Social medicine has its costs. One of these costs is time served at medical exams. In order to enter France and work, you have to go to the doctor.
If you are lucky, your company will work through an agency. This process is blissful compared to everything else. By far, the person helping me (and some of my other expat friends) is the complete opposite of stereotypical French bureaucracy. One considers a new name for any children to be.
The medical exam takes place in the morning. You go to a building in a Southern Paris suburb. Like any other doctor’s exam, first you wait. Then, they bring you into another room. Then, you wait. You chat with some other people you meet going through the same experience. The exam begins.
You start off with basic measurements – height, weight, age. If you are American or a member of certain other nationalities, you are done. If not, you have a urine test. If you are Russian, good luck.
Passing the American test, it is time for the chest x-ray. Why you must have a chest x-ray is beyond me. However, time to take off your shirt and get a healthy dose of gamma rays. Next is the doctor’s exam.
You wait until a doctor calls you into his office. He or she brings you in and asks you questions about your family history. I do not have my vaccine records as I am a very bad person. So, I tell the doctor what vaccines I have had. If you have gone to college in the US, chances are you are fine. You look at the chest x-ray. The doctor gives you the chest x-ray. In my case (not everyone had this experience), the doctor gives you a condom. The condom is for the prevention of STD’s, of course.
I’ll take that as a compliment.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Exploring
There is always something you should do. This particular evening, I should have been studying French, or assembling furniture, or tidying up the apartment. However, when the weather is nice, the outside calls. There is too much to see and do outside in Paris. Doing a load of dishes and going for a run will have to suffice as responsible enough.
Finding myself solo for the evening, I go exploring. I usually start off with a landmark of some sort and wander from there. Paris is a relatively safe city. Unless you are a lone woman at night, you can wander most places without the fear of violence. The worse violation you most likely will face is olfactory.
The omen this evening was meeting the neighbors in the hallway. This is unusual in Paris. Apparently, you only meet your neighbors accidently and try not to borrow sugar often. Walking down the stairs (I am on the 4th floor), I run into three neighbors and their dog (or a combination of neighbors, people that know them, and a dog). The person with the dog runs down the stairs ahead of me. As I approach the bottom, the dog is urinating on the stairs. This is not the accident of a puppy that knows it will be outside, but does not quite have control yet. No, this is the voluntary bladder relaxation of an adult dog who apparently consumed a gallon of water over the last hour.
Enchante.
“Ce n’est pas mon problem”, I continue and explore the side streets winding towards Concorde. A crepe is found and a beverage is purchased. Why they do not sell milk at the crepe store is perplexing. Milk and nutella crepes partner perfectly. Wandering continues.
As I started towards in area that is rather nice and come to often (free wifi), I was not expecting certain things. Have I mentioned that Paris is compact, and it really does not take long to get somewhere? Moving one small block in a new direction I find a min-red light district. I say mini, because I was not near the Moulin Rouge. I was also not expecting street workers.
There is some irony here, because in a lot of ways, it seemed like normal Paris. Cafés, wondering Parisians of all sorts, and gyro stands. However, there were also “DVD shops” and stores with an ominous lack of windows on the front. Or maybe this is promising? Depends on what you are looking for, I suppose.
It is about here that right now I wish something crazy happened, but it did not. I wander back into an area I recognize. It is marked by a “mini-arch”, for which the Parisian’s apparently have an affinity. Yes, certain aspects of America still root strong in my blood.
And thus I return home and pour a glass of water, study some French, and then drift off to sleep.
Finding myself solo for the evening, I go exploring. I usually start off with a landmark of some sort and wander from there. Paris is a relatively safe city. Unless you are a lone woman at night, you can wander most places without the fear of violence. The worse violation you most likely will face is olfactory.
The omen this evening was meeting the neighbors in the hallway. This is unusual in Paris. Apparently, you only meet your neighbors accidently and try not to borrow sugar often. Walking down the stairs (I am on the 4th floor), I run into three neighbors and their dog (or a combination of neighbors, people that know them, and a dog). The person with the dog runs down the stairs ahead of me. As I approach the bottom, the dog is urinating on the stairs. This is not the accident of a puppy that knows it will be outside, but does not quite have control yet. No, this is the voluntary bladder relaxation of an adult dog who apparently consumed a gallon of water over the last hour.
Enchante.
“Ce n’est pas mon problem”, I continue and explore the side streets winding towards Concorde. A crepe is found and a beverage is purchased. Why they do not sell milk at the crepe store is perplexing. Milk and nutella crepes partner perfectly. Wandering continues.
As I started towards in area that is rather nice and come to often (free wifi), I was not expecting certain things. Have I mentioned that Paris is compact, and it really does not take long to get somewhere? Moving one small block in a new direction I find a min-red light district. I say mini, because I was not near the Moulin Rouge. I was also not expecting street workers.
