Hope everyone had a fabulous Thanksgiving. We had ravioli.
I had been noticing over the past few months that my hair had lost some of its natural highlights. This is probably due to the fact that Paris is pretty far north and the sun isn't as strong. So, I asked one of the few French women I know who has blonde highlights where she gets them done. As you can imagine, this is quite a dangerous question. First, you are telling this woman that you know she's a fraud. Second, you are admitting that you are a fraud. I was pretty sure I was safe, however, because this babe had dark brown roots (my roots are medium brown largely due, again, to the northern location of Paris). She was very happy to tell me all about highlights in France.
Apparently it is safer to have an organ transplant than to get your hair highlighted here. Since very few women have light-colored hair, very few of them want blonde highlights and, consequently, there are very few colorists who know how to make you look like a natural blonde. You could just as easily come out with orange or green hair, she told me. I thought about it later and realized that the only French blondes I've ever known were Brigitte Bardot (tramp) and Catherine Deneuve (icon, goddess, and even she's now a brunette).
She wrote down two phone numbers for me. Turns out it's quite a clandestine process to get your hair highlighted. She said to use her name if they gave me any trouble; if I called the second place, where they do brunette and red highlights as well, she said I should be sure to ask for a blonde specialist (I think I dated one of those in college).
Just to be safe, I called the first place. I got an appointment for the following week which I thought was pretty amazing. The place is called, I kid you not, Blondes. When I got there (it's down a little alley off a little street off another little street), I opened the door and.....
...it's a middle-aged Barbie factory!! The place is tiny; there are maybe four stations. In each chair was a woman between 40 and 70 at some stage of blondeness. Buzzing around them was Franck (the "c" is silent). Franck never actually looked me in the eye. He motioned me to a chair, picked up a few strands of my hair between thumb and forefinger, and looked at my roots, scowling furiously.
"What do you want?" he asked.
I stifled the impulse to be a smartass.
Instead, I apologized for my poor French and said I had recently arrived from the US.
"To see me, of course," he said.
"Of course," I replied.
"To become blonder," he said.
Quick on the uptake, that Franck.
He informed me that he would accept me as a client (apparently, making the phone call is only a first step), in spite of the fact that I did not have a small dog lying at my feet the way the other women did. A (blonde) assistant scurried over to prepare my hair.
When I was duly prepped, Franck returned with a palette and brushes! Sadly, no beret.
I had just started to relax and eavesdrop on the cellphone call of the woman next to me, when...
..."What ees thees?" Franck asked, jabbing his finger into my lap.
"A Kindle," I said.
"What ees thees Keendle?"
I explained the concept. Franck was outraged.
"You see thees? Thees Keendle?!" he shouted around the salon. His assistants all lowered their eyes and began furiously sweeping the floor. The other blonding women all looked up, terrified. It's not a good thing when your colorist is upset. Remember the orange and green?
"Eet will be the death of the library!" he shouted.
The four other middle-aged Barbies all murmured their agreement, shook their heads, and scowled at me. Eventually they went back to reading Vogue (not that they needed to).
"Where can I get one?" Franck whispered, clearly not quite as upset as he would have us believe.
Two hours later (without a hair cut; Franck only does blonde) I was out the door minus a down payment on a car. "You may come back in three months," he announced as I was leaving.
He did a fine job and I am pleased to report that I am back to my natural color.
dimanche 29 novembre 2009
dimanche 22 novembre 2009
November 22, 2009
French Dudes
French men (Frenchmen?) fall into distinct categories. First you have the presidential, corporate titan types. These are the ones you see in the movies; they are generally the size of Armand Assante and they dress in long cashmere coats, cashmere scarves, and expensive suits. They don't actually wear the coats of course; that's a sure sign of weakness. Instead, they drape them over their shoulders. You spot this species only occasionally during daylight hours; he is usually being driven somewhere in a black car with tinted windows. When he does venture out on the street during the day, he is distinguishable by his rapid walk, the cigarette dangling elegantly from his index and middle fingers, the full size umbrella, and the cellphone attached to his ear. He is usually scowling.
