Well, I'm happy to report that we recently returned from our home swap to France with all three children intact, though we parents have additional grey hair to show for it. We now look back on the experience with a bit of a smile and a reminiscent air, but at the time we were – to put it lightly - petrified.
When we landed from our flight, we realized the two-year-old had picked up a virus on the flight or on one of the layovers and had a 105 fever that was compounded by the boiling heat of the south of France. When we got in the car, we took off his shirt, doused his neck with water and drove to our 'home for the summer' with the soft breeze blowing on his face hoping to break the fever. No such luck.
He was actually warmer and more listless by the time we got to our home about ten miles inland from the coast. We quickly unlocked the door, dumped our bags, and looked around for the phone and details on local pediatricians and hospitals. Frantically searching the kitchen table and counters I felt chills run down my back: Where was all the information we were promised?
The home swappers and I had had two phone conversations and many emails about what was required information for each of us to leave for the other. This being our first home swap, we asked for the simple things like: emergency contact numbers and instructions on how to use the phone. In turn, I left a three inch cross referenced binder with all emergency personnel within a 45 mile radius as well as places to see, good local restaurants to go to, how to make the dryer run, etc. (I know, I'm wound tight, but it can be useful at times like this).
Unfortunately, the people we swapped left all the details on the restaurants and beaches but failed to leave anything on Dr's, hospitals, emergency numbers or even how to use their phone. I need to note here that the woman we swapped with was an American who had married a German who lived in France. Without a native French couple’s intervention we would have been in deep ‘doo doo’ (technically put). But let me continue…
So we did what most couples do when under stress: started to bicker. My husband blamed me for setting up the home swap in the first place and I blamed him for not bringing the antibiotic our pediatrician at home had prescribed for us in case of a situation just like this. We made each other more nervous so I went into the garage and dug out an old bicycle thinking I’d ride it into town and figure things out. I thought maybe I would see a business district or ask people at the grocery store. After about twenty minutes, I finally found a little market but it was closed for everyone's 'dejeuner.'
Riding back into our house, I glanced over a little stone fence separating our yard from the neighbors' and saw a swing set and little pool with kids playing quietly. I leaned my bike on the gate and started knocking emphatically. The well behaved children ran inside to get their mother, frightened out of the wits of the bizarre looking woman in long black pants and shirt- sweating on a bike at their front gate.
Thank God Mathilde came out with her husband, Phillipe. They were clever enough to assess the situation and know what to do: they brought me in their cool, shade drawn house and Phillipe brought me a cup of chilled wine with water while Mathilde made about a dozen calls until she found a Dr's office that was open late. They were concerned we didn’t know where we were going and didn’t want to set lose on the town two panicked Americans wheeling down the road, so she drove us to the office in town. There was absolutely no way we would have found this office on our own. It was at the top floor of a house in the middle of gardens and small, quaint houses.
Almost immediately the Dr’s big form filled the doorway. ‘Oui, Americans?’ He said as he pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and waved us in impatiently. The room was an office suite with his desk and leather chairs on one end and an exam table, books, medicine, medical tools from floor to ceiling at the other. It looked like an apothecary, medical office and living room all mixed together; which, to be honest, made us all relax a notch.
Speaking only Latin to us (Thank God Patrick went to Catholic schools), this huge man handled our sick sun with the utmost of care. He gave Johnny an IV of fluids and antibiotics while holding him along in a bear hug the entire time. When Johnny perked up, the Dr. handed him to Patrick to hold so he wouldn't be startled. He then mixed up a concoction of vitamins, herbs and antibiotics from behind his desk and handed the bottle to us in a brown paper bag. He also gave supplements for our other son to ‘protect and secure’ against catching the same thing.
’Twenty Euro’ he said washing his hands. We looked at each other. Do we pay him? The girl in the front? Is this just for the medicine? Will we get a huge bill for the rest? Should we call the bank and start sending large sums of cash? We whispered back and forth until the Dr. patiently wrote down on a piece of paper in huge black marker ’20 Euro’. Patrick handed it to him with a tip. The Doc smiled at that and put the money in his pocket.
His instructions, which he wrote down, were for us all to go home and sleep and eat. The children were not to drink milk or eat cheese or yogurt for 2 days but the adults were to drink 1 glass of red wine before bed. Then, when we had caught up on sleep, we were to take a family trip to the beach and sit in the sun all day. Now, there’s a Dr for you, I thought happily!
We thanked Mathilde profusely while she drove us home, inquiring as to the standard ways one visits a Dr. here. She asked us with a confused look, ‘why were you so nervous? Did you think your child would not be cared for?’ We kept quiet. ‘But we are civilized here,’ She insisted in her imperial French way and; after our experience, we are forever grateful for that fact. It was such a civilized experience. We only wish it were offered at home.
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