When I travel, I really do like to try to experience how people live in the places I am visiting. I am far more interested in that than going to see the “sites”. Outdoor markets are an easy way to do it. In addition, I like to visit, if I can, real supermarkets. I want to see how the locals shop and what can they get. Can I buy KD, Kraft singles and peanut butter? Is there a bubbling cauldron of paella somewhere? When I am with my sister, we play “show and tell” to discover the five weirdest things we can find in the shop.

Once, when I had an afternoon with really nothing to do stranded at an airport hotel in Tokyo (which is really a whole other story), I went for a walk and came upon an open house of new build middle class townhomes. Curious, I went in for a look, and it was absolutely fascinating for me to glimpse how a Tokyo family would live; the layout of the home, the traditional sunken dining room, the kitchen, and of course the bathrooms, which while small, were rigged out with Toto products that seemingly could wash and dry all of all at once.

When I travelled on business (that is a distant memory) I took pictures of law office reception areas around the world. I was working on a coffee table book. By and large, I think they are all designed by the same person, but for a different view. I did like the added touch of the telescope as a way for me to bide my time while I awaited someone who I know deep in my heart really did not want to see me. (That shoe has been on the other foot more than once.)

The past few weeks, I had the unique opportunity to compare another facet of life in a foreign land, the French health care system. Now, before I go on, do not worry. I am fine. I am writing this out on the dining room table of our home. And I was never in real danger either.

Two weeks ago, I was feeling tired, fatigue, and stiff and then I started to feel a pain in my left shoulder when I would breath deep. I knew that pain, and it concerned me enough to tell Janny. It was the same pain that I felt early in 2020 after a bit of open heart surgery in November 2019. In February 2020, this pain was diagnosed as pericarditis, or the inflammation of the sack that the heart sits in. I picture it like the plastic bag that the ball of mozzarella comes in. A ball/heart with some liquid, protected by a bag. It was all a bit inflamed, and you really do not want either to blow.

I told Janny of this and the first thing we did was both get COVID tests, which came back negative. We then were able to see the cardiologist in Marseille who I had seen in the summer of 2019 for a second opinion on some leaky valves that were subsequently the point of the open heart surgery. This time, while he liked the condition of my heart, he did not see pericarditis and he was worried the infection (I did have a fever) was further inside my heart. Again, you really don’t want the whole thing to blow. It makes a mess. And so, we went home awaiting the time I would report to a hospital for further tests. He wanted specifically to do what I call the “down the throat”, which is really called an esophageal ECG. I had had one of these in the summer of 2019 before surgery. When I told the cardiologist that I had had this in Toronto under a local anesthetic, he looked at me aghast and commented on how barbaric medicine seemed to be in New World. This time, it was going to be under a general anesthetic.

We got the call and off we went to a relatively new hospital. We took a taxi as we were of course told that like every urban hospital in the world, there was really no parking. It looked like it had been designed by the sibling of the law firm reception area designer. As opposed to a Second Cup in the lobby there was the Croissante Café. The same red painted line led to the elevators to the cardiac check in. I paid my deposit (now I will see about insurance covering that one!) and we were then directed to the room. It was really a great private room with a bathroom I would be proud to have in my home, but for the fact that shower seemed to spray right into the electric blow drier affixed to the opposite wall. You needed the dryer as there were no towels in the room. The TV worked and the google worked (after paying). A nurse came in and proceeded to drain at least 35 vials of blood from me. And that was it. Janny had to go and there I stayed.

I sat there thinking of our friend Marc Rapuch who a few years ago found himself lying in a small Italian hospital after a bike smash. His ward room, which could have been a set for a WW II era movie was a far cry from this room.

I must say, I was a bit disappointed that lunch and dinner did not come with a little airline size bottle of wine. I figured I was in France. Where was the wine? As for the food itself, suffice it to say that the thesis that my friend Max and I have been working on has been confirmed. It is clear that all hospital food in the world is prepared in one subterranean kitchen and simply piped into every hospital. Same look, same taste, same texture, it is just called by different names.

The procedure itself was uneventful and very professional. And I can tell you from my view from the gurney, the ceiling in Toronto General and Hopital Europeen Marseille are the exact same as well.

I did get a clean bill of health and the pain I had experienced is no more. As a middle aged man, I am really trying to listen to my body and not ignore strange pains. Better safe than sorry. Janny was allowed in to collect me and away we went. And the car had not been towed. A few days in a hospital and a blog post I had not counted on. Not so bad.