 | Moving to a different country is like raising children--just when you get good at one stage, your kids grow out of it and it’s a whole new ballgame. I must be at least a toddler expat by now. |
I’ve gotten good at greetings (I say bonjour everywhere, and I haven’t bonked faces exchanging the bises for quite a while). I can get the food I want in restaurants. I’m used to strikes, dog poop, bureaucracy, and clerks saying non when it’s clearly a oui.
However, there’s always more to learn. Here are some things I’ve gotten used to lately.
Tiny tables. Elbow room is scarce in Europe. They just don’t have those wide-open spaces I had back in Abilene. What looks like a plant stand is actually a table for two. Maybe three. They’ll bring a little caddy for the sauces, but it’s still snug. When I see the waiter approach, I pick up my silverware and scoot the glasses around to make room.
However, there’s always more to learn. Here are some things I’ve gotten used to lately.
Tiny tables. Elbow room is scarce in Europe. They just don’t have those wide-open spaces I had back in Abilene. What looks like a plant stand is actually a table for two. Maybe three. They’ll bring a little caddy for the sauces, but it’s still snug. When I see the waiter approach, I pick up my silverware and scoot the glasses around to make room.
| Crowded metros. During rush hour or strikes or breakdowns, it gets real cozy in there. I used to see a crowded train pull up and hang back, waiting for the next one. Now I’ve learned, just squeeze in. Insert yourself between people and hang on. You won’t be on there that long, because Paris isn’t that big. While we’re on the subject of crowds, I don’t think there’s a fire marshall. You know how every building in the USA has a sign saying “maximum 60 people sitting, 100 people standing” or something like that? The rule in France seems to be “if you can cram more people in, just do it.” Most apartment elevators can hold two thin people at a time. If you’ve got claustrophobia, prepare yourself. And maybe take the stairs. |  |
Saying your problem out loud in the pharmacy. I love the French health care system. It’s cheap and efficient. One difference from the American system is that pharmacists, not clinics, are your first stop when you’re under the weather. You step up to the counter (they keep all the meds backstage) and say what your disgusting problem is, because, let’s face it, there are no attractive illnesses. Nobody gets to say “butterflies keep appearing over my head” or “there’s a swan in my lung.” No, when you or your loved ones are sick, it’s “hot flashes” or “mustard yellow mucous” or “explosive diarrhea.” Just say it. They’ll ask you a few questions to get to the bottom of your problem, which will be even more embarrassing, then they’ll give you some medicine. You’ll feel better. Don’t lose your cool.
| Primitive plumbing. A lot of buildings in Paris were built before plumbing was a thing. Therefore, they stick bathrooms in wherever they can, and updating would require an act of God. Look, if you’d wanted a cushioned, heated toilet seat with built-in bidet and booty blow drier, you would have gone to Japan. Just do your business. Abundant water. The first time I saw water gushing out of the gutter, my reaction was that of a California-drought-victim: call somebody because there is a serious problem! Turns out, that’s just how they clean the pipes. They flush them with water, and it flows through the gutters to wherever it goes underground again. I haven’t seen a low-flow toilet in France anywhere. We had a talk about ecology in my French class, and I had to explain how a low-flow toilet works because nobody (except the other Americans) knew that you could flush a toilet with less than ten gallons of water. France is generally on top of environmental issues, but not where water is concerned. I guess until you’ve lived in an area where you tear out your grass and put in drought-resistant hummingbird sage, you just don’t feel the urgency to save water. |  Sorbonne toilet. No seat, chain flush. I make it a point to whisper “Yvonne is at the Sorbonne” every time I go there so I remember to focus on the important things. |
Food service sans gloves. You don’t see gloves and hair nets in the French food industry. The butcher picks up the meat and cuts it, wipes his hands on his apron, and serves the next customer. The cheese guy wraps your chevre in paper, no gloves. Once, I asked my butcher, very sweetly of course, why French butchers don’t use gloves, like Americans. He seemed baffled, and wondered why America needs to make so many rules about so many things. He’s got a point. I decided to just accept it. The only time I’ve ever gotten food poisoning in Europe was from a train station sandwich, and frankly we all know not to eat food associated with transportation.
Besides, life expectancy in France is ninth out of 183 countries, according to the World Health Organization. The odds seem to be in their favor.
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Last time I went back to the USA, I wondered why my dinner partner was so far away across that big table. I marveled at how it took nine steps to get from the toilet to the sink, why that elevator could easily hold sixteen more people.
You’ll get used to it, here in France.
And you’ll love it.
Here’s a post I wrote after I moved to France. These things seem second nature now.
Besides, life expectancy in France is ninth out of 183 countries, according to the World Health Organization. The odds seem to be in their favor.
-------------------------------------
Last time I went back to the USA, I wondered why my dinner partner was so far away across that big table. I marveled at how it took nine steps to get from the toilet to the sink, why that elevator could easily hold sixteen more people.
You’ll get used to it, here in France.
And you’ll love it.
Here’s a post I wrote after I moved to France. These things seem second nature now.