The really interesting ones are the middle management types. These fellows are everywhere. They ride the metro, the bus, and the free bicycles that are available throughout the city. They dress very, very badly. Typically very skinny suits (jacket sleeves often a tad too short), tangerine shirts, large horn-rimmed glasses, and an excess of gel in the hair. Jerry Lewis meets Buddy Holly. They also smoke, but they hold their cigarettes between the thumb and index finger. The distinguishing feature of the middle manager is his shoes. They are very long and very pointy. Combined with the skinny suit, this gives him the appearance of a court jester. Which is probably exactly right for a middle manager. The middle manager opts for one of two styles when it comes to winter coats: bathrobe (long and fuzzy, with a tie belt), or Eastern European mobster (long black leather). Middle manager wears the coat because, well, it's cold. Scarf is usually very bright, probably borrowed from significant other and umbrella is the compact fold-up type.
Then you've got your miscellaneous student (short jacket with epaulets, tight jeans, bright and shiny athletic shoes, scarf in primary color, ipod) and worker types (baggy jeans, baggy shirt, baggy jacket, baggy eyes, plaid scarf circa 1970). No umbrellas for either group; these men are water resistant.
Apart from the sheer anthropological fascination with the subspecies of French Man, it is important to be able to identify them from a distance. For example, never approach corporate titan/presidential type without being invited. He is dangerous, particularly when dining with his 23-year old mistress, and will attack without provocation.
And where does French Man go for a hair cut? I am glad you asked! Corporate titan/presidential dude has it done in the office by a visiting barber. Middle manager goes to a place called "Fabio Salsa." Because what guy wants to get his hair cut at a place that's just called "Fabio?" Where's the spice? Where's the zest? Worker/student does it himself with uneven results.
I was on the metro earlier this week and an elderly man tottered slowly on right before the doors closed. It was a pretty crowded train and I was sitting in a seat reserved for just such a person. So I offered it to him. "Certainly not," he said indignantly. "I am only eighty-seven and quite fresh." Youbetcha.
Happy Thanksgiving!
French men (Frenchmen?) fall into distinct categories. First you have the presidential, corporate titan types. These are the ones you see in the movies; they are generally the size of Armand Assante and they dress in long cashmere coats, cashmere scarves, and expensive suits. They don't actually wear the coats of course; that's a sure sign of weakness. Instead, they drape them over their shoulders. You spot this species only occasionally during daylight hours; he is usually being driven somewhere in a black car with tinted windows. When he does venture out on the street during the day, he is distinguishable by his rapid walk, the cigarette dangling elegantly from his index and middle fingers, the full size umbrella, and the cellphone attached to his ear. He is usually scowling.
The really interesting ones are the middle management types. These fellows are everywhere. They ride the metro, the bus, and the free bicycles that are available throughout the city. They dress very, very badly. Typically very skinny suits (jacket sleeves often a tad too short), tangerine shirts, large horn-rimmed glasses, and an excess of gel in the hair. Jerry Lewis meets Buddy Holly. They also smoke, but they hold their cigarettes between the thumb and index finger. The distinguishing feature of the middle manager is his shoes. They are very long and very pointy. Combined with the skinny suit, this gives him the appearance of a court jester. Which is probably exactly right for a middle manager. The middle manager opts for one of two styles when it comes to winter coats: bathrobe (long and fuzzy, with a tie belt), or Eastern European mobster (long black leather). Middle manager wears the coat because, well, it's cold. Scarf is usually very bright, probably borrowed from significant other and umbrella is the compact fold-up type.
Then you've got your miscellaneous student (short jacket with epaulets, tight jeans, bright and shiny athletic shoes, scarf in primary color, ipod) and worker types (baggy jeans, baggy shirt, baggy jacket, baggy eyes, plaid scarf circa 1970). No umbrellas for either group; these men are water resistant.
Apart from the sheer anthropological fascination with the subspecies of French Man, it is important to be able to identify them from a distance. For example, never approach corporate titan/presidential type without being invited. He is dangerous, particularly when dining with his 23-year old mistress, and will attack without provocation.
And where does French Man go for a hair cut? I am glad you asked! Corporate titan/presidential dude has it done in the office by a visiting barber. Middle manager goes to a place called "Fabio Salsa." Because what guy wants to get his hair cut at a place that's just called "Fabio?" Where's the spice? Where's the zest? Worker/student does it himself with uneven results.
I was on the metro earlier this week and an elderly man tottered slowly on right before the doors closed. It was a pretty crowded train and I was sitting in a seat reserved for just such a person. So I offered it to him. "Certainly not," he said indignantly. "I am only eighty-seven and quite fresh." Youbetcha.
