Habemus President

On May 6th 2012, François Hollande’s election as President of France was announced, as most of you know.

How many different systems people have created in an attempt to organize free, open and honest elections! Experience in different countries has taught me that, as in most human endeavors, none is perfect – and yet all the variations work. Here’s the route that François Hollande took. First, of course, he had to become one of the candidates. Any French citizen over the age of 18 is theoretically qualified to run for President. Candidates do not need to belong to a recognized political party. Some found a party or movement just so they can run. But they must prove national support. All must turn in to the Conseil Consitutionel, at least six weeks before the election, 500 signatures from elected officials from at least 30 départements (counties) and with no more than 10% from any single département.This year, because of this last condition, only ten of the 29 people who had announced their candidacy, were able to run. François Hollande had another hurdle. In October 2011, the Socialists held their first-ever open primary with six candidates. It was preceded by three televised debates. To vote in the primary, you did not have to be a Socialist, just a registered voter willing to sign a paper saying that you agreed with the “values of the Left and of the Republic” (such as, liberty, equality, fraternity, secularism, justice and social progress) and pay 1 euro towards the cost of organizing the primary. After winning and becoming the official candidate of the Socialist Party, M. Hollande entered the campaign phase. As well as appearing at numerous “meetings” large and small, he and the other 9 presidential candidates were given free air time on the public television and radio stations during the six weeks before the first round of the election – an equal amount of time for each. Television newscasts were required to give each candidate equal time and each candidate was invited to speak at each of the political talk shows. At last April 22nd arrived -- the first round of the election. French elections always have two rounds. As the French saying goes “The first round is to choose and the second to eliminate.” Candidates from the major parties beg for people to “vote usefully” (that is for them). But a large percentage of the votes in the first round go the more radical "smaller candidates" – in this election 44% distributed among eight candidates and the rest for either M Hollande or M Sarkozy. The two weeks between the rounds is the most exciting part of the campaign for many. Candidates who came third or fourth call press conferences to tell people who they intend to support in the second round and sometimes urge their supporters to do the same. Journalists try to discover if any backroom deals are being stuck -- “Support me and I’ll name you to my Cabinet if I win.” -- while the major candidates deny any such thing is happening. And there is the debate – a face to face confrontation of the second round candidates. Two journalists are present as timekeepers. They try to ask questions and control answer times but usually fail miserably. The candidates are professionals. They have been debating for years and don’t need journalists to tell them how. The debate is announced for two hours and this year ran for nearly three. The campaign ended Friday at midnight as it must by law. No politics was discussed – on television at least – on Saturday, the “day of reflection.” No polls were published. On Sunday, the vote took place.

80% of eligible voters went to the polls (about average) and François Hollande was elected with 51.63% of their votes.

On May 15th, he will drive himself to the Elysées Palace. M Sarkozy will greet him and take him inside. An hour or so later, he will accompany M Sarkozy back out and shake hands with him. And France will have a new President.

Let's Dance

Like all university towns, Oxford is a lively place. I made my way through the streets before my friends’ party, mingling with swarms of tourists. I came upon the Town Crier in full regalia

and a group of earnest protesters.

Another treat was in store for me. I discoved this was the weekend of the Oxford Folk Festival with groups of dancers at every turn.

I love dancing, though I’ve never been much good at those that require actual sequences of steps. It’s not for lack of trying. A few years ago, inspired by a friend, I took up belly dancing– more elegantly called « oriental dancing ». My teacher said, encouragingly, after my 5th lesson, that I was beginning to get the hang of things. I made her laugh when I replied I had surprised several of my muscles which had been having a free ride for over 50 years and were shocked at the idea they were being requested to DO something! I was probably one of the few spectators that appreciated the effort of these young ladies.

Most of the dancers were Morris Dancers. Morris dancing is an old English tradition that had nearly died out until, in the early twentieth century, it was revived as a folk activity. My personal contact with Morris dancing occurred two years ago. Our English choir director that year had chosen Charles Stanford’s "The Morris Dance" for us to learn. It was not a huge success at first. The English member of our choir and I found it rather dull -- unlike any Morris dance music we had ever heard. The French majority were just puzzled by the words. I'm sure you can see why. “Come, lasses, come, come quickly! See, how trim they dance and trickly, Hey, there again! ho, there again! How the bells they shake it… Now for our town there take it… Soft awhile, not away so fast They melt them, Piper… be hanged awhile, Knave, the dancers swelt them, Out there, out awhile! you come too far… Give the hobby horse more room to play in.” A small group of us decided it was time everyone saw what we were singing about. Thanks to tips from Charlottesville’s own Albemarle Morris Men whose rehearsal I was able to attend earlier that spring,

videos and music from the internet and several evening rehearsals at the home of one of our choir members, our merry band of improvised Morris Dancers brought Stanford’s song to life at our final weekend rehearsal.

