point out that riding around on a Velib’ is a truly delightful way to see the city. As long as you stay off the big boulevards, you can glide around with relative ease, humming the theme to the movie “Amélie” as you take in Mansart-roofed vistas and quaint neighborhoods you never knew existed. You’ll cover plenty of territory in a short distance (this is a relatively small city, after all) and avoid plunging into the Métro on a nice sunny day.  If it’s not a nice day, well that’s another matter.  It’s up to you how much cold, rain and wind you can handle.  And remember, while you are having fun on your bike, you’ll be working off all those pastries and croissants—and making room for more.