There are many things I don’t understand about the French. Why it’s called the “lunch hour” when it’s actually the “lunch hours,” why they don’t understand the concept of a line and would rather push and cut than respect their neighbors and wait their turn, or why their trains leave either a few minutes early or a few minutes late, but never right on time. The list goes on, but these cultural differences I can cope with and appreciate. When you have two hours to eat you get to eat a lot more food. If you’re running late, it’s nice if the train is too. And it’s nice to not wait in line, but to cut right to the front without feeling guilty. Unfortunately there is one craze I will never understand. One word: tectonik. This is not dancing, but rather the flailing of one’s extremities in very sharp, arrhythmic movements, which can be very dangerous in close range (yours truly was attacked on the way to the ladies room at Club Tiffany). This new “dance” craze is taking over clubs, bars, train platforms, sidewalks and school yards.
One particular February afternoon I was making lunch in my apartment that overlooks the school’s recreational area. It was afternoon break and the kids were filled with excitement because it was the first time in weeks that the sun was shining. Whether it was the weather or just too much conformity, the playground was particularly busy that afternoon. As I pulled a half-eaten wheel of camembert from my mini-fridge, I heard a loud roar from the playground. I looked out my window and saw a large group of students gathering in a circle around two students, cheering and struggling to see what’s going on. This is standard fight formation. I became a little panicked and scanned the yard to see where the surveillants were and if they had noticed the large huddle of students. As I surveyed the situation more closely, I realized that the students in the middle weren’t throwing punches, but dance moves. Someone was playing music on his cell phone while the students in Converse shoes and too much eyeliner waved their arms over their heads in turn. They were having a dance-off. With its arrival in rural Hagondange, the techtonik movement is officially a craze.
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
The Plague
My students infected me with the plague. Seriously. I thought it best, for humanity’s sake, that I quarantine myself from the rest of the world, so I spent the past two weeks on my deathbed/in my bed watching movies and sleeping. Fortunately, and thanks to modern medicine, I survived. Although I had two very miserable weeks, I learned a valuable lesson about the French healthcare system. Important information for anyone living abroad, because a trip to the doctor’s in France is not the same as in the US.
Firstly, one must declare their general practitioner. This can be any doctor you want. I got the name of a doctor from one of the English teachers who lives in Hagondange. This was very convenient for me because his office is only a couple blocks from my apartment. But if I lived farther from the chosen doctor, I would probably have the option of having a house call. While this idea seems very outdated and odd to Americans, it can be very helpful for small children and elderly citizens.
Secondly, one does not have to make an appointment. I simply walked into the office and sat down to wait. I did not have to check in or fill out any paperwork. When it was my turn the doctor greeted me with a handshake and took me to his office. Upon entering the office I felt like I was stepping into someone’s study, not a doctor’s office. It did not seem sterile and cold, but cozy and inviting. There weren’t posters about high blood pressure or hearing loss, but oak bookshelves and personal photographs. The doctor pointed me to a soft leather hair, while he took a seat behind his antique walnut desk. As I sat down, I noticed that he was not wearing a white lab coat and stethoscope, but jeans and a sweater. He then proceeded to ask me what was wrong.
Thirdly, nothing is standard procedure or by the book. After I told the doctor my symptoms, he listened to my chest, looked at my throat and gave me four prescriptions. That was it. No strep test, no taking of the temperature, no explanation of his diagnosis. The French have a way of not telling you what’s going on. If you don’t ask, they don’t tell. This is especially difficult, if you don’t know what questions to ask or how to ask them. Fortunately for me, I have internet access and was able to google my prescriptions before I filled them. The doctor must have thought I had strep because he gave me an antibiotic that is commonly used to treat strep. I also went home with decongestive nose spray and pills for my migraine, which turned out to be ibuprofen. I was also prescribed a throat spray that I didn’t take. Besides wanting to know what the doctor thought I had, I wanted to know what I was taking twice daily with meals.
France has a great healthcare system. I was able to receive treatment for a very affordable price after living in the country for only a few months. But don’t forget that the system is run like a business and operates on the concept of supply and demand. There are a lot of doctors in France and patients can choose to receive care where they want. If they’re unhappy after a doctor’s visit, they simply don’t go back to that doctor. This gives the consumer lots of choices and a voice in their health, but also makes it difficult for the doctor to properly serve his or her patients. If the patient wants antibiotics, it’s in the doctor’s best interest to prescribe one, regardless if it’s in the patient’s best interest, because then the patient will be happy and most likely become a return customer. In other words, medication, especially antibiotics, is overprescribed, so know your symptoms and know what you’re consuming.
