l'Assurance Maladie (Part 1)

Now that I don’t live in England, or rather, now that I don’t pay any taxes to Queen Lizzie’s lot in England, the NHS no longer wants to pay for my health care. As a result, I recently had to tackle the French social security system in order to apply for my ayant droit - my entitlement to French healthcare. This posed two major problems: 

1)    I don’t speak French (yet!)

2)   They can only be bothered to open weekdays from 9am - 4:30pm on weekdays, so my wonderful French girlfriend who would usually come along and take care of such things would be at work. 
 

I would have to take on the system alone which was going to be more challenging than my usual, “je voudrais une Kronenbourg s’il vous plait”. Oddly enough though, this little adventure started out quite well. I looked up the address (had it spoon fed to me by my petite amie) and found the place no problem at all. You see in Paris, lots of doctors’ surgeries and other medical buildings are only very subtly signposted – I guess because they don’t want to have to deal with the sort of idiot who can’t follow directions or read a sign. (Either way, I’m sure it reduces patient numbers which gives them more time to smoke cigarettes and practise being promiscuous). Naturally, I was more than a little surprised when I managed to find the right doorway at the first time of asking. The walk through to the entrance of the health centre was interesting only in that it was impossibly long. How does such a small space afford such a long path? - It defies the laws of our universe. Unlike the insides of some other Parisian buildings, there were no gardens or plush courtyards to be found here. There was only dusty concrete and an impressively large piss stain up the side of one wall. A metaphor for how my visit would go maybe...

Subtle I'm sure you'll agree. Also, this man is wearing a beret. Parfait!

 

The inside of the health centre looked much like those I’d been to in England – sterile, dull and full of weirdos. My particular favourite was the gentleman shamelessly picking his arse whilst in full view of everybody else in the waiting area. Lovely jubbly! Rather than focus too much on the fart-hole fiddling French man, I decided to try and suss the place out instead. It became clear that the queue in which I was stood led to one of two identical desks where some sort of assessment took place. Two steadfast guardians manned the desks, separating me and my fellow man from the sacred land beyond; sure, it was another waiting area but it came with the luxuries of hard plastic seating and an array of complementary pamphlets and leaflets. All that was missing were some pearly gates and some long white beards. Those that were lucky enough to be passed through did so wit a skip and a smile, whilst those that didn't make it would more often than not voice their disappointment with choruses of putain and merde. Now even I know that’s not French for, Thanks for your help and have a nice day. The French do love a good swear word.

When I found myself at the front of the line some 15 minutes later, I suddenly realised how grossly underprepared I was. I hadn’t rehearsed anything to say and had no idea what questions I may be asked. When you're in a country and don't speak the language, even the most mundane of tasks requires at least 30 minutes homework! I felt a little nervous and even considered leaving. How on Earth was I going to communicate with this woman? I desperately tried to throw some vocabulary together in my head but it was no use. It was my turn to be judged! I started to shuffle forward, but the woman was already demanding something from me, and she seemed a little angry too. She thrust her hand out ready to receive something that I was obvuiously supposed to give her. I hadn’t the slightest clue what she said, and I knew I didn't have what she needed. I had no other option but to play my trump card! I’m not proud of it, and I hate to manipulate people, but this was a desperate situation! So I widened my eyes, smiled apologetically, tried to look a little clumsy and flustered and said with my best English accent, “Je suis trés desolé, mais je ne parle pas francais”. I expected her to smile back adoringly (the French love the English thanks to Hugh Grant, Love Actually and all that other nonsense). She was supposed to tell me that my lack of French was no problem and that she’d love to practise her English with me. We’d laugh and joke about how we think the French smell and have hairy armpits, and she’d probably poke fun at our teeth and cuisine. What I got, however was a shrug that was devoid of both care and compassion. She sat back in her chair, with an expression on her face that said, “I couldn’t give a shit where you're from pal – either you talk to me in French or you can fuck right off”. I couldn’t believe it – simply being English wasn’t good enough for this tyrant. Didn’t she know that nobody from England can speak another language?! She looked at me blankly and said something else. I managed to catch the words trois cent vingt-deux. Apparently she'd been asking for my ticker with the number 322 on it. Turns out I was supposed to get one from a machine at the front door in order to book my place in the queue. Clearly my sussing out of the place wasn't quite good enough. Not to worry though, the proud owner of ticket number 322 was on hand to kindly shove me out of the way and spare the woman the trouble of explaining it to me again.

I trudged back past the nose pickers and the arse scratchers to find myself where I had been a good 20 minutes previously  - right at the back of the queue. Sure enough there was a ticket machine plopped right there – I wondered how I missed it the first time around - it seemed so obvious now. I took my ticket (#327 as you can see) and was thrilled to find out I had at least another 9 minutes to wait before I’d be near the front again. 

I couldn’t help but notice that the ticket-hungry monster from earlier was eyeing me suspiciously all the while I was queuing. It was only as I got to within one person from the front that I realised what she had been doing. Knowing that I was next, and that I wasn’t going to be the easiest interaction of the day, she got up and left her desk. She obviously couldn’t be bothered to deal with the English moron today - it appeared I was going to be the other poor woman’s problem. 

Thankfully she was much nicer, although her English was only marginally better than my French.  We spent the next 10 minutes keeping up the facade that we could understand each other. She would say something, and I would respond with a series of nods and over enthusiastic smiles. She knew I didn’t understand a word, but it was all she could do. At the same time she understood none of my responses. When I found myself pointing to the words United Kingdom on my passport for the 3rd time in the vain hope that somehow this would translate to “I have recently moved to Paris and need to apply for a French social security number”, I knew the cause was lost. In the end, we exchanged a glance that accepted defeat. Our game was over. She very politely handed me a form (its purpose still unbeknowns to me) and said with that most charming of French accents, “You come return here if you want” – bless her. I finished the pleasantries with the most genuine “Mercy Boo-coo” I could muster, took the form and my passport and headed for the door. I thought about letting out a few expletives on the way but that’s no way for an Englishman to behave. I knew I had to discuss the form with someone who could explain it to me, and come back a damn sight better prepared... 

I’ll let you know how I got on when I returned in the next post as this one is already a tad lengthy. In the meantime, I’ll be scratching my arse and picking my nose whilst studying French online language resources. À Bientôt.