Happy Thanksgiving!
dimanche 15 novembre 2009
November 15, 2009
Rob has been here for 10 days, which has been wonderful. This weekend he took the girls to EuroDisney. Besides hanging out with us, he's done battle with the formidable headmistress at our original school, who thinks the new French accounting system, which centers on keeping the tuition of departing students while filling their slots immediately with new tuition-paying students is perfectly reasonable. Rob and the headmistress have spent some quality time together and she is "reconsidering" her position.
He has also been dealing with infrastructure issues. Last week we took a field trip to Ikea. As you know, Ikea is generally located just outside a major city in a suburb. Your route through the store is mapped out in festive little yellow footprints, so that you are forced to pass things that you have no use for, but that are incredibly cute and cheap. As a result, you find yourself filling up your big yellow Ikea bag with lots of bright blue plastic dishes, orange storage boxes and other stuff that will make your house look like, well, like Ikea.
Well, Rob decided that Claire and Erin needed a bunkbed. Erin has been sleeping on a futon in the room they share, which doesn't sound too bad until you learn that there's no room to open the thing and she's been forced to sleep on it folded up. Not a problem when you're visiting for a few nights, but not a viable long term arrangement.
Rob did his research and discovered that the best available bunkbeds are at Ikea, and that we didn't have to travel to Sweden to find one! They have Ikeas right here in France! However, they are located outside the city in a suburb. No problem, we thought, we'll order online and have it delivered. Unfortunately, online orders take 15 days and Rob isn't coming back until December, by which time Erin will look like one of those 85 year-old French women that are shaped like an upside-down "L" and persist in waving their canes at anyone under 60 and muttering about the war. We did not even consider the possibility that I could put together the bunkbed, for several reasons. First, I am still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from trying to put together a TV stand in the 1980s. Second, it would be very difficult to make a Sophie's Choice and knowingly have one of the girls sleep on the bottom bunk where they would be very likely to suffer a crush injury as a result of the top bunk collapsing completely (thanks to my tossing out those extra screws that were left over at the end of the assembly process; if you've ever put anything from Ikea together, you know that there are never any screws left over). Third, I'm in Paris dammit and if it doesn't involve a baguette, coffee or wine, I'm not doing it.
Aha! Rob had a brilliant idea. We called the nearest Ikea store and tried to order the bed by phone and request an expedited delivery. We are nothing if not resourceful. The woman on the other end of the line (working in the "deliveries" department, mind you) informed us that she had no earthly idea how to process a delivery order over the phone and we would just have to come in to the store.
So, on a Tuesday evening, Rob, Erin and I embarked on our journey to Ikea.
First we got on a metro (subway). Then, we got on a light rail train. We bought our tickets, bounded down the stairs and hopped on, thirty seconds before it left the station. I looked at the map just to be sure we were headed in the right direction. And we were. Except we'd gotten on an express train. Erin pressed her little nose to the window as we zoomed by the station where Ikea was. After we managed to get off the train from hell and retrace our steps on a local train, we finally reached our station. Were we done? NO, we weren't done! Now, we needed to find the bus to take us from the station to the shopping center where Ikea is located. At this point, Rob and I were giggling hysterically and people (including our daughter) were moving away from us on the bus.
By the time we got to Ikea, we were exhausted. However, they were incredibly efficient and we were in and out in about 15 minutes, which was about two hours less time than it took us to get there. Here's the best part. We had an incredibly helpful sales guy. This was surprising, since sales training in France consists of learning the following phrases:
1. "What will it take to get you out of my store so I can go back to smoking my cigarette and looking bored?"
2. "Do you want it or not?"
3. "I don't care what time it is. We are closed."
4. "That looks terrible on you."
Once they have mastered these phrases, they are required to read that famous sales book, "Getting to No," and voila! They are ready to sell.
It turns out that the three French people who actually enjoy selling stuff to other people are all working at Ikea! Our incredibly helpful sales guy had clearly flunked sales training and consequently was not qualified to work in clothing stores, phone stores, insurance offices or restaurants. He was very apologetic for not speaking better English, although we did teach him to say "Awesome!" He was happy to see us, he was happy to sell us the bed and he was happy to send us downstairs to pay for the bed, where get this! Another happy guy took our money! Awesome!!
