What is Physical Therapy Like in France? Candy and Confusion

An acquaintance's tricycle in the village. I miss mine at home.

When I called about getting PT in Monflanquin for my insertional achilles tendinitis with bone spurs, I was told I could pay out of pocket, a grand total of about 90 euros for 5 appointments. I needed to send my prescription, bring the last few notes from my American PT plus my X rays. Also I needed to show up for my appointment with a big towel. This last request baffled me. Why would I need a towel?

The physical therapist greeted me in English. No, no, no. I speak French, monsieur. And so I did. He stared at me. “Your French is hallucinant. You sound like a native speaker.” Many of his patients are English expats without much French.  If I couldn’t hike this summer , I could at least enjoy communicating with the PT in French. After explaining my issue, I was asked to take off my Hokas and lie down on the table. Ah, the towel is meant for the table. Of course,  wouldn’t you know it? I forgot the towel and so  protective white paper appeared. 

Mettez-vous sur le ventre. “Lie down on your stomach” is something the PT says every time. He applies a cooling menthol lotion for the massage.. Once he hooked me up to a Tens machine.  As far as exercises go, I often get a plastic surfboard (no kidding) to slide back and forth or a black dumbbell to put on my thigh while pumping my ankle up and down.  When I showed him my printed pages of exercises from the states, he whistled in admiration and asked me how much Americans pay for PT to go home with such fancy papers. 

When I showed him the X rays on  my phone, the world stopped.  “That is the biggest bone spur  I have ever seen in my career. Congratulations!”  Yes, he is a character. His face kind of twinkles and he likes to crack a joke. Yesterday, he put me on the stationary bike and announced a two and a half hour ride for me since the female Tour de France would start this very Saturday. Two weeks ago, he came around to every patient offering peanuts tasting like Cracker Jacks.  “Every patient”  actually means three or four whom he treats  consecutively. We hang out in our individual rooms doing exercises patiently waiting our turns. 

Today my PT seemed so different. He was upset that last night’s medieval outdoor show did not go well. Four hundred people attended, but only those close to the front could hear the principal character.  After a while a third of the people left. During the telling of his  tale, I tried hard to detect why my PT took the disappointing event so hard. It turns out he belongs to a history association that is expected to attend and support these kinds of shows. Therefore, he critiqued the performance closely and with deep insight. He also went on to describe the role of medical people in the middle ages which was fascinating. Clearly, he is a history buff.

After that he perked up a bit and offered us all Haribo candy to increase our energy. I really needed that candy because I had just come from an energetic session of Aquagym at the pool.

The PT sessions themselves are very relaxed. He wears shorts and Birkenstocks. Some patients even do their exercises in the courtyard. Have I made progress? I think so, but it is incredibly slow. 

I leave you with a cool  “ankle” expression learned this summer: ne pas arriver a la cheville de quelqu’un It translates literally to not reaching someone’s ankle. It means to be much worse than someone, not measure up and cannot hold a candle to them. Which version do you prefer?

I think I like the French better not only because I have an ankle issue but because of the vivid imagery. If I can’t even reach their ankle, I am definitely out of their league.

 

Capers

Caper Flower

Capers are  the pickled unopened flower buds of the plant Capparis Spinosa.  Actually, I never give much thought to capers. Sure I like them and occasionally purchase them at the grocery store.  Last Sunday, my dear older French friend showed me her Capparis Spinosa plants growing alongside her lovely manor in the proximity of Monflanquin.  She cultivates the buds and packs them in vinegar.  Et voila, capers! She sends me home with a jar to enjoy.  This experience feels magical to me as an unknown world  of edible plants waits to be discovered. My friend's knowledge of botanicals comes from growing up in the French countryside.  Being a city girl, I appreciate her wisdom of the earth and hope French children  growing up today in the countryside  are learning  about the world of plants and the mysteries of the land so that they too will share their knowledge with  generations of city folks like me  to come.

 

Heatwave Update

Colorful bracelet with stones from the African country of Mali.

