Not my grandkids, but sorta cute.

Hugless in France
(written several years ago as I now have 5, almost 6 grandchildren)

One thing that is hard for me while living in Paris is that I can’t see my family as much as I used to. I miss my parents and my children a lot but, except for new hair cuts or hair colors or maybe a little weight loss or gain, they don’t change from time to time like my grandchildren do. If you miss just a month out of their lives, especially in the first two or three years, you miss so much. I especially miss their chubby little arms around my neck in a hug that only grandchildren can give. Between the time I saw my two oldest grandsons they went from being toddlers to little boys. It happened so quickly. My newest grandson, Jackson, was just starting to lift his head and look around curiously when I last saw him. I could already see his little personality developing in between his feedings and naps. Since then he has learned to crawl and is pulling himself up on furniture getting ready to walk. And I have missed it all.
Thank God for computers and telephones. I talk to my children about once a month but a lot more often via the Internet. I often get photos of the two oldest grandsons, Cooper and Evin, e-mailed to me and Evin has his own web site that his Dad set up which I visit often and see new photos posted so I feel like I am in their lives a little bit. At least I see some of the changes taking place. I’m looking forward to the time when they get old enough to exchange e-mails with me. Since Cooper will be starting first grade soon, that probably won’t be much longer.
Because Jackson isn’t a year old yet, he and his parents haven’t been here to visit me. I know I wouldn’t want to make that long trip with a baby. Cooper and Evin, however, have been here with their parents. Their mother made sure they watched Rug Rats in Paris so when they came they were all primed for the sights. Evin said, “I’m going to Parwis and I’m going to see the Eiffel Towwar.” They loved the Eiffel Tower and were surprised at how large it was. I made all sort of plans to entertain them. The first thing we had to do, even though they were 3 and 5, was to buy umbrella strollers as they weren’t used to walking so much. After that they were fine. They would happily climb in the strollers when we set off.
It was December when they came for a visit and our first visit was to Galeries LaFayette and Printemps to look at the fabulous window decorations animated with such characters as mice and cats. Red lights hung above the sidewalk and were wrapped around every tree. Christmas is a fantastic time to see Paris.
I had read about Deyrolle, a store full of stuffed animals. As you are walking by on the street your eye will suddenly be caught by a zebra or horse in the window. It changes monthly. I thought my grandsons would enjoy this so we entered and climbed the stairs where we were met by a pair of lions looking real but a little moth eaten. This place was started in the 1800’s before there was television, computers, or encyclopedias, and few zoos, and people wanted to see what a certain animal looked like. Sometimes one of the stuffed animals will be rented out for a party or a fashion shoot. You can see an ostrich, sea turtle, bear or tiger. We saw domestic animals as well. There are old fashioned wooden cases filled with drawers you pull out full of collections of beetles or butterflies. The floor is ancient and has dips and tilts all over the place but it adds to the ambiance. It is all fascinating to me and my grandsons liked it, too. We could buy a butterfly in a little display frame or a book about animals. It seems to me to be something that is uniquely Parisian and I like the feeling of going back in time when I enter.
Being boys they also enjoyed a boat trip down the Seine, a climb up the Arc de Triomphe, as well as the Eiffel Tower. We ran out of time before I could take them down to see the Catacombs or do a tour through the sewer system. There will still be a lot to do the next time they come to visit.
Maurice has twin grandchildren almost five years old now named Tom and Lola. They are so cute and help fill the void for the desire to be around my grandsons. Of course, they don’t speak a word of English, although they can mimic a word or phrase perfectly like little parrots. They aren’t quite sure what to make of me but they always seem glad to see me and when we are walking down a street they will hold my hand. Lola is just starting to figure out relationships and has realized that Maurice was once married to one of her grandmothers. She asked him recently why I didn’t speak French, so she is starting to understand. Tom doesn’t seem as interested in all of the inner workings of the modern family. It is a source of frustration to me that both of them have been able to talk circles around me in French since they were three. They rattle off sentences to me and, if I am lucky, I can pick up a word or two and know what they are talking about. Tickling is universal and I can make them laugh. I can look at their toys or art work and say, in my bad French, “This painting you did is so beautiful!”.
