You’ll be happy to learn that:
- My blood pressure is 120/80,
- I finally have my first permanent residence card (not to be confused with my second one, which I hope to get soon, but still), and
- I speak French. Like…really.
So on Tuesday I went to my medical appointment, which I have to admit, I was a little nervous about. I mean, do you see anything comforting in a summons letter that strongly suggests that you bring a recent pulmonary X-ray, but which generously informs you that you don’t need to fast?
Fasting, seriously, had never occurred to me.
It was no big deal, of course, in the end. There were various completely non-invasive measurements taken (assembly-line-style); the worst part by far was the X-ray. In retrospect, I sincerely and whole-heartedly wish that I had had one done privately beforehand. “Step into the cabins as they become available,” the latest in a string of women with lab coats told us. “Lock the door, and take off everything you are wearing on top. And you–you should pull your hair up. Someone will come and get you from the other side.” Are you soothed?
Worse yet, my cabin reeked. I mean, full-on human stench. It wasn’t even like those nests of homeless people you pass in subway stations or under bridges; those are adulterated by other smells. This was just…person. Pure. And it took them a good five minutes to come and get me, while I stood there staring at my collarbones in the tiny mirror and imagining the smell molecules bonding with my own skin cells.
Plus, one of the radiologist chicks kept, like, shoving me.
Anyway. Ever seen a pulmonary X-ray? I just kept staring at the bones in my shoulders. It’s really surreal. “Yes; and there is your clavicle, along there,” the doctor told me, because she and I could actually communicate. Which was pretty cool.
Even cooler? I went to Kristina’s new place out in the suburbs yesterday afternoon, and her Czech friend came, too. I’ve met her before, and so I wasn’t entirely prepared for her to walk through the door determinedly speaking French, but it wasn’t long before it was clear that the three of us were on track for a legitimate Learning Experience.
And you know…it worked? I felt so empowered by the time I got home that I only listened to the answering machine once before calling up DHL and telling them how to get into our building. I even headed the guy off when he tried to pass me to an English-speaking rep; I told him quite firmly that French was fine, as long as he spoke a bit more slowly.
He laughed at me just a smidge, but he did it, and now I have this weird package from our new bank, which is, I would swear, trying to drown us in cheerful promotional paper.
Oh, and Kristina lent me this book that I already love, that has “ten commandments for understanding the French.” The first one? “Tu auras tort–Thou Shalt Be Wrong.” Love, love, love.
Speaking of love and Frenchness, Kristina and her boyfriend (“He is nice; just French”) are coming to dinner tomorrow. Nick is trying frantically to talk me out of cooking my world-famous (okay, well Andrea liked it) blanquette de veau, because you can’t impress a French man with a French dish, but if that’s really true then I doubt that any other cuisine will especially impress him either, so….
I’ll hit the market tomorrow, and let you know how it all turns out.