As the world knows, Europe is experiencing a life sucking heat wave. Here in Monflanquin, France, we shut the shades, turn on fans, and for those like myself who are privileged, delight in our air conditioning, a home improvement decision I so wisely made a couple of years ago after too many summers of suffering.  Monflanquin is located in southwestern France where heat waves love to settle. Because the village sits on a hill, the sun beats down on us creating a heat dome.  The hottest part of the afternoon from 4 P.M. to 6 P.M.  can feel unbearable.  Despite my "to do" list, I can't bring myself to go outside. I tell myself the car will feel like a furnace. Can't the "to do" list wait for tomorrow morning? It always does. So I read, watch a French movie,  and do some chores around the house. Yesterday I assembled a luggage rack.  The luggage rack legs could be backwards, but it will support a suitcase. Assemblage is not my department, but assemblage guy Bill is not here at the moment.

On Saturday, needing a change of scenery, I drive to Villereal, a town about 15 minutes away. Usually, I head straight to the Farmer's Market, but today I set out to find the Hippodrome or Race Track.  I'd seen an attractive flyer announcing an Afro-Caribbean Festival at the Hippodrome. Somehow I miss the sign for the Hippodrome, and Blanche, the name of  my GPS, clearly suffering from heat stroke, directs me out into the countryside which is friendly and  beautiful and worth the detour.  Finally, I do find the Hippodrome but cannot find the Afro Caribbean Festival. Where the heck is it hiding?  In the distance, I spot tables set up for meals, and guide the car in that direction.  The possible festival greeter is hanging out near there. He tells me I'm too early although it is  10:00 AM, opening time according to the flyer. He explains that the vacation people sleep late, that the people who regard the Coupe du Monde  won't leave their TV sets, and the vendors will show up shortly. Okay, but I'm here now, and there is no way I am leaving the area after my wild goose chase to find it.  I proceed cautiously into the supposed festival area. Straight ahead are several African jewelry vendors. One in particular catches my eye. The Monsieur sells necklaces and bracelets made from unusual stones. Monsieur hails from Mali. We discuss the beads, where he gets them, how he chooses them etc. Despite his native accent, I understand most of what he explains. I buy the bracelet  shown in the photo above.  It took me a long time to decide on this particular one, but it suits me perfectly and goes with everything.  Not a large purchase, but a purchase none the less. Will anyone actually find this festival without signage? Hopefully, yes for Monsieur who told me he goes around the world selling his stones. He agreed to come to little Villereal as a favor to his sister. Nice guy. Really nice guy.

Not ready to return to Monflanquin, I hit the Villereal Farmers Market. It features a wide selection of fruits, vegetables, cheeses, clothing, table cloths, hair accessories etc.  More shoppers speak English than French.  a typical July phenomenon. This means the absurd challenge of where to speak French  in my little part of France begins for me now. A big thank you to the Monsieur from Mali for our  recent  French conversation. 

I spend most of the time at the market looking for my favorite pastry shop. It is located on a narrow side street.  Once inside, I spot a pastry with an unusual name, Lady Mum, perhaps a wink to all the English women in town. Described as a lemon and lime confection, it sounds appealing.  You can see what it looks like below. It does not disappoint.

Lady Mum

 

Advice direct from the PDX Airport Bathroom

A woman wears an orthopedic boot that catches the eye of several women washing and drying their hands in an airport  bathroom of PDX. I just got out of 

boot like yours, a woman exclaims.  It did not work. My pain is still there. Yes, chirps another woman. Me too.  I am still in pain after wearing a boot. And me too, I chime in. What a funny orthopedic chorus in this bathroom. Then the person  we  would call  Madame Pipi in France, the chief maintenance manager of the bathroom, tells me about a product called Mama Bear. It is a magnesium based lotion with lavender and added botanics that thousands of people recommend on Amazon. Madame Pipi who is 61 and on her feet all day swears by it. So what do you think? Do I try it?

A day after my arrival in Paris, I am in another bathroom, this one in the Gare Montparnasse train station. This time there is a Monsieur Pipi. It looks like his only job is to say bonjour and offer surveillance for the coed facility. It costs 1euro fifty to enter the bathroom.  Luckily the turn style accepts credit and debit cards. On the way out of the bathroom, I notice some shelves 

marked Cadeaux(Gifts).  What? How weird!  I look closely at the shelf where brightly colored toilet paper is for sale as well as some personal care articles. No, Mama Bear is not for sale but it might make a good addition. 