I learned very quickly how to say “Stop!” just in case they do something that scares me such as getting too near a street. We were at a huge park once with Tom and Lola and their parents. Suddenly, none of us could see Tom. He had totally disappeared. In the States if this happens, the parents go berserk, thinking the worse, racing around madly trying to find the child. Here, the father just mildly set off, not upset at all. He did find Tom but I was surprised that the parents weren’t more panicked. The same thing happened with Lola on a packed street in the Marais. We found her talking to a lady. Neither she, nor her mother were upset.
I live in fear that I will be left alone with them and something will happen where they have to communicate with me and I won’t be able to help them. I baby sat them the other day by myself which I agreed to as they were both taking a nap. I sat there the whole time praying they wouldn’t wake up. Maurice wants them to start staying with us for longer periods of time. I always say, “Fine. As long as you never leave me alone with them.” They are used to staying with baby-sitters and relatives as their parents have to go all over the world frequently for business trips so they wouldn’t be crying for their parents the whole time. Until I am a lot more fluent I sort of stay on the periphery not really involved with them which doesn’t stop them from talking to me. They are cute kids.
As might be expected, French children eat differently here. There are hundreds of foods and drinks I have never heard of such as Banania, a type of chocolate breakfast drink full of vitamins-not bananas as I thought at first seeing the box. Maurice’s grandchildren happily eat cheeses that I don’t think my grandchildren would touch. Macaroni and cheese or tacos with cheese on top is probably where their knowledge of cheese stops. One day I was serving myself some cheese from a wedge of Brie while Lola carefully watched. I made the mistake of cutting my piece off the pointed edge. I was informed by Lola that you only cut cheese off of the side. Who knew?
When Tom and Lola were younger I noticed that they would always have their baths before being fed dinner. Then they would eat and make the usual mess children make when they eat and, also, have to have their diapers changed. This didn’t make sense to me. Why not save the major cleaning for when it is all over? I used to use baths to help make my children sleepy, too, so they would go to sleep more easily when their bed time came. I’m not sure if the bath thing with Tom and Lola is something just in their family or if it is common in all French families.
I haven’t noticed a whole lot of difference in child care between Americans and French. I often pass two year olds on the streets here in Paris having a “meltdown” and screaming. I haven’t seen parents swat their children on the streets but I have seen the twins get spanked at home. The French parents seem fairly strict here with instant reaction if something naughty is done by the child. I would say, just from my observations, that American children “get away” with a lot more.
There is also a big difference in how the French dress their children. I see little babies in the winter dressed in heavy snowsuits so well lined that the poor kids can’t bend their arms or turn their heads, which are covered in thickly woven hats. When I see one of these miniature snowmen on the subway or train, which are always very warm, I don’t know how they stand it. My grandsons would start squirming and crying in misery. I’ve never seen such hot blooded people as my grandsons. There is no way they can even be dressed in winter pajamas. They wake up crying and miserable if their bedrooms aren’t at arctic levels. When the temperature in Paris gets below 70 degrees I see mothers dressing their children in hats and coats. I guess if you are dressed like that all of your life you become used to stifling rooms, buses and metros. I just remember pulling a hat off of one of my children when they were infants and their little heads would be sweating like crazy. Once again, it’s a cultural thing.
There are wonderful clothing stores for children in Paris and they are found in great numbers everywhere. For those with money to burn, designer clothing stores are available. I always had trouble spending much money on clothing for my children when I knew they would either ruin it while eating or drinking or outgrow it in a matter of months. For my grandchildren I head for more affordable stores where I can find things that won’t be seen in the States. I got a little T-shirt for Jackson with a rabbit holding a watch hurrying somewhere and it said, “Je suis retard!” which means “I am late!” but, being an American, I thought it would get double takes from people in the States wondering about the word “retard”. I have to stay out of the stores because it is so easy to overspend. Everything is so cute and stylish.
I look forward to the time when my grandchildren are old enough to come spend a summer with me. I think I will love seeing France through their young eyes. And I won’t have to worry about dressing them for winter.

