So, How's Life in France?

The dentist’s foyer: perhaps Belle Époque architecture (late 19th century, prior to WWI).

Several friends have asked, “What’s it like in France?” My short answer is, “Wherever you are, there *you* are,” to paraphrase Confucius. I do in France as I would just about anywhere, albeit speaking more French.

I take walkabouts, daydream, write, edit, noodle on the guitar/piano, practice yoga, partake of artsy stuff (exhibits or events), read the news and weep or sometimes cheer, talk to friends to clear the cobwebs, dance, read poetry and prose, the usual. I’ve sussed out organic food shops, cheap places for doggie necessities (yes, we pick up poop in France) and have yet to avail myself of the hourly bike or electric car rentals in the vicinity.

Having recently replaced a defunct hard drive on my computer, I feel saturated with tech changes at present. (I group “figuring out the credit system on public bikes and cars” under the heading “tech project.”) The mind-boggling side of technology makes for a seamless cross-cultural mystery.

But some things are different, like how business is done. Say opening a bank account. Or my more recent experience, replacing a lost ATM card. In the US, I would have phoned an anonymous bank center—perhaps talking to someone in India—to place a hold on my card, then driven to the nearest branch, popped inside and walked out in under half an hour with a replacement card from someone I didn’t know.

Here, I email my personal bank representative with my problem (the bank charges for phone calls by the minute). The next business day, I walk Louie across town to talk to my representative. But it’s Monday and he’s off, luckily another bank rep can put a stop payment on my card on his behalf. She suggests withdrawing cash with her help (something that hadn’t occurred to me). It turns out the replacement card will take well over a week to arrive. When it does arrive, Louie will enjoy another stroll to the bank with me to pick it up.

Like banking, US healthcare seems more impersonal than in France.
Following the Henry-Ford-assembly-line-healthcare model, in the US: person A takes blood pressure, person B takes your history, person C listens with a stethoscope, person D visits for three minutes and prescribes a remedy. US cost for this? If you’re lucky and have a copay, maybe $25-$35. Without insurance $120 minimum. Not so here, where the doc does it all, answers when you phone the office (no receptionist) and handles money, too. Office visit cost? Twenty-five euros. Homeopathic consultations at the pharmacy are free.

Today, I went for one of my bi-annual dental cleanings. As I buzzed the dentist’s door, a young man in jeans and a knit slouchy beanie cap darted in behind me and asked if I was going to the dental office. I said yes and he said, “It’s this way,” and bounded up the stairs. I followed easily as I’m used to trekking up and down my twelve flights at home. He nipped into the office and then into a back room.

The receptionist-dental assistant appeared. After I filled out paperwork, she said I needed a full 360 x-ray. “How much might that be?” I asked, bracing for the number. Twenty euros. If you’ve ever had dental x-rays in the US, twenty dollars (roughly the equivalent in terms of absolute value) does not begin to pay for the little paper cup by the dental sink spittoon never mind x-rays.

Memory foam made the ergonomic red vinyl dental chair comfy. Adding to that comfort—no television blasting anywhere. The young gent who had shown me the way to the office appeared without his knit cap and introduced himself as the dentist. He took up the hygienist pick and spray device saying that in France, that’s how it’s done. No hygienist. The procedure was efficient and the solicitous dentist handed me a paper towel to wipe my face after I rinsed and spat out the lemony cleaner.

I paid a total of sixty-four euros and change for the visit, of which twenty was for the x-rays. And the assistant-receptionist soundly counseled me to submit it all to insurance. I didn’t have the heart to tell her that effective dental insurance is a rare if not extinct bird in the US. About to leave, I paused to inquire if there were any cavities. The dentist looked astounded that I should ask and said, “Why, I would have told you if there had been. It’s all fine.”

So not only are my teeth fine, but I’m left with a sense that medical professionals actually know their patients. Furthermore, in the waiting room, I sat with a lovely couple and their three-month old baby. The mom wore a hijab and the dad was doing all the hands-on parenting. Another dental patient, a French woman, and I both made goo-goo eyes at the baby whilst waiting and reading in an otherwise quiet room (no commercial bombardment, no Muzak).

In other words, I felt myself in a civilized world, one of harmonious, and indeed loving, co-existence between all. And that, to me, is what it’s like in France. And yet, that feeling, couldn’t it be right there where you are? 

Louie meditating.