A Room With A View

When I had the apartment in New York for the winter people would ask me why would I spend a winter in the city. I always replied that I went south for the winter just not as far south as the other people. Once I replied I would go to Paris except for the language problem. It suddenly occurred to me I had no language problem, I was bilingual or could be again with a little effort.

Finding the Paris apartment took two phone calls to an agent listed in a brochure at the French tourist bureau. The first apartment in the Marais was not light enough. We passed on the chic eighth arrondissement and settled for the Latin Quarter which afforded us a light and bright duplex. The top floor encompassed a living room, dining area, kitchen, bedroom and bath, below two bedrooms and a bath. It was decorated flawlessly in beiges and Thai silk pillows and lots of books in various languages.

The building had once been a monastery and was built around a court which made the apartment very quiet although we were but steps from the market on Rue Mouffetard. In the Spring the trees in the courtyard put forth cherry blossoms.

I find it most amusing to hear the know nothings condemn the French health care system. When Mariana and I had the apartment in Paris I transferred my care to the French health care system. The transfer was facilitated by Connie who was living in Switzerland at the time. She sent an e-mail to the American Women’s Club in Zurich saying I needed care, I would be in Paris I spoke French. By return e-mail I had a doctor who would enter me into the system,

Every three weeks I took the metro from Place Monge to Ballard the end of the lilac line. I walked the four blocks to the brand new fabulous building , Hopital Europeen Georges Pompidou. Within the three story atrium were grown trees, restaurants and of course the hospital.

In the private room in which they treated me everything ran off a remote control wand. The blinds went up and down the bed went up and down etc. If I arrived before eleven AM the French cheerfully provided me with breakfast. After 11 one was served lunch. Breakfast was better than lunch. A Breton nurse took care of me swiftly and pleasantly. When the treatment was over I spoke with the billing people. On one occasion I forgot my credit card and they waved me on saying I could pay next time. Just like in America.