Turkey-less in France

Of course, they have turkeys in France. I start seeing them in boucheries in November, many of them with the heads still attached to long necks and a fan of gray tail feathers arching over the prone body or hanging by their feet above a counter, the head drooping down on the streched out neck. I haven’t bought one in this state, but I assume they chop off the head and feet and pull out the tail feathers, if you desire. The turkeys look a little scrawny to me. You won’t see fat bodies looking plumb and juicy and, if like the Butterball Turkies I used to buy, injected under the skin with oil and probably given body enhancing hormones as it was growing, rather like many athletes wanting muscles fast in half the time.
I miss Butterball Turkeys. I never had a dry turkey baking them in my days back in the States. I loved cutting into the breast and seeing juices flow, even if those juices weren’t there naturally. I read an article recently about a French chef who wasn’t happy with turkey on the menu. He said for the turkey legs to be well done, the breast meat would end up dry so he cooked them separately chopping up the leg meat and incorporating it into a separate dish and then searing the breast before finishing cooking it on a rotisserie. He still wasn’t happy with it at the end. I guess turkey is the Mae West of fowl, a little too top heavy.
Last Christmas my son and his family were here and I decided to cook a turkey meal for them as this is the traditional time for turkey here in France. At Thanksgiving time there are fewer turkeys available and the butchers tell you that they aren’t very plump at this time of the year - that there is a better selection in December. When Maurice and I went to buy a turkey we had to preorder it a few days in advance as a large supply wasn’t kept where we shopped. They asked if we wanted it stuffed. “With what?” I asked Maurice. I didn’t think they would have the traditional Southern corn bread dressing that I was used to in the States. I was right. Due to a lack of communication, we ended up with some sort of meat stuffing that also had chestnuts in it. As soon as I brought the turkey out of the oven, I could tell by the odor that I wouldn’t like the taste of the stuffing, and I didn’t. It just didn’t have the taste I like with turkey. Maurice liked it but he was the only one.
There is a store here called Picard that sells only frozen food. It sounded rather strange to me and I wondered how it could stay in business but once I tasted their food, I understood. Everything was fabulous from the Coquilles St. Jacques to the Napoleons. You can even get frozen foie gros there and it tastes like you purchased it on a farm that day. Maurice decided to try their turkey and it came already stuffed with some sort of French dressing. I didn’t think I would like it, as there was meat of some kind incorporated into it, but it was really tasty with crunchy chestnuts and a little bread. I didn’t find any pumpkin pie at Picards, though. But there all sorts of wonderful holiday desserts to be had such as Busche Noel, a little roll of cake and chocolate frosting looking like a chocolate covered log and Galette de Roi, a pastry made with almond paste and a little figure of the Nativity baked inside. If you get the little figure in your piece of cake, you get to wear a crown and be King for a while.
I have tried to make my own cornbread so I could make a stuffing but the cornmeal is different than the brand I used to get and it came out tasting bitter. I assume, as is the case in many foods in America, the brand I used to get had some sugar in it. I like sweet corn bread, not bitter. So, I didn’t have my traditional stuffing that time. Now I go to a local shop here in Paris that sells food for Americans called Thanksgiving and buy either an American brand corn bread there, or just the good old Pettridge Farm Dressing mix. It’s not as good as home made dressing, but it tastes great to me.
Thanksgiving is an essential American holiday and such a time for family. The first year I was here in Paris, it was just Maurice and me and I roasted a chicken for the two of us. It was a good meal and all, but it just wasn’t the same without family around the table that was crowded with turkey and dressing, mashed potatoes and gravy, string beans, sweet potatoes made even sweeter with brown sugar and marshmallows, cranberry jelly wiggling in its can shape, and rolls with butter. There wasn’t a football game going on in the background and I didn’t have pumpkin pie waiting in the kitchen. I had a faint tinge of melancholy that day.
Last Thanksgiving I once again found myself in Paris with no family but this time six friends and Maurice and I got together and shared Thanksgiving. A friend, even though a vegetarian, baked a turkey and made stuffing, and sweet potatoes with apples. I brought mashed potatoes and others brought string beans and wine. We had a great time stuffing ourselves. I’m sure Maurice must have sat there,as I have at many meals with French people,and wondered what in the world he was doing sitting with a bunch of Americans eating a Thanksgiving meal. I’m not even sure if he is aware of all that Thanksgiving is to us. But he seemed to have a good time and I know he loves the food served on this day. He can’t eat the sweet potatoes with marshmellows on top, though. They are too sweet for him.
Next year I want to be in America on Thanksgiving and have my children and grandchildren sitting at the same table as we dig into the moist turkey and talk and laugh and keep track of the Dallas Cowboys playing a football game in the background. I may have a small glass of eggnog before the meal, and I will surely have a slice a pumpkin pie afterwards even though I know I shouldn’t. I may live in Paris now, but some things I still have to experience back in the States.

This is the metro entrance at Palais Royal at Place Colette. It was done for the Millenium and is made of hand blown glass from Murano Italy.

