Illustration par Alice Tourret
With friends from all over Europe,
basic French skills and just a four-hour train
ride from the parental home, moving to Paris
did not seem like embarking to a foreign place.
I have tasted all types of French pastries — often
enough to temporarily run an Instagram account
about all things croissant. After many awkward
and very literal tête-à-têtes, I know which cheek
to present first when doing the salutatory bise
(nevertheless hoping that this custom will die
out sooner than later). I own bérets in three
colors. One of them is pink and reads bonjour.
Wearing it, I felt prepared for everything.
As a German, the need to feel in control is inex
tricably tied to my personality. And for the first
weeks, all went well. I arrived with a backpack
twice my size, which allowed me to navigate the
dangerous metro turnstiles confidently. I found
all classrooms on the first try and even put in
a request for student housing assistance on a
website that looks like a relic from the 20th cen
tury (still waiting to hear back!).
Exuberant thanks to these successes, I ventured
to the doctor. Mentally reciting my year of bir
th (mille neuf cent quatre-vingt-dix-sept), the
bill presented to me by the receptionist caught
me off-guard. At the end of the month, a stu
dent’s bank account is empty. I had not expected
the doctor’s office to be overwhelmed with my
health insurance card, which I assumed could be
used anywhere within Europe. In Germany, my
adventure would have ended on the spot. If you
cannot pay, you have reached the terminus. With
luck, you’ll earn a regretful smile and shoulder
shrug: „Nothing we can do about that, sorry.“
Not so in France. With an “after all, you’re a stu
dent,” the receptionist unceremoniously crum
pled up the bill and tossed it nonchalantly into
the trash. The new, significantly lower one, I
readily paid. All a matter of negotiation.
That is the beauty of the French system. Things
may seem incredibly complicated. You may be
asked to send the same document ten times or
spend an hour and a half on a hotline. Some
times, like the other day, when wanting to get
a booster shot, you may feel like K. in Franz
Kafka’s The Castle: Moving in a seemingly never
ending cycle from one room to another, repea
ting your quest and being referred to yet ano
ther person. But, unlike K., at the end you make
it to the castle—if you just hang in there and do
not let bureaucracy weigh you down.
