This weekend David and I both had the opportunity to experience adventures in ill-health while abroad! Yippee. Saturday evening David developed some sort of stomach bug, complete with fever and chills, and was just sick enough for me to start freaking out about my lack of preparedness for health issues while here.  Neither of us is prone to sickness, so I didn’t really think I had to have that all figured out. We have international health insurance because it was required for the long-stay visa, but other than knowing where to find a few pharmacies, I felt pretty ill-equipped. I do know 911 is useless here. Instead, you call 15 for medical emergencies, 17 for the police, and 18 (or 112–don’t ask me, I have no idea) for the fire department.

Fortunately, no emergency services were required, and David is on the mend. But just when he was starting to feel better yesterday, I started feeling unwell–I’ll spare you the details–and became increasing convinced that I’d have to miss my first day back at school and would somehow need to find a doctor and get myself there, since antibiotics would be required to get me back to health.  I remembered the welcome packet for school (yes, I’m one of those people who read things like that) had a page of emergency contact information, so I was able to find a clinic half an hour’s walk from the house. It’s just around the corner from here (below):

I was still in a bit of a panic, since although my French is definitely improving, I’m not great at talking on the phone, but I felt I should call the school to let them know I could not return today, and then I had to call to get an appointment with a doctor. I managed both, in a rather bumbling, incoherent way, admittedly, but . . . yay . . . gold star for me.

I’ve read somewhere that doctor’s appointments in France are rather different than those in the states. Don’t know if this is true or not, but I’ve read that you have to take off all your clothes and sit there, awkward and freezing, on the examining table without so much a tissue: no gown, no drape, naked as the day you were born. And while it is true that things were rather different–no nurse checking my blood pressure, taking my pulse, making me stand on the scale, no nurse at all, in fact, and best of all, ZERO paperwork–I’m happy to report, no nudity was required. The doctor was the one to fetch me from the waiting room, and we walked through a little courtyard to a small exam room, but he sat at a little desk and I sat in a chair on the other side and we had a conversation–flipping between English and French as either of us lacked the necessary vocabulary. Then he explained the prescription he was giving me–three pills, take one a day, avoid the sun, drink LOTS of water–then asked me for 23 euros, shook my hand and showed me out.

I retrieved David from a bench in Place de Verdun and we went to the pharmacy where I turned in my prescription and was immediately given the packet of pills–cost 13 euros 56 centimes. Done and done in about 20 minutes and for about 40 bucks USD. Love it. We, however, did not feel quite well enough for lunch here:

And while I certainly would have preferred that neither of us get sick, it was one more fear conquered–okay, two–the phone AND the doctor. Here’s hoping your fears can be conquered without the need for ill-health.

No, we’re not actually in Oz. We’re still in La Rochelle, which we love, but sometimes Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz springs to mind, as in, “Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Here we see things we would not ordinarily see in Fort Collins, Colorado. Like this:

Well, maybe we do see things like that occasionally in Fort Collins, but only on Tour de Fat Saturday!

Don’t see these, though:

Or these:

Or toddlers sporting fabulous scarves:

Or man-bags:

Or Converse worn quite this way:

Or women of all ages enjoying fashion quite this much:

How about this one?

None of the above are isolated random sightings–well except the dude in pink. Converse, man-bags, beautifully wound scarves on children, and even stylish seniors in mini-skirts and boots are everywhere. We can’t get enough. We walk and look or sit and watch (and sneak furtive photos with a long lens) every chance we get.

Finally, check out this little piece of the vieux port. Can you imagine a drop-off like this in the states with no railing? And yet, we all manage to walk along it every day with no mishaps. Well, few. There was a bike at the bottom you could see at low tide the other day, and be sure to scroll down to note my hat’s new home.

Sunday my best new hat was stolen from my head by a strong gust of wind and dropped down into the silt of low tide, as you can see above. Of course the port area is always thronged with pedestrians and café-sitters, so there was a sympathetic chorus of Oh! Là! Là! Là! Là! (It was more than a two Là! catastrophe, but not quite a six. “Oh! Là! Là!” is used for any surprise, whether positive or negative. The more “là” is repeated, the more likely it is to be negative.) I could possibly have climbed down the ancient iron ladder affixed to the wall and then squished across eight or ten feet of muck in an effort to retrieve it, but decided to let it go, rather than attempt it with such a large audience. Later when we came back that way, the tide had come up a bit, but it was still visible and was providing quite the conversation starter. I overheard no fewer than five separate groups of people, “Blah, blah, blah, un chapeau . . . .” One man in a hat was leaning over and looking without holding on to his own hat, so I felt compelled to warn him. “Ah, attention à votre chapeau, monsieur! C’est mon chapeau là-bas!” (“Be careful of your hat, sir! That’s my hat down there!”) Guess that was my fifteen minutes of fame—kind of lame. Yesterday I went back to La Chapellerie and bought another one, but David has made me promise to hold onto it when near the water.

