Something Happened

One year of surprises and baguettes

Sep 15, 2023

It’s been exactly one year since Theresa and I moved to our home in France, an occasion that has us assessing the transition. Lessons learned, barriers faced, expectations met and unmet.

So many things we didn’t see coming.

Medical issues, for example.

Within months of moving here, we encountered a weird string of unexpected procedures. Ear wax removal… tooth extraction… cataract surgery.

We had feared the worst about the French medical bureaucracy. Red tape, lost paperwork, indecipherable rules. Yet, ultimately, it was no more challenging than dealing with Blue Cross or Medicare. We excitedly high-fived when we received our Carte Vitale, a form of social security.

What tripped me up was my primitive language skills. Even when we choose doctors who ostensibly speak English, it’s hit or miss.

Like my visit to the ophthalmologist's office, where I learned I needed emergency surgery for a detached retina. I was convinced that the surgeon had told me the post-operative treatment would somehow include the insertion of gauze into my eyeball, to aid healing. While I pondered the miracle of self-dissolving cotton, Theresa dove into Google and discovered the doctor had actually told me my eye would be filled with gas.

D’oh!

Noise has been another surprise.

You think of the French as quiet and overly polite, those idyllic scenes from Monet, where at worst they’ll murmur under their breaths about the host’s failure to serve baguettes with the salad. But give them a bottle of wine and a park bench, and they cut loose like Eagles fans in mid-season form.

The beautiful open space just outside our window, where the Vilaine and Ille rivers meet, is pastoral all day. But on summer nights, it turns into a 90-decibel party that won’t end till 5 in the morning.

Can’t close the windows, either, because there’s no damn air conditioning. (The belief that A.C. is unhealthy is so widespread here that a local appliance store’s FAQ includes the assurance that its newfangled climatiseur contraptions are not – contrary to popular belief – toxic.)

There are other quirks that take some getting used to.

We frequently find ourselves in front of stores and cafes that are maddingly closed despite clearly posted hours. Or, as the handwritten sign invariably informs: Fermeture Exceptionnelle. At first we grumbled about the locals’ disinterested work ethic. Now we just head somewhere else.

Labor strikes are not uncommon, but you get fair warning and they usually last only a day or two. The protests over Macron’s retirement edict left hundreds of smashed storefronts, but the plywood is now mostly gone now.

Packages sometimes end up in remote locations halfway across town and mail arrives damaged. When La Poste tells you delivery has been delayed, its official and thoroughly cryptic reason is “Something Happened.” I now use that excuse when Theresa asks me about coffee spills on the couch.

We marvel at the pro-environmental attitude in our progressive town, where the mayor is a socialist and no public event is held without first weighing its carbon footprint. Global warming is an accepted truth, mothers ferry their kids to school by bicycle, and even the drunks recycle their bottles.

Yet French men (and sometimes women) rarely hesitate to unzip and take a leak in public. When we yell at them down in the parking lot from our sixth-floor window, they wave back with the other hand.

In spite of the surprises, though, so many of our expectations have been met:

The air is cleaner (except when Saharan sands blow in from the south).

The people are friendly (unless you forget to say “Bonjour.”)

Real estate is affordable (but incredibly tight in this growing college town).

We’re not complaining (because we’re not Brits).

Because Brittany is every bit as spectacular as we’d hoped. We couldn’t be happier as we enter Year Two of our journey in France.

Here are a few pix from our first year here.