Rasmenia

Before I even get started, let me warn you that if you get squeamish when it comes to chatter about doctors poking around in lady bits, then this post will not interest, amuse or inform you in any way. You’ll likely be too preoccupied with all of your squeamishing to to focus on reading, so… off you go while the rest of us talk.

Like a great many people, I’ve never cared much for going to the doctor. Any doctor. For anything. I’m not afraid of doctors, but in the past, I usually had to feel as though I were at risk of coughing up my aorta, or maybe shitting out a spleen or several yards of intestines. Even when I had broken bones, I was reluctant. I didn’t mind carrying my broken wrist with my good arm if the alternative was sitting in the emergency room. A busted eye socket… well, I didn’t even go to the hospital. Luckily, I didn’t end up paying for my stubbornness with a weird, crooked face.

Admittedly, a weird, crooked face can be quite endearing.

As I got older, I realized this is fucking stupid. I had a good job with fairly decent medical insurance, so it made sense to take better care of myself. At least as much as my insurance would let me.

But that was nothing compared to the socialized medicine in France. With socialized medicine, there is no reason whatsoever not to see a doctor when something hurts, snaps, makes weird noises, or when you have demon possession vomit & rapid-fire machine gun poo.

My first doctor visit in France was in Paris. I didn’t speak any French at all, so like most English-speaking expats, I found an Anglophone doctor. She was British, I’m American, so we could chat about those French quirks that only Anglophones find amusing or irritating. Communication wasn’t a problem & she seemed nice enough, so I decided that she was worthy of poking around at my body & my lady bits with cold, metal tools.

“Alright, then. Go on and drop your trousers,” she said.

“Um… right here? Now?”

“Yep.” She laughed. “Go on, then.”

Wait a minute. What was this shit? Where was the nice assistant in the lab coat to lead me into a small room with a paper-covered table? Where was the 5 to 10 minutes of alone time for me to strip down & where in the hell was my giant sheet of tissue paper to cover my nakedness?

After a mild jibe about my American modesty, British doc had me on display on her table.

“Oh, sorry,” she said, “I’m out of swabs. I’ll have to make due with something else.” I watched her come at me with a tongue depressor. I’d like to say that she vanished from sight, but since I didn’t have that nice barrier of tissue paper, she had nothing to vanish behind, leaving me with a front-row seat to my pelvic exam. After a brief moment of scraping my insides with a stick, she popped her head up & said, “Sorry ’bout that! The bleeding should stop by tomorrow.”

What. The. Fuck.

I got dressed, got my shit together & a few minutes later, I was sitting across from her at her desk again. We were in the middle of the usual post-exam small talk when she suddenly stood up, turned off all the lights in the office & said that I would have to go, as she had a party to get to & didn’t want to be late.

Yes. She kicked me out of her office.

Okay, so that was only one doctor. I decided that day to find a new general practitioner with an ample supply of cotton swabs.

Or one that looked like this. Whichever I could find first.

However, with the free health care, I found myself going to the doctor for every ache, pain, sniffle, snuffle or discomfort. I began to feel like a hypochondriac, even though I’ve never been like that at all. And with free healthcare, you don’t see your regular doctor for everything. Migraines? Here’s a note. Go see a neurologist. Allergies? Okay, here. Go tell it to the allergy specialist. Oh, you wear glasses? Go see the opthamologist. All of this has made it possible for me to get acquainted with all sorts of colorful characters from the French medical profession.

Like the crazy dermatologist in Paris who screamed at people on the phone, snapped at my husband repeatedly, then was soft-spoken & kind to me when no one else was around.

There was also the nurse at the pathology lab who scolded me repeatedly because I peeked under the wad of cotton on the inside of my elbow after having some blood drawn for a routine blood test.

Most recently, it was the dentist who splatters my face with water & my own saliva so much that I always make sure to wear my glasses to our visits, just for the eye protection.

Is this to say that all French doctors are crazy? No. But, there are differences. The appearances aren’t the same. I haven’t seen a lot of those white smocks & lab coat looking get-ups. The environment in their offices & waiting rooms isn’t as sterile, or reeking of pine cleaner. And yes, their bedside manner is different. Absolutely. Even the ones who seemed batshit crazy ultimately solved my problem – quickly & efficiently, without insisting on more tests, visits & procedures. They’ve all seemed to really know their shit, so if they are insane, it seems to work.