Ground-Less in France

The metro stops in Paris always, for the most part, fascinate me. I often sit there on the train as we come to stops and wonder how they came up with some of the names. Most, as you would think, are named after the street they are on or a major site nearby and the names are so interesting such as Stalingrad, Chemin Vert, Télégraphe, Picpus, Chateau d’Eau. I often want to get off and look to see where the names have come from. I’m sure French people know all about the history behind most names. I believe there is even a book out that would increase my knowledge, I just haven’t found one in English yet. It is part of the charm of Paris to see these names and be intrigued by them.
I have a few favorite metro stops. The Louvre Rivoli stop is full of carvings and sculptures such as the ones you will be seeing if you proceed inside to the museum. It is very classy and cultural and I’m wondering if they are copies as they are exposing them to those monsters that do the graffiti in the metro lines. The metro stop at Hotel de Ville at one time had a lot of interesting copies of paintings and photographs done through the years of events occurring at the Hotel including a beheading. I like looking at copies of paintings or drawings done many years ago and look at the style of clothing they wore or what transportation was being used or how the area surrounding the Hotel de Ville has changed. These pictures show pieces of history of this interesting and sometimes brutal city. Then one day, they were all gone and replaced with the history of many of the names of metro stops. I just have to remember to take my French dictionary so I can translate it all.
At Gare de Lyon, a metro stop for a train station, the stop has been made of gigantic columns of iron riveted together and painted bright yellow. It was designed by Eiffel, the man responsible for the Eiffel Tower. I don’t like this metro stop as it is very large and getting to another line always involves a long walk, but I enjoy going into the train station and looking at all of the trains sitting ready to head off into other parts of France and I love a restaurant here called Le Train Bleu that is a step back in time when people who traveled by train wanted luxury as they waited. This restaurant has high vaulted ceilings with scenes from all the parts of France that Gare de Lyon services. There are also gilded cherubs, lace curtains and bathrooms with dark wood doors and old marble sinks. A resident cat who usually sleeps in seldom used rooms. I like to take friends here for a drink and we all sit there amazed at the beauty of it.
One line, number 14, doesn’t have an engineer driving the train. It is all done automatically. The train track at the stop is covered over with a glass tube so people can’t get to the track (there are suicide attempts occasionally on the train tracks). You can get in the front car and sit at the window where the engineer once would have sat and watch the train whiz through the tunnels. The stops themselves are all new and clean with pink marble floors and what looks like tropical gardens behind glass. There is always a bad odor in the stops and in the trains on this line. I’ve heard it’s because the line is so far underground and near “wet” smelling soil and that everything mildews in the moisture or that it is so far underground it is near subterranean gas pockets. I’ve heard it is the fuel used by the trains. I don’t know. It’s just part of the experience of riding on line 14.
My favorite stop of all the Arts et Métiers on line 11 and which is lined entirely with copper. At first I thought it had been constructed to look like a submarine because there are round “windows” and rivets everywhere but above the track are gigantic models of gears and I found that it was supposed to be similar to being inside an engine. The stop is named after a fabulous and interesting museum, one of my favorites. I also like the Abesses stop for all of the wall paintings done by local artists. If you are feeling energetic you can climb the extremely long curving flight of stairs and be charmed by the art work. I delight in the metro entrance there, too, as it is one of two original remaining done by Guimaud in the art deco style.
I have seen a few fights on the metro lines. Twice I have seen men get into fist fights but they aren’t brutal. I guess, in the phrase I’ve heard my son use, they fight like girls with slapping and flapping their hands, but no fists. The most frightening time was when a homeless man boarded when I was on a train one morning. He was one of those scary ones who make eye contact and are belligerent. A young black man sat across the aisle from me and didn’t seem to be bothered by what the man was saying to him. I say he didn’t seem to be, but that was wrong as he suddenly stood up and did a karate kick right into the man’s head. The man went down in the aisle and the young man continued to kick him. Finally, someone got up and talked to him and he stopped. When the train pulled into the station he got off and went to a car several cars down. The homeless man stood up and actually looked around for his assailant hoping, I assume, to resume what he was saying. I was glad to get to my stop.