 

 

Lolly's Story - Her First Public Interview with Q Magazine

 Lolly’s Story - Her First Public Interview with Q Magazine

Q: So Lolly, what can you tell us about yourself?

L: First, let me thank you for your time. Despite my difficult beginnings, I know the importance of politeness. Also to clarify, my original name given to me by a sponsor at the Beagle Freedom Project was spelled Lolli. My new folks, Giselle and Bill changed the “i” to a “y” in honor of their previous beagles Lizzy and Maggy.

Q: Where did you live before Freedom FIields in Nowata,

I can relax now

Oklahoma?

L: I am told I was found in Alabama but am not sure where.

Q::What were you doing there?

L. Some horrible human kept me and several other beagles outdoors for hunting and breeding. 

Q: Were you ever allowed indoors?

L: As far as I know, I lived in a crate all year round. It gets cold in Alabama. Brrrr

Q: I am so sorry this happened to you. Were you ever used in laboratory experiments?

L: No, fortunately not.  Too many of my colleagues have been used in cruel animal testing. This needs to stop now. They have numbers tattooed under their floppy ears. So sad.

Q: How did Giselle and Bill find you?

L: After me and my friends were rescued from Alabama, my picture was put up on the Beagle Freedom Project’s web site. Giselle was looking for a female beagle my age, age four. She told me that Bill kept insisting on a puppy. She feels they are too old for a puppy. Miraculously, after Bill saw my picture, he agreed to explore adopting me. Giselle claims that their last beagle Maggy sent me to them to save their marriage. 

Q: So do you think you are a mother? 

L: This could be the case. We will find out after the vet checks me out this week. I was very overweight when I was rescued. I have already lost twelve pounds and look good. Some of my skin looks flabby. Hopefully, with proper diet and exercise, it will firm up.

Q: So what do you think of Giselle and Bill?

L: Giselle is very kind and gentle. She sometimes speaks to me in a  strange language. I think it is called French. She teaches it too. Bill is a jokester. I am still trying to figure him out. He adores beagles and thoughtfully keeps taking me out to pee so I am lucky that way.

Q: How do you feel about living in a home?

L: Well, I am not sure what a home is. I do like hotel rooms, especially the space under the desk. I also don’t understand toys. Maybe that will change.

Q: I really enjoyed meeting you, Lolly. I wish you a happy healthy life with Giselle and Bill.

L: Thank you! All the best to you too.

Bill and I On Our Now Not So Secret Mission Day 3

 Bill and I On  Our Now Not So Secret Secret Mission Day 3

We slept surprisingly well in our not so super Super 8 Hotel by Wyndham.  We kept the lights low so Lolly would get a mellow vibe in the hotel room. What? Wait a minute. Who's Lolly?

That, dear readers, is the question. Lolly is our new beagle found online at Beagle Freedom Fields, a rescue organization for beagles used in animal testing as well as other mistreated or homeless beagles, dogs,  and cats. I will put a link to this rescue organization at the end of my post. Right now, they are expecting 40 lab beagles from Ridglan Farms in Wisconsin where 1500 beagles were recently rescued. Labs favor the use of beagles due to their docile sweet temperament. You can torture them one day, and they will be happy to see you the next. The lab beagles’ ears are tattooed with numbers. As an ardent lover of beagles, this makes me sick.

Our rescue beagle Lolly has a story of her own which I will tell you in tomorrow's post. Until then, enjoy these pictures of her.

Beagle Freedom Fields

https://bfp.org/freedom-fields/

Bill and I On Our Secret Mission Day 2

 Bill and I On Our Secret Mission Day 2

Bill and I are a bit anxious this morning. I find the staff at breakfast annoying. Bill forgets absolutely all of his Eddy Bauer

shirts hung in the closet. Luckily, he went back to take a second look. 

We drive slowly to our first destination. Cows outnumber people around here in Oklahoma.  The scenery is not something to write home about. But I do find it calming. Wide spaces making for peaceful places. 

We stop in front of a large black front gate. The sign reads Beagle Rescue. More tomorrow……