The only disappointment I’ve had with any doctor in France has been with the Anglophone doctors. I hate to say it, but that’s been my personal experience. I’ve been to one other since the tongue depressor incident – an American opthamologist in Paris. Both of these docs overcharged, made me feel like a number & didn’t solve my problem.

So, I gave up on that. Now it’s all small-town French doctors for me.

It’s been a few years since I was splayed out on that English doctor’s table in Paris, so recently, I had to go in for my routine examination – with my new, small-town French doctor. I talked with her using my ridiculous imitation of the French language as I watched her remove the metal stirrups from a cluttered storage closet, then fasten them to her examination table.

By now, I’ve abandoned my American modesty at the doctor’s office. I’ve given up hope of ever getting another sheet of tissue paper. Now I just drop trou & hop up on the table.

“Okay,” she says. “You make a fist.”

“A fist? Like this?” I hold up my fist. Until now, I’ve never been told to make a fist in the middle of a pelvic exam. I briefly wonder if this is some European, turn-your-head-and-cough sort of thing for ladies.

“Oui.” She nods. “Now you put it under your butt.”

Oh. Of course.

So, there I was, propping up my ass with my fist, sans tissue paper, thinking that no matter how fucking bizarre this might feel, at least she knows her shit. At least I’ve got excellent medical coverage & she has a plentiful supply of cotton swabs.

Wave a hand full of these in my face & I’ll love you forever.

If you’ve ever suffered through any humiliation or ridiculous incidents at the doctor’s office, please feel free to share. We’ll only laugh at you a little bit – mostly we’ll be laughing with you.

Mostly.

I live in France. I don’t live in Paris. I used to live in Paris.

People sometimes ask me about something going on in Paris. I can only answer with, “Um… I don’t really know the details about that. I don’t live in Paris.”

Occasionally, I’ll be asked, “So, how’re things in Paris?”

“Well, fine as far as I know. But, I can only guess because… I don’t live in Paris.”

A little over 6 years ago, I stepped off a plane at Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Olivier was still my husband-to-be & I was not yet Madame Massoud. He fetched me & my Cat at the airport, along with all the possessions I could bring along with me.

He took us home, to his apartment in Montmartre. All of you who are either already familiar with the area, or who are Francophile Amelie geeks, know that Montmartre is located in the 18th arrondissement of Paris. For the rest of you, here’s a nice picture:

The three of us lived there, smooshed together in that tiny one bedroom 4th floor apartment, for just over 2 years. Somehow, we managed to get out of there without assaulting our rude & noisy neighbors with a lance. (Shut up. I could have a lance. You don’t know.) We survived the smog, the noise, daily treks across the city in the métro & being able to look directly into other people’s apartments.

Proof that all Paris apartments do not have a view of the Eiffel Tower.

Then, at the beginning of 2008, we moved. We stopped living in Paris.

Where we went: Sucy-en-Brie.

Okay, so it’s not too far from Paris. It’s about 10.5 miles away from Paris. 17 kilometers if you’re a metric speaker. Then again, you can’t get anywhere in France by moving in a straight line, so those 10 miles end up being a lot longer than one might think. After taking a bus to the train station for about 10 minutes or so, I then jumped on a train & after a total of 30-40 minutes, I was in Paris. Once I arrived in the city, I then needed to take the métro to reach my final destination.

So… for a little more than 3 years, we enjoyed our place in an apartment complex situated in the quieter, calmer suburbs of Paris. We still had smog, though a bit less of it. We still had noise, though it was different noise with less obnoxious sounds & fewer blaring car horns. We had better neighbors & a bit more space to move about in.

During our time in Sucy-en-Brie, when I’d mention that we were going out to eat, a common response was, “Wow, Paris has so many great restaurants.”

“Indeed. They do. But we’re not in Paris. We’re just eating somewhere nearby.”

“What? What’s the difference?”

“Nevermind.”

While we lived close enough to get to Paris on a whim, we did not live in Paris.

The suburbs were pretty nice. We had everything we needed, but we began to outgrow our apartment. Our nicer, quieter neighbors eventually got just as irritating as the obnoxious & loud ones we had before. We wanted to get a dog, but had no yard, only a small balcony up on the 3rd floor.

But any balcony is a great place for having booze & snacks.