There are turnstiles to get into each metro station that require a ticket to get through. I often see young, and not so young, people jumping the gate. Sometimes someone will ask if they scoot in behind you and get in on your ticket. Sometimes they don’t ask and suddenly there is some guy behind you with his body pressed against yours which can be startling. Occasionally, there are security police waiting out of sight to give tickets to those not having tickets and the guilty are given large fines. If you let someone go through the stile with you, you get a fine, too. One time a young man in his 20’s tried to get through the gate with my husband and Maurice told him to go and buy his own ticket. We went on down to the waiting area for the train but soon the guy showed up. He had been drinking and started yelling at Maurice. Maurice told me later that he was threatening to push him in front of the train when it arrived. Maurice stood up to him, though, because he feels like people like this get away with threatening and the other person backs down. I was afraid the guy was going to attack Maurice and I got my purse ready to swing if he did. My purse is not a small dainty thing but back pack size and I have it loaded with so many things that I could do serious damage by using it as a weapon. Luckily, I didn’t have to. The guy eventually moved on down the line although he continued to yell things at us.
There are several metro stops that I hate and I often get out my metro map to see if I can avoid them. One is Chatelet which is huge, dirty, filled with people standing around looking like drug dealers to me and lots of teen-agers heading for the Les Halles shopping mall. If you don’t know which street exit you need you can be doomed to roam about for hours and start wondering if this will be another stanza in that song from the 60’s by the Kingston Trio in which they stated, “He Never Returned”. I was once looking for the St Eustache exit and found myself in the shopping mall when I took the wrong exit. Roaming around looking for exits, or sorties as they say here, I finally saw the cathedral through a window and was able to make my way there some time later.
I hate the Franklin D. Roosevelt stop as well. It looks like it hasn’t been touched since the 50’s to me, either by designers or cleaners. It is always dirty with water stains running down the walls and sagging ceilings. They were doing some sort of work there for a while and dozens of black electrical wires were just hanging there all within reach of anyone wanting to touch them. The ceilings are really low and give me a feeling of claustrophobia although I have never experienced this before in my life.
Montparnasse is a huge underground space. I think most of the population of Paris could use this as a bomb shelter if the need ever arose. One day I had an appointment on Blvd. Montparnasse. I thought I had given myself plenty of time. I got off of line 4 and started walking. And walking. After a while I came to one of those moving sidewalks. I was really running late by now so I moved to the left and started walking as fast as I could. I came to the exit I needed 10 minutes later. The area I came out to was also huge and confusing and I couldn’t even tell where Blvd. Montparnasse was as there were so many roads taking off from the roundabout. Luckily, the person I was meeting for my appointment was running late. After that, when I had to be at Montparnasse I took another metro line that involved changing twice so I could arrive closer to the exit I needed.
Then one day I read that a new “moving sidewalk” had been installed under Montparnasse. They were calling it the TGV People Mover. Well I thought this could be interesting. It apparently had been under study for years and had cost a fortune to build. As I had yet another appointment that day I decided to give it a try. Before I reached it I still had a ten minute walk but then I came to the old moving sidewalk area I had used before. And there it was looking rather like something out of Star Trek, all gleaming silver metal and flashing blue lights. At the entrance stood 8 young men there to help the uninitiated. I didn’t see them say or do a thing as the poor naive people about to launch themselves into the unknown went to the entrance.
I saw, at my feet, about 20 feet of thin, metal rollers whirling and turning. I stepped on and immediately grabbed the handle strip on the side as it was like suddenly being on skates. I wobbled and slipped around like a 5 year old on skates for the first time. A woman was in front of me and as she approached the flat rubber moving sidewalk there was a little hump. She almost went down. I decided to hop over the hump and as I landed the fast moving surface I came close to going down myself. Thank God I was wearing jogging shoes. I hoped if anyone approached this thing at the beginning wearing high heels that those helpful young men would direct them to the still present slow moving sidewalk.
Soon we were whizzing along. It was rather cool to pass the people slowly moving along side us like a Mercedes passing a Deux Chavaux on the motor way. Maybe this wasn’t so bad. Then I saw another little hump coming up and there were signs flashing in red and yellow to stop walking. I saw the same lady in front of me wobble and clutch the side. My heart started beating as if I were on a roller coaster getting near the top of the hill knowing that a horrible drop off was on the other side. I grasped the side handle with both hands deciding to “take” the little hump instead of jumping it. I went over and suddenly it was as if I was on ice. I gave a little scream and hung on tightly. A man next to me was doing the same thing and we exchanged glances that said, “Can you believe this?”. He said something in French but I have no idea what he said. Probably it was similar to what I was thinking - never again.
So that was it. My heart beating in my chest I staggered up the metro steps into the sun thankful to be alive. I plan on making two metro line changes the next time I come to Montparnasse. Maybe they should call this thing the TGV People Eater. The next time I was in this metro stop the “People Eater”had been shut down, and continued to be so 3 months later. I think I was not the only one to feel it was dangerous.

