High Heels, Tasty Teas

My employer had to send me to a doctor for a government-mandated, basic medical examination. I’m still not sure if this is a requirement when an employee takes any new job in France, or if I had to do it because it’s my very first job in France (some things do get lost in translation sometimes). Anyhow, I was promised an hour of pay for the doctor’s visit, so I wasn’t at all put out by the prospect.

During our visit to France five years ago, Nate experienced bad carpal tunnel, so he decided to visit an acupuncturist in Marseilles. We were surprised to discover that the doctor’s office looked more like a private home: the waiting room was a richly appointed parlor and the exam room where Nate was transformed into a human pincushion had the air of an old-fashioned study. At the time we thought it had something to do with the taste of the acupuncturist (or perhaps he just worked out of his home?), but I recently read somewhere that this decor is quite typical for private medical practices in France. So color me surprised (and admittedly a bit disappointed) when I entered a highly sterile, nondescript doctor’s office today. Where’s my Louis XV waiting-room chair?

I’ve been surprising myself with the amount of French I can understand. My French speech skills, however, are foundling at best. I’ve managed to get through basic transactions at the bank, post office, restaurants, and various shops, but today at the doctor’s office I came across my first big hurdle—with hilarious results. Everything started out fine. I gave my name, answered some basic questions, and then was told to wait. I asked the receptionist to point me toward the bathroom, and on my way a pair of nurse practitioners accosted me. They started squabbling away at me in French and I stood dumbstruck, only making out two words: “pee pee” (I can only assume this expression transcends language barriers) and “verre” (the word for glass or cup). Before I could respond, one of the NP’s produced a metal cup—slightly bigger than but in the same style of the kind a barrista would use to steam milk—and handed it to me. Are you kidding? I have to pee in a cup, and it’s then going to be frothed up for a cappuccino? The receptionist must have overheard the exchange, because she came rushing over and explained to the NP’s that I didn’t need to provide a urine sample. Pfew. I made it through the medical exam (very basic, mostly consisting of q & a) speaking “Franglais” with the doctor, who I think was more nervous to make inquiries in English than I was to answer her in French.

Whoever coined the phrase “no pain, no gain” has never traversed four arrondisements worth of Paris in 3” wedges. I have newfound respect for the pair of shoes I hurriedly slung on today, way before I decided to walk all the way from the doctor’s office in the 2nd to our aparthotel in the 12th. I didn’t plan to walk that far when I first left the doctor’s, but it was probably the abundant eye candy that propelled me onward—and I made it home without a trace of discomfort.


I started out on the pedestrian walkway of rue Montrogeuil, chockablock with produce markets, flower shops, and touristy cafes. I then veered east toward the Marais, thinking it would be a convenient time to explore more of my soon-to-be hood. I passed the Centre Pompidou (which, as Joe so perfectly puts it, looks like a hamster cage) on my way up rue Rambuteau, which eventually became rue de Francois Bourgeois—an apt name for a street full of fashion, gourmet food, and upscale cosmetics. (Oh man, am I in trouble…thank god the paychecks will be rolling in soon.) Today I wasn’t so much tempted by all the lovely wares peeking out of boutique after boutique—it was the siren song of beautiful public space after beautiful public space. A random turn onto a side street brought me to a quaint park alongside a church. It wasn’t nearly as wondrous as the spots I encountered later on, but sitting in the shade, watching tots play in the sandbox, gazing up at the church’s spire amid the tops of ornate Parisian buildings—just heavenly.


I ambled through the twisty alleys until I came across rue des Rosiers, the heart of Paris’ Jewish Quarter, where one can see Hassidim strolling past Marais fashion hounds. Then right around the corner is rue Vieille du Temple, where rainbow flags soar proudly. (I’ll feel so at home in the Marais, as it’s a perfect cross between my NY Jewish heritage and my decade in SF.) I didn’t see any leather chaps, but I did make the discovery of a lifetime: Le Palais de Thés. I really love tea; in fact, I LURVE it. I like to check out tea shops whenever possible, and this tea takes the cake. The blends here are so unusual and aromatic, and after a few sips of the green tea they’d brewed for sampling, I felt reborn. So let me say it now: if we could abdicate alcohol and drugs for the offerings of Le Palais de Thés, the world would be a much more peaceful, happy place. If I’m found months from now wandering the Paris airport in robes and a tonsure, preaching the benefits of tea, don’t say I didn’t warn you. For now, I’ll just enjoy the Hammam Rouge blend I purchased—a kaleidoscope of flavors ranging from jasmine to grapefruit.


I circled back to rue Francois Bourgeois, where I discovered Musée Carnavalet, a museum of the history of Paris. Thankfully, you don’t have to pay the admission price to soak up the grounds. This is one of the most jaw-droppingly stunning places I’ve seen in Paris. I’ll let the picture speak for itself, although it doesn't nearly do the place justice.


It gets better. I ventured on to Place des Vosges, a square built in the 17th century on perfect symmetrical principles. Nine connected houses were constructed on each side of the square, with arcades covering the sidewalks. A fountain runneth over in each corner, benches are located throughout, and people of all ages lounge on the patches of grass. It’s no surprise Catherine de Medici chose to live here at one point. It’s hard to decide whether to hang out in the park or kick it at a curbside café on the perimeter, but today I opted for a bench as the sun reared its head for the first time all afternoon.


By the time I was ready to head home, I realized I was right around the corner from place de Bastille, a mere 10-15 minute walk from home (go wedges!). I don’t know why this weird carnival booth was set up in the middle of a traffic island—Parisian wonders never cease.