Living in Paris 101: I Can See Clearly Now…

I’m smart.  I am…truly.  They say if you have to say it, you’re not smart, but I am.  When I decided to live in Paris, I knew things would be different.  Different cultures to adapt to, new things to learn, less efficiency, yada, yada, yada.  However, I’m a doctoral candidate from one of the top universities in the nation.  I passed my PhD exams on the first attempt.  Okay, it was close, but so what?  Sometimes I even manage to understand the archivist telling me that I have to come back tomorrow because what makes me think they have all these old documents lying around?  Like I said, I’m smart.  Why am I telling you all this?  Because if you decide to try your hand at living in Paris, forget how smart you are.  It’ll save time and make things easier.   Most of us come armed with language skills (of varying degrees) and full of knowledge that comes from books on how to adapt to anticipated culture shock.  Hey, I read the books.  I know how to greet the butcher, baker and candlestick maker when I enter a store.  I say thank you and good-bye when I leave.  I got manners.  My mama raised me right.  I usually preface my statements by the phrase, “excuse me, I sound like a child when I talk French.”  Then I heard a French child speak.  I don’t sound like that at all.  I sound like a tongue-less troglodyte.   But how many of you come fortified with knowledge of how to get a pelvic exam?  Or an eye exam?  That’s what I thought.  For us Americans, remember how, when you needed new glasses or contacts, you could run into your favorite neighborhood optical boutique – with or without an appointment – get your eyes checked, get your prescription, and have your glasses or contacts, as they say, in about an hour.  And if you buy your products there, often they don’t even charge you for the exam.  Just try that here.  After visiting 5 optical shops, it finally became clear that they weren’t kidding – only exams for glasses can be done on-site.  See, if you need contact lenses (and you don’t have a prescription already), you have to go to an eye specialist.  Sometimes a couple of times.   Once for the appointment, another for the fitting, and again if the contacts aren’t right.  Sigh.  But at home (read in the States, where you can get your appendix taken out on drive-thru and also super-size your fries), I can do it at the same place, at the same time.  Well, you’re not at home anymore, are you?   For those of us who can discuss the nineteenth century historical significance of race, gender and class in France (in fairly comprehensive French), how lovely to be reduced in the doctor’s office to “Eye hurts. Stuff fuzzy.” Uh huh, that sounds just like you’d say it in English, right?  Feeling confident?  Try dealing with an exasperated Ophthalmologist grabbing and opening your eye because you don’t quite understand what she’s saying.  Or watch her smirk when you manage to stammer, “Lens feel well. Got liquid stuff for them?” “Hey missy,” you want to scream, “yesterday, I managed to buy nylons that fit all by myself, and they had a crotch and everything!  And I only got lost on Metro once.  I ain’t nobody’s fool!”  Forget who you were back home, my friend.  It’s a new day.  And you probably sound very stupid.   Next up:  the OB/GYN.  Hopefully I can manage something more coherent than “speculum cold.”  But don’t bet on it. Robin Mitchell is a doctoral candidate currently in paris completing her dissertation research.  in addition to conducting tours of black paris and helping make ‘regular-sized’ women feel beautiful with her day of decadence tour, she also leaps buildings in a single bound and has been known to squeal with glee at wicked lingerie.