À la Pharmacie
À la Pharmacie
Anyone who has ever been to Paris will know that one of the city’s quirks is there is literally a pharmacy on every single block. Quite au contraire to England’s pub on every corner philosophy (although that may be another form of medication itself), it is impossible to peruse the rues of Paris without seeing the warming glow of a green neon cross every hundred metres or so. Comforting for most who recognise the emerald beacon of readily available medication, but probably not for epileptics as those signs often flash so furiously that I sometimes wonder why there isn’t a Japanese cartoon called ‘Green Pharmacy Seizure Robots”.
So why are they everywhere in Paris? Is there a plague going around that I didn’t know about? Are Parisians the sickest populace in the world? Perhaps, but France has an outstanding health system (Assurance Maladie) so deeply rooted in the core of the society that when asked to name the three best symbols of the French nation, the people responded “the flag, the health and the Marseillaise”. Even illegal immigrants receive basic cover, which is much more than I can say for Australia. However pharmacy overload doesn’t necessarily correlate with excessive illness. I think I could even go so far as to say that the pharmacy density in Paris exceeds that of anywhere else in the world. But it’s not because there’s something in the Seine.
Basically, Parisians are vain, nosy hypochondriacs. And I do mean that as a term of affection. Nothing is more charming than the little old women who are convinced they are dying of a fatal disease when all they have is a runny nose. There is also the very French notion that there is a cream to fix everything. Want to lose 5 kilos? Try this cream. Cellulite? Cream. Herpes? Cream (I don’t know that from experience but I assume so). Whenever I am in the pharmacy I am always overhearing people deeply engrossed in a discussion about which cream is best for what. The creme de la creme of cremes if you will. Not to mention that each time you ask the pharmacist a question, every single person currently also waiting in the queue will happily let you know their opinion as well, even if you’re just there to buy shampoo. I recently saw a man come into my local pharmacy with a broken and grazed wrist (he was there to get, surprise surprise, cream) and the moment he pulled out his x-rays, everyone on the grounds gathered round to see his green stick fracture and offer advice. “Make sure you do kinestherapie (physio)” said one bystander. “Did you have a moto accident?” asked another. “It will heal faster if you hold it at exactly a 48 degree angle for at least ten hours a day” was my favourite suggestion.
And then a malady befell me. Just last week, while taking something out of the oven, the top of my finger brushed against the grill and Voila! Antonia Brûlée. I was worried it would get infected so strolled the very short distance to the pharmacy on the corner of my street to ask what would be the most appropriate cream to apply. Now my French is passable and generally I can get by day to day without drawing too many blanks, but there are moments when I have total vocabulary amnesia. My conversation with the pharmacist went somewhat like this (en francais):
Antonia: Bonjour Madame!
Madame La Pharmacienne: Bonjour Mademoiselle, how can I help you?
Antonia: Well I think I need a cream. I have a [searching brain for the right word for burn] erm… flamant on my finger, what should I do?
Madame: Excusez-moi?
Antonia: A flamant. On my finger.
At this point Madame La Pharmacienne turned from slightly puzzled to bright red with laughter. She called out to everyone else in the store, who quickly rushed over and upon hearing what I had just said turned bright red with laughter themselves. Looking at them I wondered if there was a cream to apply for mass hysteria. I was turning bright red for a different reason altogether. “Pardon Madame” I whispered. “What exactly did I just say?”
“Flamant! Like this.” The woman stood on one foot and bent her other at a right angle, exactly like… a flamingo. I had just told everyone that I had a flamingo on my finger. Well… that would be serious. Unfortunately for me, there was no cream to fix my flamingo or embarrassment but the pharmacist did give me a lovely topical cream for my burn and it’s almost gone now. Although I haven’t been back in the pharmacy since. But just so you don’t make the same mistake I did, the word for burn in French is brûlure.
Photo by cubn6
Antonia Hayes is an Australian writer, photographer and mother of one who woke up one morning somewhere in between The Eiffel Tower and Invalides unsure how she ended up there but decided to stay anyway. Originally from Sydney, she has been living in Paris since 2006 but still can't remember which one is the Left Bank and which is the Right Bank. Antonia is currently working on her first novel and is pretty sure she lives on the Left Bank.