Lastly, a few helpful hints. One cannot get medicine from the pharmacy if it is between noon and 2 p.m., no matter how desperately one needs it. A fact I forgot until I stood outside the locked pharmacy door at 12:30 with a pounding headache. Also, make sure that you get reimbursement forms from the doctor and the pharmacy. French citizens get reimbursed automatically, so if the doctor and pharmacy don’t know you’re not French, they might not give you the forms. This usually isn’t a problem for me because of my accent, but if your French is good, just tell them and it’s not a problem. Going to the doctor in any country is not fun, but not near as bad as the plague.
Firstly, one must declare their general practitioner. This can be any doctor you want. I got the name of a doctor from one of the English teachers who lives in Hagondange. This was very convenient for me because his office is only a couple blocks from my apartment. But if I lived farther from the chosen doctor, I would probably have the option of having a house call. While this idea seems very outdated and odd to Americans, it can be very helpful for small children and elderly citizens.
Secondly, one does not have to make an appointment. I simply walked into the office and sat down to wait. I did not have to check in or fill out any paperwork. When it was my turn the doctor greeted me with a handshake and took me to his office. Upon entering the office I felt like I was stepping into someone’s study, not a doctor’s office. It did not seem sterile and cold, but cozy and inviting. There weren’t posters about high blood pressure or hearing loss, but oak bookshelves and personal photographs. The doctor pointed me to a soft leather hair, while he took a seat behind his antique walnut desk. As I sat down, I noticed that he was not wearing a white lab coat and stethoscope, but jeans and a sweater. He then proceeded to ask me what was wrong.
Thirdly, nothing is standard procedure or by the book. After I told the doctor my symptoms, he listened to my chest, looked at my throat and gave me four prescriptions. That was it. No strep test, no taking of the temperature, no explanation of his diagnosis. The French have a way of not telling you what’s going on. If you don’t ask, they don’t tell. This is especially difficult, if you don’t know what questions to ask or how to ask them. Fortunately for me, I have internet access and was able to google my prescriptions before I filled them. The doctor must have thought I had strep because he gave me an antibiotic that is commonly used to treat strep. I also went home with decongestive nose spray and pills for my migraine, which turned out to be ibuprofen. I was also prescribed a throat spray that I didn’t take. Besides wanting to know what the doctor thought I had, I wanted to know what I was taking twice daily with meals.
France has a great healthcare system. I was able to receive treatment for a very affordable price after living in the country for only a few months. But don’t forget that the system is run like a business and operates on the concept of supply and demand. There are a lot of doctors in France and patients can choose to receive care where they want. If they’re unhappy after a doctor’s visit, they simply don’t go back to that doctor. This gives the consumer lots of choices and a voice in their health, but also makes it difficult for the doctor to properly serve his or her patients. If the patient wants antibiotics, it’s in the doctor’s best interest to prescribe one, regardless if it’s in the patient’s best interest, because then the patient will be happy and most likely become a return customer. In other words, medication, especially antibiotics, is overprescribed, so know your symptoms and know what you’re consuming.
Lastly, a few helpful hints. One cannot get medicine from the pharmacy if it is between noon and 2 p.m., no matter how desperately one needs it. A fact I forgot until I stood outside the locked pharmacy door at 12:30 with a pounding headache. Also, make sure that you get reimbursement forms from the doctor and the pharmacy. French citizens get reimbursed automatically, so if the doctor and pharmacy don’t know you’re not French, they might not give you the forms. This usually isn’t a problem for me because of my accent, but if your French is good, just tell them and it’s not a problem. Going to the doctor in any country is not fun, but not near as bad as the plague.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Les Enfants
One of my students’ favorite things is to greet me when I walk through the hall. As I walk through the halls I am bombarded with shouts of “hello” and “how are you?” from my students. At first it was very flattering. Then it became annoying and now I just expect it. I usually give the standard, programmed response, but the other day I was caught off guard. There was a group of 13 year olds standing outside the classroom waiting to go in. I passed them on my way to the staff room. One of them said, “Hello Katherine,” and I turned and said, “Hi,” in return. I walked two more steps and heard another student in a high-pitched voice say, “Hiyyaaa,” clearly mocking my accent. I turned back, they giggled and that was that.
