Look at me - I'm turning French!

I recently became a French citizen, which was a huge relief for me, because I just couldn’t face another round of renewing my resident visa—my carte de séjou­r—which is an ordeal the likes of which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. Yes, it’s been 22 years since I first washed up on the shores of France, but it is only now that I have finally become a citizen.  

Why did I wait so long? Well, if renewing a carte de séjour is an ordeal, you can only imagine what getting one was like. Especially when you are pregnant and without health insurance as I was at the time. The whole thing was so traumatic that I was afraid to attempt citizenship, even though I was eligible, as I was married to a Frenchman. Especially when fellow expats informed me that the process could take up to five years. So I resisted. After all, I had the right to work, to healthcare, and just about everything I needed. The only thing I couldn’t do was vote.

But a few years ago, we bought a house and there was much grumbling from certain banks when we tried to get a loan because for some reason the US makes life difficult for them when they deal with Americans. And the rise in the radical right just about everywhere in the world, including France, where certain political parties scream and shout about how immigrants are responsible for everything from unemployment to indigestion, made it seem prudent to get dual citizenship. 

And so, during Covid, when I was at a loss for things to do, I decided to take the plunge. It wasn’t as bad as I thought. In fact, the whole process only took two years, and was nowhere near as painful as the carte de séjour. My only regret is that my prefecture, Nanterre, doesn’t believe in citizenship ceremonies. Whereas other American friends were treated to music and proclamations in 18^th century town halls with period boiserie, I was treated to this:

A long line in front of a window.  The lady behind the counter did smile and hand me a folder that included both my certificate and the words to the Marseillaise, but the experience lacked a certain something.  

The good news is, I became a citizen just in time for the presidential elections. In fact, I was automatically registered to vote, which was amazing, because here in France you are never automatically registered for anything. And so I voted for president, which was exciting, even though it was the lesser of two evils all over again (just in case you think that doesn’t happen outside the US). But on further consideration, I think that’s OK. What are the chances that any candidate is going to meet all your needs?  About the same as finding the perfect romantic partner. So you go with the one that meets most of them and try to remain optimistic about the future. On the other hand, I still don’t understand who I voted for in the legislative elections. But then again, neither do most French people. So I am at one with my fellow citizens.  A step towards total integration…  

Who Cut The Cheese?

Normally, a crime committed with a knife at a dinner table would involve blood and screams.  Mine was different.  The meal was almost over.  We had waltzed through the appetizer and main course with a deceptive ease, pausing to refresh ourselves with a bit of green salad before soldiering on to the cheese course. 

That was when it happened.  A slight mishap with a cheese knife and my reputation was ruined.  Yes, I admit it.  It was I who cut the cheese—the wrong way.  When I passed the cheese platter, I was met with an accusing stare, which traveled from my bewildered face down to the bit of cheese I had just cut.  It looked perfectly fine to me.  It was the end of a piece of Comté, and I had done what I assumed was the logical thing, I cut a straight line across what was left of the slice.  Leaving a small piece of cheese with rind on three sides.  Quelle horreur!  That is just not done.  Seeing my confusion, my tablemate, who just happened to be my husband, took pity on me, a poor, ignorant foreigner, and patiently instructed me on the Fine Art of Cutting Cheese.

It’s not as easy as it looks.  The idea is to cut the cheese so that everyone has a go at the tender core, where the crème de la crème lies, soft and sweet.  Cheese cutting is a decidedly democratic act.  Everyone at the table is entitled to the same level of quality.  Quantity is a more personal choice.  No one will blink if you decide to sample a nice wedge of every cheese on the plate.  They will, however, cringe if you mangle the morsels with your deficient cutting skills.  Once you have shared in the communal platter of pleasure, it is passed on down the table like a holy relic.  Which means that should you mess up, your gaffe will be immediately obvious to the person sitting next to you.  When it comes to cutting the cheese, there’s no place to hide.

To make matters even more complicated, cheeses come in many different shapes and sizes, from classic wheels, to soft rectangles, to heart-shaped cutie-pies.  Without taking out a slide rule or a compass it is difficult to carve out an equitable wedge, one that is perfectly placed to not only deliver the best of what your cheese has to offer, but also leaves a similarly delectable and easy-to-cut piece for your dining partners. 

What to do?  Fortunately, several cheese lovers have made instructional videos for the great unwashed and uploaded them to YouTube. Even if you don’t understand French, you will appreciate this one, posted by the Franco-German TV channel Arte, designed to teach the basics to Germans and is easy to follow.  This video is particularly heartwarming because you can see that even the French reporter interviewing the cheese vendor makes gaffes at this delicate mealtime moment (note the look on the cheesemaker’s face when she cuts the blue cheese).

Never fear, after you absorb a few rules, you will get the hang of it.  Basically, do unto others as you would have them do unto your own wedge of cheese.  Leave the good stuff for everyone, take your share of the rind, and when possible, cut a wedge.

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

  

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?

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.

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.

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.