Sometimes I have to interrupt my impossibly glamorous life in France to actually live in France.
Today I could not longer stand having so much wax stuck in my ear. I was tired of cocking my head and asking people to walk on my "good side." After all, I'm not quite 80.
I had to find a French ear doctor. Something I'd put off for a week.
Life in France breeds procrastination. The drudgery of figuring stuff out -- big deals like getting your resident card or your "carte vitale" (national health insurance) -- is like being on "Survivor: French Civil Servant Challenge."
Once you nail the big-ticket items, all you want to do is eat big chunks of cheese and bread for six months.
But this morning my choice was clear: remain half-deaf or find an ear doctor.
I usually round up my usual know-it-all expat suspects when I need an expert. Mark came through this time with a name and number.
I made the call. A surly (there's a shock!) receptionist answered.
"Hi, my name is Dana and I have some wax stuck in my ear," I said in the bright, hopeful voice that I rarely use with medical personnel back home.
Silence.
"Hello?" I repeated. (Yes, this is in French.)
The receptionist sounded bored.
"Yes?" she said.
"Well, I'd like an appointment to get it out, please," I said.
She told me to come at 4:30 p.m.
I showed up on time. I wasn't worried. I had the same problem years ago in the States and had a painless procedure to remove it. I waited only 20 minutes and was greeted by an unusually tall doctor. Looking back, I realize his height (over 5'7") must have obscured his horns.
We walked into his somber office. (Was there a coffin in there, now that I think back?) I explained him about my ear wax.
He smirked and gestured at two stools in the corner.
I sat on one. The doctor, I think his last name was Satane, settled across from me. He slid open a tray laden with dozens of gleaming silver instruments. He left it open for me to gaze at while he slipped on a Darth Vader-like gas mask helmet with a coal-miner type lamp.
He took out what I'm sure was an ice pick the length of an elderly man's cane.
My eyes widened and I drew back. He cackled and grabbed my shoulders as if I were a recalcitrant child.
He held up the ice pick and rammed it down my ear canal as if he were attacking a particularly pesky piece of drywall.
I let out what may have been a cry and then a whimper. Beelzebub looked at me with disdain.
He showed me the offending ear wax as if it was, of course, my fault. (Did I mention he's French?)
Then he attacked the better ear and I was almost yelling it hurt so much. "Ow!" I screamed.
In the States, they use a gentle irrigation procedure to pull the wax out. I mentioned this as I sat, shell-shocked, opposite Lucifer after the petite operation. The demon, predictably, sneered knowingly, and propped his cloven hooves up on the desk.
"That's no good," he said. "Our way is better."
Case closed. Did I mention he's French?
By the way, the whole visit cost less than 40 bucks. I feel great and can hear clear as a bell.
I love France.