Later that night over a few drinks my friends and I were complaining about how hard it is to be a teacher, a recreational activity that happens quite frequently, especially if someone has a good story. I shared my story of how a 13 year old French student had mocked my English. “She can laugh when I speak French, but not when I speak English. I am a native English speaker!” I exclaimed. “She’s supposed to look up to me. I’m supposed to be cool!” We had a good chuckle and a shocking realization. “They’re 13, they think 18 year olds are cool,” Lee Anne says, “We’re too old to be cool.”
We took a few silent moments to reflect on this. Could this be possible? Am I too old to be cool? I feel pretty cool. Eh, what does a 13 year old from Hagondange know about cool anyway? Cool or not cool, I had a great evening with good friends.
Later that night over a few drinks my friends and I were complaining about how hard it is to be a teacher, a recreational activity that happens quite frequently, especially if someone has a good story. I shared my story of how a 13 year old French student had mocked my English. “She can laugh when I speak French, but not when I speak English. I am a native English speaker!” I exclaimed. “She’s supposed to look up to me. I’m supposed to be cool!” We had a good chuckle and a shocking realization. “They’re 13, they think 18 year olds are cool,” Lee Anne says, “We’re too old to be cool.”
We took a few silent moments to reflect on this. Could this be possible? Am I too old to be cool? I feel pretty cool. Eh, what does a 13 year old from Hagondange know about cool anyway? Cool or not cool, I had a great evening with good friends.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
My Christmas in France
(picture: la buche de Noel: traditional French Christmas cake in the shape of a log, hence the name.)
This year Christmas was very random and anti-climatic. There wasn't any anticipation like usual, besides the Christmas lights in Hagondange and Metz. No listening to Christmas music or buying presents or decorating my apartment. I didn't have the usual Christmas preparation time (between finals at school and the actual day). No Christmas cookies, fiber optic trees, parties or CAKE Town Christmas ornaments. I had my last English class (I played Christmas music and we went through the lyrics. The kids were not impressed.) and suddenly it was December 21st.
All the assistants went home except for Corinne and me. She made the long trek to Hagondange on Christmas Eve. We made dinner and watched movies and drank some wine. We spent Christmas day in our pj’s. We watched lots of random French television and made a traditional Christmas dinner that evening. During dinner Corinne said that this was the most random Christmas she's ever had (small town in France in the most outdated kitchen ever with someone she's only met a few times sans Christmas tree). The same was true for me. This was my first Christmas away from home, my family and our annual traditions.
My family does the exact same thing for Christmas every year—and I love it. Life can get dull and become routine, but the routines provide you comfort and make you smile. I can always count on my dog to be very excited to see me when I come home. I can always count on finding Golden Grahams in my parents' pantry. I can always count on my cousin Andrew to go fishing with me and on my grandma to make me laugh. Without the routine life would be dull, boring and lonely. I really missed Christmas, but if I hadn't, I wouldn't know how important that routine is to me. I also learned to make the best of what you do have. I might have spent Christmas in my pajamas with "The Scooby Doo Movie" dubbed in French, but I had a good day.
All the assistants went home except for Corinne and me. She made the long trek to Hagondange on Christmas Eve. We made dinner and watched movies and drank some wine. We spent Christmas day in our pj’s. We watched lots of random French television and made a traditional Christmas dinner that evening. During dinner Corinne said that this was the most random Christmas she's ever had (small town in France in the most outdated kitchen ever with someone she's only met a few times sans Christmas tree). The same was true for me. This was my first Christmas away from home, my family and our annual traditions.
My family does the exact same thing for Christmas every year—and I love it. Life can get dull and become routine, but the routines provide you comfort and make you smile. I can always count on my dog to be very excited to see me when I come home. I can always count on finding Golden Grahams in my parents' pantry. I can always count on my cousin Andrew to go fishing with me and on my grandma to make me laugh. Without the routine life would be dull, boring and lonely. I really missed Christmas, but if I hadn't, I wouldn't know how important that routine is to me. I also learned to make the best of what you do have. I might have spent Christmas in my pajamas with "The Scooby Doo Movie" dubbed in French, but I had a good day.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Thanksgiving in France
Most days I wake up in France and I am happy to be here, but there are few moments when I get homesick. These are special occasions at home that I miss: birthdays, trips to Miami, weddings and holidays. Thanksgiving, my favorite holiday, has come and passed. It was difficult to be away from home and all the familiar traditions, but I had a celebration that was quite appropriate for the occasion.Some friends and I planned out a meal. We decided to hold it at my apartment on Friday because we all had to work on Thursday and no one had seen my apartment yet (this is what happens when you live in a sleepy little town sans young people). We knew that some things we would not be able to find, like an entire turkey, or an oven to bake it in for that matter, but we would do our best.