Once we’ve had enough people-watching for the day, we head back home,  and although Colorado is certainly very beautiful,  I can assure you we’ve never glanced down a random side street in Fort Collins and seen anything like this:

What a treat for the eyes this place is.

Les portes de La Rochelle make me want to paint with watercolors.

But first I have to photograph them, because I’m not even CLOSE to ready to have anyone see me attempting a watercolor. Besides, the French are rather private people and would not be likely to appreciate me camped outside their door, no matter how artsy I looked. So instead I took a gazillion photos (as quickly as possible).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I love all the colors against the soft buff and cool grey of the stone. Maybe I will actually get out my paints. I’ll let you know. But if you do first, send me a photo!

Postscript: I know I posted all of the above only half an hour ago, but David helped me realize that the visual metaphor pictured above may be too obscure, and a few words may be in order. I’m ending this post with the photo of an open door with something beautiful behind it, because that’s what this whole experience feels like to us. Between the challenges of the logistics and the language barrier, it really did seem sometimes that it would be impossible to take this journey, yet here we are, and it’s amazing. It feels like we’ve stepped through the back of the wardrobe into Narnia — a completely different kind of place in some ways — with all the essentials of life more richly appreciated, because we’re out of our routine: the refreshment of a perfect little garden in the midst of a stone city, the sensory treat of glowing produce piled in abundance at the outdoor markets, the ambiance of cozy little restaurants in tiny side streets, the laughter of children, the delight of a smile shared.

We are profoundly grateful for this opportunity and hope you enjoy sharing a bit of it with us. Better yet, we wish you your own open door with beauty behind it. We’d love to hear all about it. And don’t forget to send photos!

When you travel out of your home country, one of the most challenging tasks is deciphering signs, and some of them are important, like the sign at the cemetery advising when to leave to avoid being locked in overnight. Seriously. Good to know.

And this one:

Don’t touch this. Got it.

And this one:

Even without knowing French, you’d understand this sign if you saw this on the other side of the fence:

He did NOT like having his picture taken.

Some signs are easy to understand:

I bought un nouveau chapeau in this shop, since we’re spending so much time out in the sun. (And because it’s super stylish, let’s be honest.)

Some signs are sort of inspiring, in a vague, literary way:

“Street of the Brave . . . er. . . Certain-Style-of-French-Poetry”?

Some are just slightly beyond my level of French:

I think this means: “Fashion worn by dogs and cats” but I’m not sure about the à portée de part. Glancing in the door, there seem to be lots of posh pet things, but since I have neither dog nor cat, it’s not really something I absolutely need to know.

Some are cheerful:

It doesn’t really explain what kind of food is offered, but at least they seem to be in a good mood. (It says, “The sun shines for everyone Restaurant”)

Some make you go, “Huh?”

So if you stand here . . . what? . . . you’ll make friends?

How about this one? This means pedestrians yield to traffic, right?

But whenever we wait, the cars all stop (well almost all), just barely in time, it’s true, but they stop, and the drivers tend to look a bit irritated that we’re not halfway across already. But there are just enough cars that don’t stop to make us believe the yield sign is actually for us. Wouldn’t that be REALLY good to know?

Some are completely incomprehensible. Even my French tutor doesn’t know what this one means:

Is it saying: “No cars, no bikes, no pedestrians and all you lawbreakers who are going to come this way anyway, go 20 km/hr”? That can’t be it. The road has to be for someone, and lots of us use it all the time. But today I noticed this exact sign, but without the red stripe a block earlier, so now I have a new theory. The first sign with no stripe is saying, “I don’t care if you’re a car, a bike, or a person. Don’t go over 20 km/hr because you’re all sharing this tiny street.”

At the end of the block, with the red-striped sign, I’m going to go with, “All bets are off. Go as fast as you can.” Based on how these little cars scream around bends, I think I’ve got it.

Onward and upward. Here’s to greater understanding wherever you are!