Gown-Less in France

I had been living in Paris for about 6 months when I had to make an appointment with a French doctor to get a prescription for my allergy medicine. My husband came with me as a translator. I can get by in a grocery store buying tomatoes, or a pharmacy buying aspirin, but I wasn’t sure I could get medical terms across using hand signals, bad French and a hope that the doctor would understand some English.
The doctor’s office, strangely, turned out to be above a store selling fish. After a trip up a tiny elevator, we walked into a door and saw a sign directing us to a sitting room. There was no receptionist handing out forms to fill, just a small hot sitting room filled with bored patients and French magazines. The doctor himself came and got each patient as it was their turn. As in the States, he was thirty minutes behind, but it wasn’t too long before we sat across from him at his desk. He was a handsome looking man with gray hair and scholarly looking glasses giving him a distinguished air. He said he spoke English but, if he did, I never heard it. He asked questions in French, Maurice translated back and forth between us and the doctor put the information directly into a computer at his desk.
It didn’t start off too badly. He understood that I was allergic to everything green that made pollen and wrote out a prescription on his computer for my medication.
Then he asked about other medications I might want. When I mentioned Premarin he brightened up and pointed out the sign behind his desk. It turned out he was a Gynecologist. He insisted we walk right over to his examination table so he could check me out. It was directly behind us partially hidden by a wall. My husband was left sitting at the desk and the doctor took me over to the table. He told me to take off my jeans and underwear, and had me lie down on the table to which he attached some stirrups in which to place my feet. He did the exam with no nurse, no sheet to cover up top or bottom, no breast exam and he just mashed around on my stomach, did a quick look with a speculum with no gloves. When he went back to the desk, where he had left Maurice, he didn’t wash his hands. Oh my God! No nurse, no hand washing, no privacy. This was medicine in France?
Well, I didn’t die and I did get the prescriptions for the medications I needed. At least I didn’t have to mail my own pap smear test as some of my friends have had to that live here in Paris.
A few weeks later I was due for an x-ray of my back. My trusty translator was supposed to meet me there. I got there first and when they called my name to go back, Maurice hadn’t shown up. I thought I could handle it. What could go wrong?
So, the lady got me back to a little room and said, “Blah, blah, blah, Madam.” Somehow I knew that she wanted me to take my clothes off. I saw what looked like the belt to a terry cloth robe hanging on a hook on the wall. “Is there a robe for me to wear?” “Pardon?” I started doing pantomimes showing me trying to cover my body with my hands and then pulling on a robe.
“Blah, blah, blah, non,” she said.
” What?”, I thought, ” but, I’m an American. I must have something to cover myself with.” I tried to get this across with my bad French but no matter how I tried I soon came to understand that it didn’t matter how much I wanted one, there wasn’t one. I had my cell phone and quickly called Maurice. “Maurice, where are you?” He was about 10 minutes away trying to get to the radiologist as quickly as possible. “Maurice, they won’t give me anything to cover up with!” Of course, there was nothing he could do from his metro seat.
I obviously had no choice so I took everything off and shyly stepped out to the room where Atilla (I called her that in my mind) waited. She directed me over to the oldest looking x-ray machine I have ever seen. I guess Americans are used to the newest, latest, most expensive machinery there is when we get procedures done. I had a feeling this thing was probably made the same year I was born, but I got up on the little platform anyway. I understood the words left and right, and inhale and exhale were understandable so we got the x-rays done. I was sure that, while the procedure was being done, the door would open and a strange man would walk in, probably to sweep the floors, or a male patient would be walking by and get a good look. I really felt rather traumatized. Neither of these things happened and in a few minutes I was dressed and back out in the waiting room where Maurice now waited. He told me that he had talked to the lady at the desk and that patients were never given gowns for x-rays; that they had to be able to see “landmarks” to know where to direct their machines. “Well, we wear gowns in America and they don’t have any problems finding ‘landmarks’!” I said rather crabbily.
Well, I didn’t die and I got the x-ray, which, by the way are yours for life. You never leave them at some doctor’s office but take them to whatever doctor you will be seeing. I have some x-rays of my teeth from the dentist, too.
Later I talked to a Belgian friend who had lived in the States for many years telling her about my episodes with the Gynecologist and the Radiologist. She told me that, being European, she would go in to see her Gynecologist in France and as he asked her questions she would undress in front of him putting her clothes on the chair, they would walk over to the examining table where he would do his examination (without a nurse) and then she would get dressed again.
When she moved to the States and had her first appointment there, a nurse led her to a changing closet inside the examination room, told her to get undressed and handed her a sheet. My friend was totally mystified as to what the sheet was for, so being enterprising, she rolled the sheet up into a little roll, got on the examining table and put it behind her neck. The nurse walked into the room and gave a little scream and said, “What are you doing? Cover yourself up!” My friend was shocked and puzzled. It took her a minute to understand exactly what the nurse wanted.
Maurice informed me one day that they were offering free mammograms at various locations in France. I considered getting one for about five minutes but after the traumatic experience of just getting a chest x-ray, I decided there was no way I was ready for one. I was made doubly sure of this when a friend told me of her mammogram in France. It was done by a man. She had to undress and walk through two rooms to reach the machine. He stood her in front of it, then went behind her, put his body next to hers and his arms around her and guided her breasts into the machine as he wanted them. She was a little shocked at first but said it was less painful than some mammograms she has had in the States. I just can’t do it. I had no idea that my streak of puritanism ran so deep.
I’m sure there are many other tales in the Naked City, to use an American metaphor. I had no idea there would be so many differences. I hope I never have to go for surgery or be admitted to a French hospital. That would be interesting, to say the least. I wonder if French patients in hospitals get gowns?

Some beautiful tulips I saw in Paris.