I woke up Friday morning, went to my classes, took a shower and started preparing for Thanksgiving. I washed and snapped all the green beans and washed and peeled all the potatoes. I managed to find five place settings in my random collection of dishes and rearranged the furniture in my living room so a table would fit. A few hours before everyone was due to arrive I started cooking the food. Because I only have a hot plate with two burners and one very small pot, I had to boil the potatoes in shifts. This was the most ridiculous production to watch. Halfway through my potato cooking, I glance in the direction of my hot plate and notice that the power light is no longer on. People were due to arrive in 20 minutes and my potatoes weren't done and my hot plate wasn't working. I went into panic mode.
I fiddled with the hot plate and realized that the sensor light was broken, but the burners were still working. One catastrophe diverted, but nothing was ready and people were showing up to cook their food so we could eat and catch a train into Metz for a Thanksgiving-themed party. Everyone arrived and did their part to transform my oddly-decorated apartment and ill-equipped kitchen into a fit place for a feast. Lee Anne saved my potatoes and everyone helped carry the table into the living room. We set up a buffet on the side bar and had a feast fit for a king. We ate mashed potatoes, turkey fillets, stuffing, green beans, carrot puree (instead of sweet potatoes) and apple pie that was baked in a toaster oven. As I sat down to eat I wasn't homesick, but happy to be where I was.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Tous Saints Holiday
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. Who "they" refers to, I'm not quite sure, but I'll go with it. It makes recounting my eight-day adventure in Spain much easier.
Highlights from the trip:1. Random Italian guys on the beach in matching swim trunks
2. Bonding time with Lee Anne and Liz
3. Liz's inappropriate comments after she's had a few too many cocktails
4. A heated discussion about hunting season in Missouri
5. Kapital Club. Lots of dancing, lots of floors.
6. Being annoying tourists, i.e. not knowing the language and exploding coke cans in restaurants.
7. Guernica and lots of other amazing pieces of art
8. "Sometimes you just have to do irresponsible things." -Lee Anne
9. Warm weather, beach time and lots of sun
10. Speaking a combination of three different languages to order food in Tarragona
Thursday, October 25, 2007
I love France
I was coming home from game night (at a bar in Metz) and it dawned on me how much I love it here. It would be very hard, but very easy to just stay here. I can sense already how much I'm going to miss this place come April. I complain about slow paperwork, but everyday I am becoming accustomed and growing fonder of the French lifestyle. Things don't get done quickly, but living one's life is the main priority in France. I love it. I love the language, the culture, the architecture, the fashion, French politics, the EU, the history and the international flair. The more I talk with French people, the more I want to improve my French. I have a growing desire to learn more languages. Why don't I speak German or Spanish? Next week I'm going to Spain for nine days. It's going to be great and it's only a short (and cheap) plane ride away. I love this lifestyle.
The French love their lifestyle too, and are worried that Sarkozy is threatening it. He's changed their 35 hour workweek to 40 hours. The American in me says, "big deal, I worked 50 plus hours a week this summer," but to the French they see it as five more hours away from their families and much-valued leisure time. He's also taking a very economic perspective on all issues, which the French don't understand. In France it's not about turning over the highest profit. (In no other country would a taxi driver refuse to drive a paying customer a short distance because it inconvenienced the driver.)
An immigration bill just passed through in France that requires DNA testing for those who want to join family already living in France. It is being contested by the socialists and is undergoing constitutional review, but what a scary thought. The French, despite their past problems with immigration, value the sanctity of family. They don't see the need to have the most economically profitable ratio of immigrants. And neither do I.
The French love their lifestyle too, and are worried that Sarkozy is threatening it. He's changed their 35 hour workweek to 40 hours. The American in me says, "big deal, I worked 50 plus hours a week this summer," but to the French they see it as five more hours away from their families and much-valued leisure time. He's also taking a very economic perspective on all issues, which the French don't understand. In France it's not about turning over the highest profit. (In no other country would a taxi driver refuse to drive a paying customer a short distance because it inconvenienced the driver.)
An immigration bill just passed through in France that requires DNA testing for those who want to join family already living in France. It is being contested by the socialists and is undergoing constitutional review, but what a scary thought. The French, despite their past problems with immigration, value the sanctity of family. They don't see the need to have the most economically profitable ratio of immigrants. And neither do I.
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