Our incredibly helpful sales guy had informed us that they could deliver our bunkbed the next day. I thought Rob was going to cry. There was one slight catch. The bed would be delivered from the depot. The mattress was in stock at the store. So, if we wanted both items delivered, we'd have to pay twice the delivery charge. The sales guy looked at Rob and said "The mattress rolls up; it weighs only 5 kilos. If you are any kind of man, you should be able to carry it." And so, Rob carried the mattress on the bus, and the train, and the metro and down the street all the way back to our apartment. He is now officially Parisian.
The next day, the bunkbed was delivered during the four-hour window that we had requested. Rob and I hugged each other, we hugged the kids, we hugged the delivery guy. Rob put the bunkbed together the next day and guess what? Not a screw was missing.
Kiss your minivans for us.
He has also been dealing with infrastructure issues. Last week we took a field trip to Ikea. As you know, Ikea is generally located just outside a major city in a suburb. Your route through the store is mapped out in festive little yellow footprints, so that you are forced to pass things that you have no use for, but that are incredibly cute and cheap. As a result, you find yourself filling up your big yellow Ikea bag with lots of bright blue plastic dishes, orange storage boxes and other stuff that will make your house look like, well, like Ikea.
Well, Rob decided that Claire and Erin needed a bunkbed. Erin has been sleeping on a futon in the room they share, which doesn't sound too bad until you learn that there's no room to open the thing and she's been forced to sleep on it folded up. Not a problem when you're visiting for a few nights, but not a viable long term arrangement.
Rob did his research and discovered that the best available bunkbeds are at Ikea, and that we didn't have to travel to Sweden to find one! They have Ikeas right here in France! However, they are located outside the city in a suburb. No problem, we thought, we'll order online and have it delivered. Unfortunately, online orders take 15 days and Rob isn't coming back until December, by which time Erin will look like one of those 85 year-old French women that are shaped like an upside-down "L" and persist in waving their canes at anyone under 60 and muttering about the war. We did not even consider the possibility that I could put together the bunkbed, for several reasons. First, I am still suffering post-traumatic stress disorder from trying to put together a TV stand in the 1980s. Second, it would be very difficult to make a Sophie's Choice and knowingly have one of the girls sleep on the bottom bunk where they would be very likely to suffer a crush injury as a result of the top bunk collapsing completely (thanks to my tossing out those extra screws that were left over at the end of the assembly process; if you've ever put anything from Ikea together, you know that there are never any screws left over). Third, I'm in Paris dammit and if it doesn't involve a baguette, coffee or wine, I'm not doing it.
Aha! Rob had a brilliant idea. We called the nearest Ikea store and tried to order the bed by phone and request an expedited delivery. We are nothing if not resourceful. The woman on the other end of the line (working in the "deliveries" department, mind you) informed us that she had no earthly idea how to process a delivery order over the phone and we would just have to come in to the store.
So, on a Tuesday evening, Rob, Erin and I embarked on our journey to Ikea.
First we got on a metro (subway). Then, we got on a light rail train. We bought our tickets, bounded down the stairs and hopped on, thirty seconds before it left the station. I looked at the map just to be sure we were headed in the right direction. And we were. Except we'd gotten on an express train. Erin pressed her little nose to the window as we zoomed by the station where Ikea was. After we managed to get off the train from hell and retrace our steps on a local train, we finally reached our station. Were we done? NO, we weren't done! Now, we needed to find the bus to take us from the station to the shopping center where Ikea is located. At this point, Rob and I were giggling hysterically and people (including our daughter) were moving away from us on the bus.
By the time we got to Ikea, we were exhausted. However, they were incredibly efficient and we were in and out in about 15 minutes, which was about two hours less time than it took us to get there. Here's the best part. We had an incredibly helpful sales guy. This was surprising, since sales training in France consists of learning the following phrases:
1. "What will it take to get you out of my store so I can go back to smoking my cigarette and looking bored?"
2. "Do you want it or not?"
3. "I don't care what time it is. We are closed."
4. "That looks terrible on you."
Once they have mastered these phrases, they are required to read that famous sales book, "Getting to No," and voila! They are ready to sell.
It turns out that the three French people who actually enjoy selling stuff to other people are all working at Ikea! Our incredibly helpful sales guy had clearly flunked sales training and consequently was not qualified to work in clothing stores, phone stores, insurance offices or restaurants. He was very apologetic for not speaking better English, although we did teach him to say "Awesome!" He was happy to see us, he was happy to sell us the bed and he was happy to send us downstairs to pay for the bed, where get this! Another happy guy took our money! Awesome!!
