Bookmark this in case you get a weird rash/sick in the middle of the night/feel like you need professional help but you are unsure whether a hospital emergency waiting room is what you need. I hope you don’t need this! But if you do…
What’s the emergency line called in France?
If it’s an emergency: dial 112, the universal, European, number for getting an ambulance asap. It’s a general emergency line, so be prepared to explain, « J’ai besoin d’une ambulance s’il vous plaît »,because they are also fielding calls for quiches on fire and stolen baguettes.
Bonus: sometimes the firemen are the first responders and THEY DO NOT DISAPPOINT (if you know what I mean). Like if you have your arm stuck in a bulk-sized jar of Nutella that is wedged between the wall and the cabinet of your AirBnB, they will rescue you, hotly. You will die of shame anyway, but 22 year old French guys from the countryside will use les Jaws-de-Life on your greasy arm and your life will flash before your eyes . « What did I ever see in Phi Beta Carotene bros back home? »
And yay for Social Democracy ! Our health care is world-class and access to it is held in an even more sacred place by the French than that of Notre Dame cathedral, so your bill will be très petite. #civilizedAF
I need help but not a hospital
In Paris, we have house-call doctors.
Yes, like straight-up, 1800s, Little House on the Prairie. The service is called SOS Medecins. It’s a non-profit organization that covers 70% of French territory (Paris def included). It was founded in the ’60s after a doctor, Marcel Lascar, had a patient die over a weekend. Outraged that one can get a busted toilet fixed on Saturday night but you could perish in your bed, he founded SOS Medecins.
It’s about 80 euros (cash or French check only, no foreign check accepted) and they come to you at your AirBnb, hotel, Tinder-date’s place, etc., in about 30 minutes. Perfect for those times when you don’t think you need the E.R. but you can’t wait to get an appointment (shout-out to the ladies susceptible to travel UTIs). Sometimes they show up on motorcycles emblazoned with an ‘SOS Medecins’ sign, which they then park on the sidewalk like OUTLAWS. It is the most badass way ever to get a sprained wrist treated after you fell off the electric trottinette. France IS civilized AF.
If you can wait until dawn, www.doctolib.com finds you general practitioners or specialists, and you can toggle results for ‘appointment today’ and ‘speaks English’. Many a random rash have been treated this way by your dear, allergy-prone, chemical hair color-loving author.
PS: www.Reverso.net is a superior translator to Google and will tell you how to say, “It burns,” en Français.
It burns down there but I can still go get a crepe and sit in this cafe in semi-denial
It’s daytime, you can still walk around, but something just isn’t right. Try an open pharmacy. No, Americans, those green crosses don’t mean, « WEED! » (although in one bright spot of 2022, it appears that weed is, in fact making its way to France), they mean « DRUGS! » And, as fellow sufferers know, a call coming from below on vacation is a gateway to openly fucking talking about your sex life to a stranger in a white lab coat with a line behind you (social Distance, merci ). Yes, this has happened before. French Pharmacists know when to send you to a doctor, but they don’t mess around. They can help you without the prior steps (pre-load Reverso before you approach the counter in the event that you lack French language skills).
The problem is in my mouth
Sometimes you need a dental intervention at the worst possible moment, like the night before you were supposed to propose to your girlfriend in front of the bust of Jim Morrison, but instead you were moshing to the impromptu trumpet section at Bar Les Idiots and you ‘kissed’ the marble bust of Molière a little too hard during a night out. You are doubly‑f*cked: a morning of unexpected dental work instead of a Best Croissants of Paris tour and no proposal this time round. The unbearable sharpness of having teeth (now FOR SURE Milan Kundera — closest thing we have to God in Paris besides Cédric Grolet and his cakes — will never be my friend).
Don’t worry though. You can still do Le Croissants Walk, as we call it. Croissants are flaky and 9 out of 10 dentists recommend eating at least 3 every morning, plus one pain au chocolat.
Indecorous Culturevore and Polychrome Chow Virtuosa Kat Walker likes nice things.
She once went to a job interview for that was supposed to be for sales but was actually for prostitution (the high-class version, she hopes lol) at a fancy hotel in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower (article coming soon) and, another time interviewed for a position as a phone psychic.
She passed both with flying colors. However she declined the human trafficking position but stuck around longer than she should have to be able to write about it. (Are you not entertained?)
As for the telephone psychic gig, she only lasted one day, even though the pay was excellent. Wooooooo…..She sees you subscribing to our weekly PARIS RIGHT NOW dispatch . There is also a man in your future.
Now she is settled in as your Editor-in-Mischief here, leading the charge to not take Paris so damn seriously…let’s frolic a bit, non?
She writes fast and without prudence so if you enjoy this type of thing, editors aren’t free so here is le Patreon
When she’s not writing about croissants, love, culture, and lovable, sexy croissants, she is a gonzo performance artist whipping up a (usually) political ruckus. Her rabble rousing has provoked the attention of various public forums, like the time she appeared in the movie The Yes Men Fix the Worldas Russian journalist Laika Gagarina or was featured in RollCall’s Heard on the Hill for her mockery of the U.S. senate. Other efforts have landed her in the Le Nouvel Observateur, Chicago Sun-Times, Chicago Tribune, and the Reader.
In other places and other lives, the actual live guy who played Ross on Friends came to see her show at a NYC gallery.
She has never had a weirder lunch than that one when an FBI informant offered to kill her business partner for her.
She declined (phew) and that’s why she’s here, freely- and un-jailed-ly writing about croissants and perverts and the Eiffel Tower (in that order, usually) for PARIS > DEFINED MAGAZINE.
Her perfectly impossible dinner in Paris would be at Pierre Sang on Gambey (the waiter chooses the wine) with Genesis P. Orridge, Napoleon Bonaparte (he picks up the tab and the waiter knows this in advance when picking wines), Christopher Hitchens, Anais Nin, and Ketamine in attendance. Drinks after at le17 but back in time, like 2017.
Her favorite French word is ‘bruit’ but only when a hot girl says it slowly.
In a bid for your attention and approval she writes things here and manages this unruly tribe of Parisians endeavoring to bring you what Parising is really about.
Subscribe HERE to the P > D newsletter for a weekly dose of her, and the rest of the rambunctious and perfectly depraved gals’ trenchant and thought-provoking opinions. Or tune in to their highbrow culture commentary and bike riding through Paris on PARIS » D E F I N E D TV.
If you are mashing out a message to warn her of her crimes against grammar and punctuation save your time because she knows, she knows.