France: The land of cheese, bread and wine.
It’s true and it’s wonderful.
Only, after a week of eating cheese, perfectly
ripened and oozing in richness, you are aware you are starting to
resemble it. One month later, you find your dormant childhood-allergy
to bread, the one your mother never really stopped warning you about,
is back with a vengeance that has angrily speckled your body in an
excemic rash. Twenty-nine years having never dealt with any such skin
problem, you are immediately suspicious that said rash resembles bites. BUG BITES.
In France, they are called “piqures”. I’d like to call attention to how the French language disguises anything awful, gross or fearsome with elegance or in this case, simply cuteness. “Piqures”?! How adorable it makes it all sound! Back to the plot… Your suspicion rapidly turns to paranoia as you consider the bedbug problem in NYC. A flash image of these nasties camping-out in your suitcase on a flight from JFK to CDG is the beginning of the end. You spend the next 3 weeks convinced you are infested with:
A. Les tres fameux Bedbugs.
B. Birdmites (Turtle doves nest on the roof.)
C. Pyemotes Tritici (latin
name listed as to tactfully omit the terminology one would recognize and be subsequently horrified by.)
D. - M. I will forego listing.
By night, you are up from 3am. to 5am. Awakened by a creepy-crawly feeling that is no more than the physical manifestation of lunacy, you sit perched in predator formation (imagine a hunter-gatherer spear fisherman), armed with athletic tape (sticky-side for biopsy purposes), and a flashlight (surprise factor is key when hunting imaginary parasites). You lose sleep. Also lost, is your ability to form cohesive sentences in your native language. This helps mask your inability to phrase ANY sentence in French and by day you walk around muttering in a melange of bastardized versions of both. You are, however, somewhat pleased with the progress you’ve made in your French.
D. - M. I will forego listing.
By night, you are up from 3am. to 5am. Awakened by a creepy-crawly feeling that is no more than the physical manifestation of lunacy, you sit perched in predator formation (imagine a hunter-gatherer spear fisherman), armed with athletic tape (sticky-side for biopsy purposes), and a flashlight (surprise factor is key when hunting imaginary parasites). You lose sleep. Also lost, is your ability to form cohesive sentences in your native language. This helps mask your inability to phrase ANY sentence in French and by day you walk around muttering in a melange of bastardized versions of both. You are, however, somewhat pleased with the progress you’ve made in your French.
In the past two weeks you have learned the French words for: bite, insect, biting insect, microscopic biting insect, itchiness, and the phrases: I don’t know and Please, help (this
is not actually a phrase but given the rules of French grammar, it’s
about as close as I can get). The paranoia and lack of sleep has allowed
you to drop any sense of normalcy or politeness which by American
standards generally means having a pleasant demeanor, smiling at those
you meet, etc. You realize acting without these things works in your
favor as you are now more convincingly French. Three weeks, a doctor visit, and an infinite amount
of time spent on the internet reviewing the most awful images one
could ever possibly imagine (never, absolutely NEVER, type the word
“rash” into a Google image search), you have spent upwards of €60 on
creams, bug-sprays and antihistamines and you have driven yourself, your
boyfriend, your roommate and every pharmacist within a 2 mile radius of
your home… bat-fucking-crazy-nuts.
For a third time, with your comrades, you
reinspect the contents stuck on nearly a dozen pieces of tape and it is
conclusively agreed; you have spent the past three weeks nocturnally
hunting minuscule cookie crumbs and pieces of lint. Sooooo….. you write
your mom. You mention the confounding problem casually as to not worry
her. At this point, you suspect it is no longer bug-related and start
to calmly consider that you may have over-reacted. You consider, with
the same calmness, that your rash may remain unidentified until it
kills you, whereby it will be named after you. (Jespsicaoriasis:
a slow but deadly rash. An awful, but necessary, play on words. **that
one’s for you dad!) Your mom writes you back with the decade-old
warning, “watch out for too much bread!” she says matter-of-factly and
suggests you cut it out of your diet for a bit. You limit your intake
of bread for 2 weeks. The rash? GONE. It is for this profound, intuitive
knowing that Mom’s are truly awesome.
As for the wine! As suspected, I am very happy to
announce that all is fine and well in that department! Wine is enjoyed
frequently in this household of ours here in Angers, France. We like to
think it keeps us “en forme”, as the French would say, though
we simply use the word “sane”. It is after all, the wine (and my mom)
that saved me! Be it death by wheat allergy,
bug-paranoid-sleep-deprivation, homicide by roommate, boyfriend or 1 of
5 local pharmacists, I am pleased to say I am alive and well, eating
cheese, sipping wine, living life “sans le pain”!