French Kissless In France

You would think if a foreigner lived in America for ten years that not only would their command of the English language be great but that their comprehension of English would also be excellent. I don’t know if Maurice is the model of a French person who has lived in the States, but, even though he is very fluent in English, his comprehension is less than perfect. It’s especially bad at a play or if we are in a group of people. He has to really focus or he can lose track of what is being talked about. I imagine that sometimes he is as clueless in a group of Americans as I am with a group of French people. Granted, he does have a much larger vocabulary than I do.
We have had to resign ourselves to a lifetime often not understanding what the other has said. Our most commonly used word is, “What?” Sometimes I get irritated at having to repeat myself and just stand there without saying anything because I have learned that when Maurice says, “What?” he has actually heard me. Usually if I don’t respond right away his brain processes what I have said and then he will answer or respond.
When I say, “What?” to him it is usually, when he is speaking English, and that -because of his accent- I don’t understand what he has said. He pronounces most words correctly but every once in a while he says a word and I have no idea what he is talking about. Sometimes I just have to think a moment and remember the context of the discussion and then I can figure out what he said. There are some words he says wrong each time. Check book is one. He always says book check. And he keeps calling his wallet a purse. I always say, “Maurice, you don’t want to call your wallet that in the States. You will get strange looks.” Every once in a while he will say “sweeter” instead of “sweater.” He will also say, “That was worst than before” but is starting to correct himself.
All of this leads me to the conclusion that no matter how much I study and learn French, I will never reach a high level of comprehension of what I hear. And there is no question that I will ever speak French very well. I can say just one word in French and the French know immediately that I am American. Just ordering Coca Light, as they call Diet Coke here, will usually get me an answer from the waiter in English. I was very proud of myself when I learned how to say that I wanted a glass of white wine. Imagine my surprise when, once after I had ordered it, that the waiter returned with a cup of hot green tea. I’m still not sure what he understood but I learned to slow way down when I order it or just to simply say, “Chablis.”
When I was in America with Maurice and he would say something in English to an American they would immediately look at me to repeat what he had said. I got used to that quickly. Now I have this experience in the exact opposite way, when a French person looks at Maurice for translation after I have attempted some French. I must say though that the French often seem pleased that I am at least attempting to speak French. Sometimes Maurice will be rattling along in French to someone while I am standing at his side. I can see them give me a glance wondering why I am so silent. Often Maurice will then explain to them that I am an American and don’t know any French. I now correct him and tell the listening person that I know a little French. At least I can understand that much.
I got a kick out of the many words that I was surprised that Maurice had never heard of before. He did not recognize French dressing in the States. What he would call a French dressing would be vinaigrette - closer to the bottled Italian dressing - not the creamy orange dressing that Americans think of as French. Once I said I was going to put my hair up in a French Twist. “What’s that?” he asked. Of course, that might have just been a male thing as not many men pay attention to hairstyles or what they are called.
Then there is the saying, “French kiss.” He had never heard of that either. When I explained it to him, of course he knew what the type of kiss was, but he didn’t have any idea, nor did I, why it is called a French kiss. I did look it up on the Internet and learned that the saying started being used in the 1920’s, probably by the English who also called syphilis the French disease. They considered the French then, and probably still do, to be over-sexed and too open about it. When I asked Maurice what a French kiss was called in France he came up with some slang word that has to do with rolling or unrolling the tongue. Maurice’s son, being of an earlier generation and knowing a lot of American slang, knows the phrase French kiss.
Almost any colloquialism that I use will get a “What?” from Maurice. I had never been aware of how many I used until I was around him. I always have to stop and explain what they mean. France has many similar ones. I, of course, never hear them, but Maurice has told me of some such as “walking along side your shoes” that means someone doesn’t know what they are doing. A lot of our sayings about cats are known in France except Maurice had never heard, “As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs”. One day I used the expression, “Holy Cow,” then a week later I guess Maurice thought he would use it, but couldn’t remember the correct animal and said, “Holy Cat!” I’ve had to explain, “Whatever fries your chicken” and “Put the pedal to the metal” and “Flip a u-ie here.” The list goes on and on and I say something new to him at least once a day.
I still remember trying to tell some French people that I had had a fun time with them that evening. I asked Maurice, “How do you say fun?” and he replied, “Chouette” that, I came to find out, does mean fun but also is a word for owl. It sounds like “schweat” which rhymes with sweat and for some reason I love to say it. Plus, it just seems so strange to me to use a word that means owl to say fun. At least it is one word that I never forget. It turns out to be an old-fashioned word not used very much by younger people who say something is “cool” if it is fun.
Before we were married and still in Austin, Maurice called me at work. I was standing right next to the phone when a colleague answered it and I saw the look of incomprehension on her face. She finally understood that Maurice was asking to speak to me. He has trouble pronouncing my maiden name smoothly. I’ve heard other French people have the same problem. Of course, it was a year before I came close to pronouncing his last name. Part of the sound in his name is not a known sound in English. I can’t even form the proper shape with my mouth to say it. I was always saying to Maurice, “How do you say our last name again. I’m getting closer to getting it correct but I’m sure any French people will always hear my accent.
So, Maurice and I spend quite a bit of time not really understanding each other. When we were first together Maurice would give the impression that he understood what I was saying. I would go on to other things thinking that something was handled only to find out that he hadn’t had a clue as to what I was saying. I have learned, when he remains quiet when I am finished speaking, that he often hasn’t really understood me and that if I ask him he will admit so. I have to double check things a lot for my peace of mind. And, I know that if our conversations were being carried on in French I would be the one not knowing all that was being said. I was once complaining to a friend that Maurice never understood me because he was French and she said, in her thick Southern accent, “Hell, Honey, it’s not that he doesn’t understand because he’s French. He doesn’t understand because he’s a man!” I think she has a point there.

These cats and dogs, all on leashes, were with a homeless man. They all seemed well fed and healthy and they all loved him. He let me take the photo if I gave him some money for pet food.