I watched the sides perform in Oxford that weekend

with my secret knowledge -- though they would never know it, I was one of them.

Oxford My Way

Back in the days of British Rail, I often used to add a few day’s vacation to one of the many May long weekends here in France and fly to England. Then, I decided where I wanted to go, went to the local tourist office and used their Book a Bed Ahead service. For a small fee, they found you a bed and breakfast at your destination for that night. I’d take the train in late afternoon, spend the night, explore what I could the next day and move on. On one of these trips, sometime in the ‘80s, I visited Oxford for the first time.

It was the day before Ascension Thursday. As I walked along past various colleges bookstores and pubs, I came to an ancient church called St Michael at the North Gate.

A sign outside said “Tomorrow – beating of the bounds”. That sounded intriguing. I needed to find someone to tell me what it meant. It was nearly dinner time and the church was near the Randolph Hotel (the very place Lord Peter Wimsey suggested taking Harriet Vane to in Gaudy Night!).

Surely someone there could help me? Several waiters conferred but no one knew. They decided to ring a colleague who was not working that evening since he “knew everything about Oxford”. Soon, my waiter came back to my table with the information. The beating of the bounds was an ancient custom. Once a year, the congregation went round the boundary of the Parish. An ancient custom in an ancient city sounded good. Thursday afternoon I left Oxford, a little disconcerted that I hadn’t been to any museums or taken any bus tours. True, I had run through the town with a stick following the priest, the choir and twenty or so parishioners, been fed cookies and ale at one college and lunch at another (drinking water out of a tankard pewter tankard that had the year 1746 engraved on it.) In between I had visited a pub (sherry) the local Marks and Spencers (mince pies in the employees’ dining room), the City Hall, the outside of the Sheldonian Theater and the Bodleian Library. Watch this video of a more recent Beating of the Bounds and you’ll understand why it’s still one of my most vivid memories. I’ve had several other trips to Oxford since but they were short ones for shopping or a meal while visiting friends that lived nearby. I still hadn’t managed to take a tour or see a museum. Then, in January, I got an invitation.

At last, I was going to Oxford again. I stayed at the Randolph and went to the new make-over of the very old Ashmolean Museum.

Still not as a normal tourist should, however. I had dinner there.

Beam Me Up Scottie

The person who wrote “It’s not the destination; it’s the journey. » certainly did not travel the way I do. The phrase that goes through my mind every time I pack my suitcase is “Beam me Up Scottie.” « If only it weren’t science fiction », I think wistfully. Of course, travel can be a pleasant experience. I discovered that when I went to Sri Lanka. Business class pampering followed by two weeks of my own guide in my own air-conditioned Toyota. Most of my travel, however, is like my recent trip to Oxford. From my apartment to the Gare du Nord I went, dragging and pushing my suitcase with my purse and my hand luggage over my shoulder. About 250 steps,

a 1.6 km. (almost a mile) walk, three turnstiles,

a ten minute metro journey and three escalators (joy they were all working!) later, I reached the special Eurostar area of the station. I’d thought I’d have time for coffee once I arrived. Alas, since my last visit, the café has given way to more space for passenger control. After showing my ticket to an agent, going through security – like airports but with shoes on – showing my passport to French police and showing my ticket, passport and landing card to British authorities, I was free to find a seat in the waiting room. Shortly thereafter, we were summoned down a moving ramp to our train. My seat was in the first car; we came down the ramp at car 11. Another walk. The Eurostar is still comfortable, though the seating configuration has become snugger over the years as the train has become increasingly popular. Over 9 million passengers travelled on it last year. I remember 1994 when it was new and exciting. They used to make an announcement as we entered the tunnel. Now, people read, watch videos or work on their presentations as if it was the most natural thing in the world to go from Paris to London in 2 hours and 15 minutes -- including 20 minutes under the English Channel. What happened to the romance? I arrived at St Pancras just before noon. I decided to go to Victoria Station and locate the coach stop for the Oxford Tube before lunch. After years of reminding Americans to take trains in Europe like the locals do instead of following their own “either take the plane or rent a car” reflexes, I had decided to take my own advice. Since British Rail’s privatization nearly 20 years ago , English trains have become overcrowded and expensive. For short journeys, coaches are the way to go. I visit England fairly often, but I always forget how pleasantly random, the English can be. The young woman at the information desk gave me almost inaudible instructions. I followed them as best I could and soon found a street with many buses in front of a fancy hotel. The concierge assured me that the Oxford Tube stopped there. The one I saw across the street was just coming in from Oxford. Time for my pub lunch. It was drizzling when I returned to wait for the coach. And wait. And wait. I saw two go past across the street but none came to where I was. Finally, a young woman volunteered to go inside and “make inquiries”. (Though the English can be vague they are often helpful.) She came back and told me I needed to go across the street and up a side street. Off I went, just in time.