We decided it was time to do that thing that grown ups sometimes do. We bought a house.

We ventured out of the suburbs & all the way to the French countryside. To put it in American terms, it’s sort of like we moved to another county. Lower prices. Different scenery & architecture. I had to get a new carte de séjour made, much like one would have to do with their driver’s license in the U.S. when they relocate to a new state or county.

True enough, Paris is close enough that we can get there easily by car or train.

But, this takes us a while. We have to REALLY want to go to Paris. No shit. We once sat in traffic for 3 fucking hours trying to get into the city on a Sunday afternoon.

Some things are consistent no matter where I live in this country. I have plenty of wine, the scent that wafts from the cheese in my kitchen reeks with the stench of a warm pile of sweaty socks. I have great health care. The natives shrug & make a fart sound with their mouths when I ask questions instead of providing a real answer. Everywhere I look around me, it’s as French as French can get.

But, it’s not Paris. That’s a place 50 miles away. A place where I lived 4 years ago. And in so many ways, another planet compared to where I now sit.

Gone are the noisy neighbors that are an expected part of apartment living in a big city. They’ve been replaced by the quiet countryside neighbors who smile, wave & invite us over for a coffee & a chat. The honking horns & smog are miles away. Now it’s all birds, squirrels & blue skies.

We definitely do not live in Paris.

In Paris, squirrels do not come knocking at the front door.

Now, when we’re meeting the locals, they spot me as a foreigner as soon as I open my mouth & reveal my terrible accent. Like anyone would do, they ask me where I’m from.

“I’m American. From Colorado.”

“Eh? Colorado? Where is that?”

“The West,” I say. “The Rocky Mountains.”

“Oh. I have a cousin in San Francisco.”

“I’ve heard San Francisco is very nice. I’ve never been there.”

This is where they look at me like I’ve just barfed up a live toad.

“What? Well… what’s the difference?”

So, like the natives, I shrug & make a fart noise with my mouth. Because I live in France.

“Americans should never come to Europe,’ she said, and tried to laugh and began to cry, ‘it means they never can be happy again. What’s the good of an American who isn’t happy?” — James Baldwin, Giovanni’s Room

*

“I think that something’s happened to me,” I said.  Olivier looked over at me & creased his eyebrows.

“Like what?  Are you sick?  Did you eat too much fiber again?”

“No… I’m not feeling shitsy.  It’s more permanent than that, I think… & it seems to be getting worse.  I think I must be developing some sort of misanthropic expat syndrome.”

“I think you’ve had that for a while.”

“It’s getting worse,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ve noticed.  It’s probably not so bad,” he said. “Eating too much fiber feels worse, I bet.”

He’s right.  That does feel pretty bad.  Unfortunately, my misanthropic expat syndrome seems to be permanent & intensifying.

Something happens after a few years of living outside of the U.S.  Things begin to look different.  Priorities shift.  The change of perspective, the conversations that are had with a new set of people with a different, un-American set of experiences adds new colors to the big picture.

In the last general election, American young people couldn’t even be bothered to get off their asses & vote.  That is nothing short of a fucking embarrassment.  Sitting here, thousands of miles away from American shores, I see & hear countless people ranting & bitching about Tea Partiers or whatever asinine thing Sarah Palin said last week, but I rarely hear anyone freaking out about the horrifying increase in apathy.

When I mention this to my French friends, they’re shocked.  Of course they are… how could anyone have the right to vote & not use it?  Why would anyone give up the right to a voice in regard to who controls their lives?

One thing I found refreshing shortly after moving to France was the fact that people know what is happening around them & actually give a shit about it.  I have yet to have an in-depth conversation with someone here who is not aware of things that are happening in the world around them.  Paying attention to global events – both near & far – are important, not to be ignored & are worth discussing.

That isn’t to say that French people only talk about politics.  I’ve exchanged many a dick joke with these people.  Their sense of humor is definitely intact & lucky for me, my sarcasm has been most welcome here.

What I haven’t heard from a French person is the phrase, “I don’t pay attention to any of that.  It doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

I wish I could say the same about Americans.