Border-Less in France

A lot of people, I have heard, get married in order to gain the proper papers, if not a passport, to live in a foreign country. I remember seeing a movie called Green Card about this very thing. That wasn’t what I had in mind when I married Maurice. He was the one who suggested we apply for French citizenship for me. We started the process in Texas at the French consulate in Houston. Like everything done in France, it required all sorts of paperwork and copies of everything that had anything to do with my life in America -such as divorce papers- and then, it all had to be translated into French. We made a special trip to Houston twice to get everything signed and submitted. Before we could even start the process, we had to have been married for a year, which we were.
I did find out that I didn’t have to give up my citizenship in America to become a French citizen, which I’m not sure I could have done in any case. I thought it would be rather cool to be a citizen of both countries by-passing the long lines of American tourists at immigration at Charles de Gaulle terminal or, in fact, any country now in the European Union, to go the shorter French citizen line and show my French passport and then get to do the opposite when I arrived in the States.
Of course, there is more to being a French citizen than immigration lines. I can vote now. I will probably negate Maurice’s vote with mine, although there is no way I would have voted for Le Pen at the last election. He had some very strange ideas on how to run France which seemed to have a lot to do with kicking all of the immigrants out of the country, one of which would have been me. I heard that he was also married to an American. Anyway, he came off as a racist and I would have voted along with Maurice for Chirac. Maurice doesn’t like Chirac or his political beliefs. Every time we see Chirac on the television Maurice says, “Big Liar” but he held his nose and voted for him. I guess Maurice is what would be called a Socialist and that seems to be very close to an American Democrat. I always call him a “Pinko Commie” just to kid him. He and I don’t agree about political parties such as the Green Party and the things they do to get their point across and he laughs when I call them “tree huggers”.
One benefit of my new status as a French citizen is that I can run for political office if the desire ever arose. As this thought never entered my head in the United States I don’t think it is going to in France. I could even run for President of France. It doesn’t matter that I was not born in France as it does in the States. As a citizen of France I can seek asylum in a French embassy should the need ever arise. I guess now I could take my pick of the French or American Embassy if I find myself in trouble in a foreign country. And, I can have my name changed to something more French, if I wish. Maybe I should try Bridget. That sounds so French to me. Few French people can pronounce Linda. I am always called Leenda.
Being a citizen will give me access to the excellent medical system in France. I had this privilege already, simply by being Maurice’s wife but now I will always have access to it no matter what should happen in the future. I will get my own social security number and it will not be attached to Maurice’s. If, someday years from now, I should be really old and destitute, I will be given a certain amount of money each year for living expenses.
Prior to my citizenship, I did get what is called a Card de Sèjour. Maurice made that a priority as soon as we moved to Paris. It just made me “legal”, as a green card does with immigrants in the States. I could work with it, that is if I could have found a job that didn’t require me to be bilingual. With my qualifications and background I thought I could get a job as a nurse at the American Hospital here in Paris but when I called I was told I had to speak French to work there. I have heard that most of the doctors and patients there are French. I got to thinking about how stressful it is starting a new job in the operating room at some hospital in the States even with my fluency in English and imagined trying to work in some French operating room without being perfectly bilingual and how stressful that would be. Plus, every instrument, patient position, and medicine would not be familiar to me, even if I could speak French. So, I put that idea behind me.
When I finally got the paperwork that said everything was in order for me, I went to our local Mairie to become a citizen. Needless to say I was apprehensive. In the States, new citizens have to know the answers to some questions about American history and the workings of our laws and government, which requires some command of the English language. Who knows, even the recipe for apple pie may be required. New citizens have to take the Pledge of Allegiance and swear to uphold the laws and defend America against invaders. There is a special ceremony for all of this; sparklers might be supplied along with tiny American flags for the celebration. And after all this, the new American citizens have the privilege of being called for jury duty.
But I digress. Anyway, on my special day, I dressed up and went to the Mairie with Maurice where we entered an office, I signed a paper, and that was it. What a relief! I had spent the morning being terrified that someone was going to ask me some questions in French on French history or government, AND expect me to respond in French. As I thought about it I realized how little I knew about French history. Let’s see - Marie Antoinette was beheaded, Louis XIV had a lot of neat furniture designs named after him, and Chirac is a Big Liar. Would that be enough information?
Of course, now I must brace myself for the inevitable question: “You mean you are a French citizen and you don’t know how to speak French?” I think I am going to have to make more of an effort to be more fluent. It all seems a little overwhelming to me since I know how difficult it is. I will even have to learn the darn French anthem, La Marseille, which I understand is a little bloody and brutal. Surely every French citizen should be able to sing it. I can hum it, but I don’t think that counts.
Well, it turned out that I had dressed up and been nervous for nothing. There was no anthem or pledge; there were no questions; no one talking to me in French, no music, and no hand over my heart. But it worked. I am now a French citizen.