A comfortable two hours later, I knew it had all been worth it.

The Best Health Care System in the World

In 1972, home after starting my first job (in PARIS!) my father sat me down for the Financial Security Talk.
“Before you spend a lot of money, make sure you have 3 months’ salary in the bank.”
“Why?”
“You might get sick.”
“But I have health insurance.”
“That won’t cover everything.”
“Well, it covers 94% of my medical expenses.”
That shortened the talk.
As time passed, I became aware of differences between my American friends’ health care experiences and my own. But my understanding remained vague until I saw Michael Moore’s film Sicko about 5 or 6 years ago. An insurance company could deny you coverage? You could be told that you had exceeded your limit and would no longer be covered? You could go bankrupt paying medical bills? Really?
My education was completed during the lengthy media coverage of the health care reform debate in 2009. Republican politicians succeeded each other on talk shows proclaiming proudly that the United States had “the best health care system in the world.” “It’s not about quality it’s about ACCESS,“I yelled back.
There was accurate information available.
National Public Radio even spoke quite competently of France.
But misinformation ruled and even now many are still opposed to the reform.
When I got sick in Charlottesville in December, I got a chance to experience part of the American health care system first hand and do my own comparison.
I had previously gone to a Walk-in clinic in Charlottesville but it was difficult to get to by bus and I don’t drive. Each time I had to go, I thought regretfully of SOS Medecins in France. (Since 1966, if you need a doctor, you call the number of the local SOS Medecins. Within half an hour one comes to your house.)
This time, I consulted several friends. They decided the best place for me was the University of Virginia Primary Care Center -- a short bus ride from my house.
I called them and was told that I couldn’t see a doctor without an Initial Visit and there were no appointments available for Initial Visits until the end of December. If I couldn’t wait, I should go to the Emergency Room. I replied that my illness was not an emergency, that I hoped to be well by the end of December and that I needed to see a doctor now. I was apparently convincing. The woman started to take my personal information. When she asked which health care plan I had, I replied that my insurance was in France. She told me I’d need to call the Finance Department. When I did, the woman I spoke to asked if I had a regular income. Not in the United States, I replied, but I did have a bank account and a check book. And I was sick.
“Do you have more than $2000 in the bank?”
“Yes.”
“Then you don’t qualify.”
“I don’t want to qualify; I want to see a doctor.”
She returned me to the Primary Care department where a different woman bent the rules so I could have my Sick Appointment before my Initial Visit. (Who knew there were different kinds of appointments. I later found out there were also Well Appointments. Each of these is reimbursed differently by different health plans. And there are many. One major pharmacy boasts that it “accepts over 5000 health plans”.)
And so I finally entered the Primary Care Center.


After I had paid (payment comes first), a nurse took my temperature and blood pressure and weighed me. Then she led me into another room. Soon a young doctor came in. She was warm and thorough. She told me I had a virus that would last about two weeks. She was right.
The first day I felt well was the day of my Initial visit. After the payment and the nurse, another warm and thorough doctor went through my medical history with me and keyed everything into a computer. Payment for the Sick Visit was $126. Payment for the Initial Visit was $147. Payment for any visit in France is 30 euros (about $40)

"What about foreigners in France?" you ask. Several of my American friends have needed medical attention in Paris and have had similar experiences to Karen Fawcett, an American expatriate who gives advice about life in France.
I returned to Paris in January, held my Carte Vitale and my complementary insurance card to my heart.


I knew which country I thought had the best health care system in the world.

Happy 2012

Did you miss me?
I certainly missed you. And my blog. My last post was written just before I left Charlottesville for Paris. All September I was travelling about, visiting friends, seeing new sights and taking pictures to share with you. I came home from my third and final jaunt on September 24th sick as a dog. And, despite the doctor’s best efforts, remained so until nearly the end of October. It was nothing exotic – just a sinus infection. But it gave me new insight into what some of my chronically ill friends go through as they try to lead normal lives without feeling normal. There were days when the way I felt and the number of medications I was taking seemed totally out of proportion to the banality of the diagnosis.


