Trip to the Doctor (and More)

Every year around my birthday, I get a physical. A good idea when you reach my age. I missed the date this year, and after consulting the Blue Cross/Blue Shield website, I chose a doctor in Aix-en-Provence. I made my appointment over the phone (with Jean’s help) and yesterday I set off via the back roads to the “Capital of Provence”. TomTom had programmed my route which took me past the trees that have so inspired the impressionist painters. However, Tommy dropped me off at a round-about and I had no idea what to do next. So I circled the block a couple of times and found a parking spot on a sidewalk behind another car. Now in America I’d be concerned, but the French often park on the sidewalk. So, being a Frenchman-in-training, I was golden. After a few “Où est” to pedestrians, I found the doctor’s office down an alley.

After a short wait, I met my new doc, Dr. Lemierre. He led me into his spacious office and between his bit of English and my bit of French, we were off on a run checking blood pressure, refilling prescriptions and ordering blood-work. I mentioned that my elbow hurt. The Doc responded by mimicking a shrubby clipping motion: He questioned, “Avez-vous un jardin?” I said I did and used a motobineuse. With that he rolled his eyes and prescribed some pain pills and deep-heating cream. We were done, he pulled out a debit card machine like you see in restaurants, charged me 22 Euros and I was on my way.

I walked around the corner to make the appointment at the lab for my blood-letting, feeling very proud of myself for having such a successful outing. I headed to the car, and then it happened: The car was gone. An empty space where TomTom’s friend once occupied. I stood there dazed for a few minutes then the reality hit me: I was an hour away from home, barely able to speak the language, nowhere to turn, no friend in sight. What should I do?

I called Jean.

Now, since the sixteen-year-old Fiesta is not very high on the stolen car list, I assumed that it had been towed. Jean called our friend in Paris, Maria-Elena, and she suggested calling the Marie or the Fourrier (literal translation: Quartermaster). Jean mentioned to me on the phone that Marie-Elena also prepared us for the reality that the fine might well exceed the cost of the car. I walked back the doctor’s office to ask their advice, well prepared to spend the night in Aix.

Meanwhile Jean had found the car. It had indeed been towed and, for the fee of 96.10 euros, it could be ours again. I just needed to prove that the car was mine by presenting our Carte Gris – The Grey Card - that is France’s version of the DMV registration. The problem, of course, is that it takes at the minimum 90 days to get your carte gris and since we bought the car in October, our registration was still being processed. I decided to take a taxi and plead to sympathy of the repo-man. Of course, I didn’t have enough cash to actually PAY a taxi, so I found a driver that would take me by an ATM and then to the Fourrier.

The taxi driver dropped me off with a hearty “Bonne Chance” and I knocked on the bullet-proof window. “Carte gris?”, he asked. “Non”, I responded. But after a few minutes, I convinced him it was indeed my car, I knew the contents and there would be some official document in the car that would prove it was mine.

He nodded approval and after I rummaged through the glove compartment, I discovered that my insurance policy had both my name and the license plate number. He nodded his OK and 96.10 euros later, I was on my way, never to park like a Frenchman again!