Our incredibly helpful sales guy had informed us that they could deliver our bunkbed the next day. I thought Rob was going to cry. There was one slight catch. The bed would be delivered from the depot. The mattress was in stock at the store. So, if we wanted both items delivered, we'd have to pay twice the delivery charge. The sales guy looked at Rob and said "The mattress rolls up; it weighs only 5 kilos. If you are any kind of man, you should be able to carry it." And so, Rob carried the mattress on the bus, and the train, and the metro and down the street all the way back to our apartment. He is now officially Parisian.
The next day, the bunkbed was delivered during the four-hour window that we had requested. Rob and I hugged each other, we hugged the kids, we hugged the delivery guy. Rob put the bunkbed together the next day and guess what? Not a screw was missing.
Kiss your minivans for us.
dimanche 8 novembre 2009
Feelings
You Americans. All you ever want to do is talk about your feelings. Bah!! Many of you have emailed and said "Kara, how do you feel about living in Paris? Do you like it? Do the girls like it?" So, in order to satisfy your need to know, I have thought deeply about these important questions.
In spite of spending much of my time making fun of the French, I am very fond of them. Remember, I make fun of everyone (yes, including you). But, it's hard to say I love Paris when the kids are having a bad day. If one of the kids says someone was mean to her at school, or she's running a fever, I don't sit around and say "Trala! We love Paris!" So, we have good days and bad days, but I'm glad we're having them here for a year. There are certain things I miss about the US, besides Rob and all of you. I miss space. We're living in pretty cramped quarters. I miss watching sports in real time. I miss my social life. I miss the kids having a social life. I miss the dogs. I miss takeout.
It's hard watching the girls struggle with French, with navigating a new city, with trying to make friends. When I ask them, Megan loves it, Claire likes it, and Erin says there are good parts and bad parts. They'll be in a better position this time next year to tell you whether they liked it or not.
The French way of life has a lot of advantages. The socialist system is based on the principle of equality and the value of all work. The waiter's job is as important as the CEO's job. When the doctor goes to a restaurant, the waiter doesn't fall all over himself to please the CEO. Ordering dinner is a transaction between equals. While Americans think the French act superior, and are often offended by the attitudes of French service people, I think it's more that the French don't act inferior. Even waiters and cab drivers take a month-long holiday in the summer. By law, most stores can't be open on Sunday. So, even retail employees have Sundays off and can spend them with family and friends.
It's definitely a more paternalistic system of government. The economist in me says if people want to work on Sundays, they should be able to. But if the system is set up so that you make a good living (did I mention the month off during the summer?) without working on Sundays, that seems worthwhile.
The French have clearly chosen equity over efficiency. As an American, I sometimes want to shake them and say "You could be so much more productive and make so much more money!" But of course they know that. They just choose not to. They really are happier knowing the waiter gets a big bonus and six weeks of vacation every year, even if that means they pay 7 dollars for a cup of coffee. They jealously guard their employment benefits and their time off and they will almost always choose more time over more money (of course, the system reinforces that, since the extra money is taxed at a ridiculous rate).
If you think I've gone all soft and mushy, don't worry. I promise I'll get my cynical mojo back in time for next week's blog.
In spite of spending much of my time making fun of the French, I am very fond of them. Remember, I make fun of everyone (yes, including you). But, it's hard to say I love Paris when the kids are having a bad day. If one of the kids says someone was mean to her at school, or she's running a fever, I don't sit around and say "Trala! We love Paris!" So, we have good days and bad days, but I'm glad we're having them here for a year. There are certain things I miss about the US, besides Rob and all of you. I miss space. We're living in pretty cramped quarters. I miss watching sports in real time. I miss my social life. I miss the kids having a social life. I miss the dogs. I miss takeout.
It's hard watching the girls struggle with French, with navigating a new city, with trying to make friends. When I ask them, Megan loves it, Claire likes it, and Erin says there are good parts and bad parts. They'll be in a better position this time next year to tell you whether they liked it or not.
The French way of life has a lot of advantages. The socialist system is based on the principle of equality and the value of all work. The waiter's job is as important as the CEO's job. When the doctor goes to a restaurant, the waiter doesn't fall all over himself to please the CEO. Ordering dinner is a transaction between equals. While Americans think the French act superior, and are often offended by the attitudes of French service people, I think it's more that the French don't act inferior. Even waiters and cab drivers take a month-long holiday in the summer. By law, most stores can't be open on Sunday. So, even retail employees have Sundays off and can spend them with family and friends.