As much as it is an inconvenience each time the French practice their national pastime of going on strike & protesting, a part of me is glad to see them taking to the streets & making a lot of noise when they feel like they’re getting the shaft.  You’ve probably heard some of the noise that the French made recently when they were protesting the retirement age changing from 60 to 62.  Many of those protesters were young people – the very demographic that the U.S. can’t get in to a freaking voting booth.  Sure, to Americans, this didn’t seem like something that was worth taking to the streets for & to that I have to say, SUCK IT.

Whether Americans agree or disagree with the reason, I will say that at least these people got off of their asses & did something.  To be honest, I didn’t see what the big deal was with a 2-year difference either, but that isn’t the point – the point is that young people got up & took to the streets instead of watching fucking Jersey Shore.

When my misanthropic expat syndrome really kicks in is when I listen to Americans bitching just as loud as a French protester about trivial things.  Lady Gaga.  Lindsay Lohan.  Hipsters.  It’s nigh impossible to even log onto the Internet without seeing someone pissing & moaning about this stuff.  If they’re 14 years old, then sure… I understand.  But, 30 & 40 year olds actually caring & knowing in-depth about celebrity train wrecks & what trendy, directionless kids are doing isn’t something I can have a conversation about.  Sorry.  Not unless I’m taking the piss out of it & the truth is, the only thing more annoying than hipsters & celebrity train wrecks is the people who whine about them or want to discuss them at length as though these topics mattered.

Pictured: Nothing worth getting worked up about.

What I see looking in from the outside is the threat of Internet censorship.  Alienating homosexuals.  Treating people with brown skin like a criminals.  Islamaphobia.  Insanity prevailing & a horrible lack of cooler heads.  The things that Americans believe to be true is astounding.  People dying due to lack of healthcare.  I see our 4th Amendment rights going down the shitter as American citizens are being groped & scoped at the airport.  I could keep going, but is it even necessary?

If I were an evil mastermind trying to take down America, I would love this shit.  The divide & conquer tactic is working beautifully all over the country.  Its citizens are getting fat & going broke.  They’d be too busy fighting each other & Tweeting about Justin Bieber to even see it coming.

Many Americans are so consumed with fear of terrorists that they’ve blinded themselves to the fact that they are more likely to die from poor eating habits than from a terrorist attack.

All of the paranoia, craziness & Americans fighting amongst themselves really makes me grateful to be living in Europe.  I’m not saying that France doesn’t have its flaws.  I’ve written plenty of blog posts rambling on about my pet peeves in regard to living here & will continue to do so.  However, those are pet peeves & in no way compare to the feelings of disappointment that I have in watching the place that I love more than anywhere else on Earth collapsing in on itself.

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." -Abraham Lincoln

So, I’m not saying that France – or any other European country – is perfect.  What I am saying is that they are the grown-up version of a nation, as opposed to the fat, bickering, spoiled brat of a nation.

Maybe you’re thinking something like, “Oh, you’re just a cynical piece of Colorado Eurotrash.  What do you care?  You don’t even live here anymore.”

Well… for one, I most likely don’t give a shit what you think.  For two, I’m still an American & I still vote, which is more than I can say for many of the people who are living there.

Yep… I still vote.  I still pay attention to what’s going on at home.  But, I prefer to watch it from here, among the baffled Europeans because I’m just as baffled as they are.  Every day, there is something else to leave me disgusted, disappointed or disenchanted with the U.S.  Not that I don’t miss it every day – because I do, but I’m thankful that I’m not there.

"We have become a Nazi monster in the eyes of the whole world, a nation of bullies and bastards who would rather kill than live peacefully. We are not just whores for power and oil, but killer whores with hate and fear in our hearts. We are human scum, and that is how history will judge us. -Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

“So,” Olivier said.  “Does this mean that you don’t ever want to move back?  Will we stay here in France forever?”

“It’s looking that way,” I said.  “I feel safer here.  There’s less crime.  Affordable education & healthcare.  People here live longer.  They live more & work less.  No one here is causing hysteria about the French president’s religion or birthplace.”

“Indeed,” he agreed.  “It’s a bit more calm over here.”

“And sane.  But the American insanity seemed more tolerable when I was living there.”

“I think the U.S. just seems so bad to you now because you’ve seen what else there is – you’ve felt what it’s like to live another way.”

“Yeah,” I said.  “I’m suffering from expatriate-induced misanthropy.”

“Whatever,” he laughed.  “You were already well on your way before you ever got here.”

“Right.  Maybe it’s just me.”