There is some irony here, because in a lot of ways, it seemed like normal Paris. Cafés, wondering Parisians of all sorts, and gyro stands. However, there were also “DVD shops” and stores with an ominous lack of windows on the front. Or maybe this is promising? Depends on what you are looking for, I suppose.
It is about here that right now I wish something crazy happened, but it did not. I wander back into an area I recognize. It is marked by a “mini-arch”, for which the Parisian’s apparently have an affinity. Yes, certain aspects of America still root strong in my blood.
And thus I return home and pour a glass of water, study some French, and then drift off to sleep.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
The Apartment
When living in Paris, and coming from the US, you must re-orient yourself in many ways. One of those ways is how and where you live.
The apartment is located in the Opera district overlooking the Opera Comique. The view is stellar. There is free classical music on performance nights. There is a quaint place with great croissants on the first floor. Living in central Paris gets you anywhere you want with short metro rides. The train to work is a 10 minute walk (or a really short metro ride).
There are downsides. Hot water lasts 15 minutes. The washer/dryer is more like a washer/steamer. “Furnished” is a loose term. The décor consists of Air France posters. The kitchen is “bachelor size.”
One more?
The second bedroom is an odd shape with weird features.
Oh, and I miss my dishwasher.
To complete the needed furniture, a trip to IKEA was made. Guests now have a choice of standard couch or one that transforms into something more bedlike. Steamed clothes have a place to relax and dry-off. Living out of a suitcase is no more. The “coat closet” is still under construction, but will soon be complete.
Overall, you learn to quickly forget what you are missing. The trades you make to live in the heart of the city are worth it. There is so much to do here in such a small and compact space. It seems like a few years may not be enough.
The apartment is located in the Opera district overlooking the Opera Comique. The view is stellar. There is free classical music on performance nights. There is a quaint place with great croissants on the first floor. Living in central Paris gets you anywhere you want with short metro rides. The train to work is a 10 minute walk (or a really short metro ride).
There are downsides. Hot water lasts 15 minutes. The washer/dryer is more like a washer/steamer. “Furnished” is a loose term. The décor consists of Air France posters. The kitchen is “bachelor size.”
One more?
The second bedroom is an odd shape with weird features.
Oh, and I miss my dishwasher.
To complete the needed furniture, a trip to IKEA was made. Guests now have a choice of standard couch or one that transforms into something more bedlike. Steamed clothes have a place to relax and dry-off. Living out of a suitcase is no more. The “coat closet” is still under construction, but will soon be complete.
Overall, you learn to quickly forget what you are missing. The trades you make to live in the heart of the city are worth it. There is so much to do here in such a small and compact space. It seems like a few years may not be enough.
Saturday, June 6, 2009
A Firemen Ascends
Returning home one evening, I find my front door and security door wide open. Thirty seconds later, after climbing the stairs, a fire truck pulls up my street.
There were some difficulties at first. My street is very narrow with cars parked on both sides. An illegally parked vehicle had to make way for the fire truck, which could not turn the corner without ruining this new Peugeot. This ballet brought horrors about what would happen if there actually was a fire. Paris apartments do not find fire escapes cost effective.
The next obstacle, clearly, was the apartment door. The front entrance was unhindered and held open, but the front door of the offending apartment was locked. No good. Thankfully, someone brought the ladder.
Go time. A fireman commands the truck to put down its four support legs. Ladder ready, it swings into action and shoots to the third floor window. A fireman ascends.
What is this? The window is latched from the inside. Hammer time. The fireman opens the latch and goes inside. The apartment door obstacle easily defeated.
The police arrive. One is brandishing a notebook. They talk to some of the firemen on scene. Situation assessed, they ascend the stairs.
Ladders are firefighter business.
There is some discussion in the hallway. The voices remain calm, but clearly something is not right. The police and fireman resolve the issue. No one originally in the apartment leaves. The police descend the stairs.
The fireman uses the ladder.
This story occurred May 29th ,2009.
There were some difficulties at first. My street is very narrow with cars parked on both sides. An illegally parked vehicle had to make way for the fire truck, which could not turn the corner without ruining this new Peugeot. This ballet brought horrors about what would happen if there actually was a fire. Paris apartments do not find fire escapes cost effective.
The next obstacle, clearly, was the apartment door. The front entrance was unhindered and held open, but the front door of the offending apartment was locked. No good. Thankfully, someone brought the ladder.
Go time. A fireman commands the truck to put down its four support legs. Ladder ready, it swings into action and shoots to the third floor window. A fireman ascends.
What is this? The window is latched from the inside. Hammer time. The fireman opens the latch and goes inside. The apartment door obstacle easily defeated.
The police arrive. One is brandishing a notebook. They talk to some of the firemen on scene. Situation assessed, they ascend the stairs.
Ladders are firefighter business.
There is some discussion in the hallway. The voices remain calm, but clearly something is not right. The police and fireman resolve the issue. No one originally in the apartment leaves. The police descend the stairs.
The fireman uses the ladder.
This story occurred May 29th ,2009.
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