It's definitely a more paternalistic system of government. The economist in me says if people want to work on Sundays, they should be able to. But if the system is set up so that you make a good living (did I mention the month off during the summer?) without working on Sundays, that seems worthwhile.
The French have clearly chosen equity over efficiency. As an American, I sometimes want to shake them and say "You could be so much more productive and make so much more money!" But of course they know that. They just choose not to. They really are happier knowing the waiter gets a big bonus and six weeks of vacation every year, even if that means they pay 7 dollars for a cup of coffee. They jealously guard their employment benefits and their time off and they will almost always choose more time over more money (of course, the system reinforces that, since the extra money is taxed at a ridiculous rate).
If you think I've gone all soft and mushy, don't worry. I promise I'll get my cynical mojo back in time for next week's blog.
dimanche 1 novembre 2009
November 1, 2009
Losing our Grippe
Well, it's been quite a week. We were to have left for Amsterdam on Wednesday and return last night. Didn't happen. Erin was a little under the weather on Sunday. On Monday, Megan and Claire started feeling ill. By Tuesday everyone (except me) was down with a high fever, body aches, and a cough that sounded truly frightening. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who can blame you? I thought it too. It's here, it's bad, and we've caught it. H1N1!! I got a call from another parent. One of Claire's classmates, who has asthma, had tested positive. So, I called the doctor.
As you may recall, last summer the French had assigned legions of officials to the issue of "la grippe." Committees were convened, emergency measures were designed, kissing was outlawed, masks were distributed and sneezing in public was strictly prohibited. Now it was time to reap the rewards of a careful, albeit bureaucratic, process. I admit, I thought to myself, "I made fun of them last summer, but darn if they weren't right. Now, I can relax. They're prepared. I'll get the kids tested, we'll be quarantined, we'll get to wear those cool masks. We're in good hands. Step 1: call the doctor.
The conversation went something like this.
Me. "My three kids have the following symptoms: blah blah blah."
Doctor. "Probably just a cold."
Me. "Yeah, I don't think so. High fever, blah blah blah."
Doctor. "I'm sure it's just a cold."
Me. "Well, just the same, I'd like to get them tested."
Doctor. "For what?"
Me, to myself. "Are you f---'ing kidding me?"
Me, to the doctor. "For H1N -
Doctor. "LALALALA."
Me. "Excuse me?"
Doctor. "I am singing a lovely French song. We sang it during La Resistance."
Me. "Uh, very catchy. As I was saying, I think my kids might have the H-"
Doctor. "LALALALA! I cannot hear you! I will continue to sing my lovely song from La Resistance until you stop trying to say this stupid thing that I refuse to hear!"
It occurs to me that singing a lovely song is going to do us about as much good resisting la grippe as it did during La Resistance but, to my everlasting credit, I keep this thought to myself.
Me. "Well, my kids are really sick. What do you suggest?"
She advised fluids and rest. Medical school has really paid off.
After extensive research, I think I've figured out what's going on. The French have been preparing for the H1N1 for many months. All of these preparations have left them completely exhausted. Consequently, they have absolutely no energy left to execute the plan. Of course, if the virus strikes and they don't execute the plan, they'll look like incompetent imbeciles. More committees will be convened, more studies will be completed, and heads will most certainly roll (the French take this last expression quite seriously. For more information, see Marie Antoinette, circa October, 1793).
So, somewhere in the Elysee Palace last September, officials got together over a casual lunch of pate foie gras, coquille Saint-Jacques and a nice bottle of Rhone Roussanne and decided that actually allowing the virus to infect the French was a no-win situation. The question was how to prevent it? How to stop it at the borders?
One French official said to the others, "If we don't ever call it H1N1, then it isn't, right?" He said this in French, of course, with the requisite hand gestures, shrugs, and smirks. The other officials slapped him on the back, had a cigarette together, and went back to work on other important national problems, like how to get Sarkozy's son to move to the Amazon.
And so, the following policy has been implemented. While there are 17 H1N1 testing centers in Paris, you can only get tested if you meet the following criteria:
1. You are already dead. That way, the government can point to your death as a serious underlying condition that made you more susceptible to the virus than had you been alive.
2. You are very, very old. As in over 100 years old. Chances are that you will be dead very soon, especially since all of the testing centers are located in the as-yet-unidentified-but-probably-terminal-and-definitely-highly-infectious disease wing of local hospitals. As you shuffle slowly down the hall to get your test, you will inhale all sorts of horrible germs from other diseases that will quickly kill you (please refer to #1 above).
