Home again

The problem with feeling cold is that the body and mind enter into a kind of protective hibernation. No, by many people’s standards, it’s not THAT cold here, but by MY standards, it’s glacial. And the weather experts don’t sound optimistic that things will improve. Friends in Paris tell me I’m a wuss and should stop complaining (not in so many words, of course.) Friends in Canada tell me it’s snowing there and I should be grateful to be here.

My body is whining “Where’s the sun?”

Ah, well, I have Dan’s socks and sweater to add to my inappropriately tropical clothing selection, so I shall probably survive.

In other news, it is indeed a pleasure to be back in France, even if I’m an “SDF” (“sans domicile fixe”, or homeless person) at the moment. Sitting out in the garden this weekend with the boys I realized that nature here is softer, more friendly. The trees are not as spiky, the animal sounds are those of creatures who live a peaceful existence for the most part. The breeze is gentle, the sun benevolent. The Perche is beautiful right now, especially when a few rays of sun manage to escape from the grey sky to highlight the colors in the fields. The house is surrounded by acres and acres of pale green oats and yellow canola (rapeseed), and the woods are lush and almost tropical-looking. At about 6 pm the light is fabulous; it’s what Dan calls the “Magic Moment.”

Comparing the French countryside to the Cambodian countryside is like comparing a Constable to a Rousseau, or Mozart to Ravel. After a serious traffic accident and its attendant adventures, it’s very nice to be in such a non-demanding environment.

But I so miss feeling warm…

Another thing I’ve noticed is how very expensive it is to live here. A one-and-a-half hour drive to Vincent’s house on Sunday cost me 18 euros in tolls. Roughly the monthly salary of a Cambodian schoolteacher. Yesterday I bought a bottle of water chez Paul in the gare de Montparnasse, and it cost 2,30€ – the cost of an entire expat meal in Phnom Penh. It’s obscene – and a bit frightening when I think of trying to re-establish a comfortable material existence here.

Getting around in Paris by wheelchair is not very difficult, if one leaves enough time to get from point A to point B. My first outing involved taking the train from Nogent-le-Rotrou to Paris with David, who managed just fine on his crutches. The personnel at the Nogent station were very helpful, even bringing us hot coffee when it transpired that we had to wait for a later train because the one that was in the station – and which we had intended to take – was parked right on the handicapped crossing, blocking it completely.

There is no way for a wheelchair-bound person to actually sit with friends once in the train, so I spent the journey (about two hours) shivering on the platform just inside the train’s doors. But once at Montparnasse, attendants were ready with a mechanical ramp to get my chair off the train. Communication between stations is impressive; “attention: wheelchair arriving.” Much to my surprise, helping wheelchair-bound passengers is a regular part of their day.

The elevator in the gare worked just fine, and once I was on the ground level David and I said goodbye, and I headed out to wheel myself to the shopping center across the square. This undertaking was less than pleasant, however, as it was raining – and I have, of course, no raincoat. But I managed to haul myself up and then down the slanted pavement (not a single offer of help from the passing Parisians) and into the shopping center where I had some errands to run.

A remark here about being “handicapped” in Paris: we are invisible. When I was obese, people stared at me. When I lost weight, I got used to not being looked at much. But I hadn’t achieved the level of invisibility I have now reached; it’s absolutely amazing. Crowds part and flow around me seamlessly, not a single person averts his or her eyes from their intended path. In Asia I was the subject of fascination. Everyone looked, some even touched and asked me “why?” We often had to fight off helpful bystanders who wanted to lift the wheelchair as we went up a curb. While it was disconcerting to be the center of so much attention, I far prefer the frank Asian curiosity to the Parisian oh-so-politely fleeing regard.

When it was time to go to my appointment at the Clinique du Sport, I made my way toward the 91 bus stop. Some Parisian buses are equipped for handicapped people, and I was anxious to try out the system. But a well-timed text message from friend Michèle eliminated the need to try just yet; “stay where you are, I’m coming!” she said.

Michèle came to pick me up in her car and took me to see Dr. Furno, one of the best orthopedic surgeons in France, a knee specialist. After I had a round of x-rays, he met with me and took a look at the damage. I’m very happy to report that he found Dr. Courtois’ work in Vietnam very well done, and my progress in exercising my body more than satisfactory. The only disappointment for me is that he doesn’t want me to use my walker or crutches for the moment, as he’s a bit worried about the consolidation of my collarbone… which means I’m well and truly consigned to my wheelchair for the next few weeks. But we hope that further x-rays will show that all is well and that I will be able to start using crutches part-time before I actually leave for the US early June.

I ended up taking a taxi back to Montparnasse because I had spent more time than I’d planned with the doctor – another 13 euros! I met the boys – and indeed the whole contingent of Parisian Percherons – at the gare to take the train back to the country. Two SNCF employees bodily lifted my wheelchair into the train this time, as the ramp was in use on another quay. It’s quite nerve-wracking to feel one hoisted into the air, but like in so many situations these days, I could only tell myself to relax and enjoy the ride.

For the next few weeks this will be a familiar schedule, one or two days a week. We’ll be staying with friends in Paris from time to time to avoid having to make the round trip (also expensive) and to give Dan and Pascal a little breathing space. They’ve given up their ground-floor bedroom and their privacy for a while, for which I’m very grateful, but it will be nice to let them have some time alone as well.

So this next phase will be a busy one, for in addition to seeing many people I’ve missed for months, I also have to take my medical situation in hand, convince Social Security and my mutuelle (complementary insurance) to reimburse all of my medical expenses, do my income tax returns with the help of an accountant, and make sure my administrative life is in good order before going off yet again to wander around the world.

But it IS good to be home!