Many of my readers come looking for specific information on somewhere I’ve been or something I’ve done. But some of you are regulars. I thought of you and how you must be wondering if I had just left without saying goodbye. But that was all the energy I could summon.
About the time I was able to resume my regular activities again, it was time to pack and go back to Charlottesville for my last visit of the year. I felt well and yet strangely listless – just going through the motions of my life. After Thanksgiving had come and gone with just a nod of recognition from me and I was trying to gear up for pre-Christmas fun and preparation, I came down with the Charlottesville Virus that has been plaguing the community for several months. I even braved a visit to an American doctor (which deserves a blog post to itself.) Other than that I stayed home, drifted from bed to sofa to Facebook, coughed, wheezed and waited. And waited.
I was fortunate. I was well enough to enjoy Christmas, though still tired. Other friends were mown down much closer to the holiday than I and are still sick. (The average time to recovery is two to three weeks.)
By New Year's Eve life was good again. I was able to volunteer, as usual, at First Night Virginia in the morning.




Afterwards, I strolled to a restaurant on the Downtown Mall to have lunch with a friend. By the time lunch was over, the fun was beginning.











The sun was shining. Excited children were running. I was listless no more. Life was good again.
The next day, at a friend’s annual New Year’s Day brunch



I was sure. There were more adventures to be experienced and written about.
Happy New Year to you. And to me. I’m back.

Florence Then and Now

I’m always amazed at “the earnest tourists”. You know them. They are on the go from morning to night, guidebook in hand to make sure they miss nothing, driven by the idea that this will be their only chance. I’ve always been more of an “ambler”. I do what I have the time and energy for and never feel much regret if I don’t see everything. I’ll do it “next time”, I promise myself. This is pure optimism. There has seldom been a “next time” for any given location. Take Florence, which I visited forty years ago on a Christmas tour of Italy. I’ve returned to Italy numerous times but never to Florence. So I was delighted when my friends Maggie and Paul, last visited in London, told me they’d be spending six weeks there this summer. A chance to go back!
I remember Florence as one of my favorite places on that long ago Italian vacation, travelling with three acquaintances who, like me, were not interested in the “I visited 10 countries” type of student trip. But, when I tried to recall the City, I was startled by how few details came to mind. Was it the lack of photos? (My camera had been stolen in Naples at the beginning of our holiday.) Or that we had basically let Marilyn decide everything because she spoke Italian? Or simply the passage of time? In any case, I was ready to update my memory banks.
This trip, instead of taking the train and looking for a cheap pensione upon arrival, I flew in and took a taxi to Maggie and Paul’s one bedroom apartment -- on the other side of the Arno from where the tourists stay.



They had found their “Room with a View”



And soon -- a few streets away --I had found mine.



It was fun to be in the locals’ Florence.
My friends had already discovered the best gelato place.



I decided gelato is better appreciated in May than in December, like the city itself.





Strolling with a three year old leads to a different kind of tourism.





Of course, we visited the Ponte Vecchio just as I had done years before



though the lovers’ locks tradition hadn’t started yet.
About 10 years ago, lovers began fastening padlocks to the Ponte Vecchio and throwing the key in the Arno as a sign of their undying attachment. There is now a 50 euro fine for this as the sheer quantity was not only esthetically offensive to the Florentines but was beginning to cause harm to the medieval bridge. But when did lovers ever put the law above their emotions?



On my first visit, aside from waiting with various degrees of impatience while Marilyn chose just the right gloves, I mostly remember going to art museums. A vivid memory is Giovanni Antonio Bazzi Sodoma’s St Sebastian at the Pitti Palace.
This time I concentrated on churches.
On Sunday, Maggie, Camm and I picknicked in the gardens of 12th century San Minateo


and admired the view



The next day I paid my respects to Santa Croce.



Like Lucy Honeychurch, I had no guidebook (amblers seldom do)though the audio guide I rented explained what I wanted to know.
Like Lucy, I met someone I knew in the church. Paul had brought his students on a visit.



No trip to Florence would be complete without a visit to the Duomo and its Campanile.



Surely I had seen it on my last trip? I couldn’t remember.
Camm knew its name and had already climbed to the top as he told me excitedly (and repeatedly). I had no memory of having done so. And no desire to change that.
I did remember seeing the Gates of Paradise on the doors of the Baptistery on the Square near the Duomo. Who could forget them?



Moses – one of 10 scenes on the east door called Gates of Paradise by Michelangelo.

Home on the bus for one last dinner with my friends – and one last gelato afterwards. And the next day it was off to the airport and back home, glad that, for one beautiful city at least, there had been a “next time” to appreciate it.