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.
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