Doctors have been strictly instructed not to so much as entertain the possibility that anyone still alive has the virus. Meanwhile, the French government is congratulating itself on its state of emergency preparedness and has offered to serve as a reference center for other nations interested in learning how to contain this dreadful virus. After their afternoon nap.
Well, it's been quite a week. We were to have left for Amsterdam on Wednesday and return last night. Didn't happen. Erin was a little under the weather on Sunday. On Monday, Megan and Claire started feeling ill. By Tuesday everyone (except me) was down with a high fever, body aches, and a cough that sounded truly frightening. Now, I know what you're thinking. Who can blame you? I thought it too. It's here, it's bad, and we've caught it. H1N1!! I got a call from another parent. One of Claire's classmates, who has asthma, had tested positive. So, I called the doctor.
As you may recall, last summer the French had assigned legions of officials to the issue of "la grippe." Committees were convened, emergency measures were designed, kissing was outlawed, masks were distributed and sneezing in public was strictly prohibited. Now it was time to reap the rewards of a careful, albeit bureaucratic, process. I admit, I thought to myself, "I made fun of them last summer, but darn if they weren't right. Now, I can relax. They're prepared. I'll get the kids tested, we'll be quarantined, we'll get to wear those cool masks. We're in good hands. Step 1: call the doctor.
The conversation went something like this.
Me. "My three kids have the following symptoms: blah blah blah."
Doctor. "Probably just a cold."
Me. "Yeah, I don't think so. High fever, blah blah blah."
Doctor. "I'm sure it's just a cold."
Me. "Well, just the same, I'd like to get them tested."
Doctor. "For what?"
Me, to myself. "Are you f---'ing kidding me?"
Me, to the doctor. "For H1N -
Doctor. "LALALALA."
Me. "Excuse me?"
Doctor. "I am singing a lovely French song. We sang it during La Resistance."
Me. "Uh, very catchy. As I was saying, I think my kids might have the H-"
Doctor. "LALALALA! I cannot hear you! I will continue to sing my lovely song from La Resistance until you stop trying to say this stupid thing that I refuse to hear!"
It occurs to me that singing a lovely song is going to do us about as much good resisting la grippe as it did during La Resistance but, to my everlasting credit, I keep this thought to myself.
Me. "Well, my kids are really sick. What do you suggest?"
She advised fluids and rest. Medical school has really paid off.
After extensive research, I think I've figured out what's going on. The French have been preparing for the H1N1 for many months. All of these preparations have left them completely exhausted. Consequently, they have absolutely no energy left to execute the plan. Of course, if the virus strikes and they don't execute the plan, they'll look like incompetent imbeciles. More committees will be convened, more studies will be completed, and heads will most certainly roll (the French take this last expression quite seriously. For more information, see Marie Antoinette, circa October, 1793).
So, somewhere in the Elysee Palace last September, officials got together over a casual lunch of pate foie gras, coquille Saint-Jacques and a nice bottle of Rhone Roussanne and decided that actually allowing the virus to infect the French was a no-win situation. The question was how to prevent it? How to stop it at the borders?
One French official said to the others, "If we don't ever call it H1N1, then it isn't, right?" He said this in French, of course, with the requisite hand gestures, shrugs, and smirks. The other officials slapped him on the back, had a cigarette together, and went back to work on other important national problems, like how to get Sarkozy's son to move to the Amazon.
And so, the following policy has been implemented. While there are 17 H1N1 testing centers in Paris, you can only get tested if you meet the following criteria:
1. You are already dead. That way, the government can point to your death as a serious underlying condition that made you more susceptible to the virus than had you been alive.
2. You are very, very old. As in over 100 years old. Chances are that you will be dead very soon, especially since all of the testing centers are located in the as-yet-unidentified-but-probably-terminal-and-definitely-highly-infectious disease wing of local hospitals. As you shuffle slowly down the hall to get your test, you will inhale all sorts of horrible germs from other diseases that will quickly kill you (please refer to #1 above).
Doctors have been strictly instructed not to so much as entertain the possibility that anyone still alive has the virus. Meanwhile, the French government is congratulating itself on its state of emergency preparedness and has offered to serve as a reference center for other nations interested in learning how to contain this dreadful virus. After their afternoon nap.
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