Topless time-waster

I know what you’re thinking, some of you out there in the Internet wilderness. How could anything topless be a waste of time? Let me enlighten you, few scandalous-minded readers of mine, because you’ve obviously never been to the OFII medical office in Paris.

OFII, the French office of immigration and integration, is one of those “necessary” evils an ex-pat must face in France in order to remain in good standing visa-wise, just in case you ever decide to skip on back to the land of wine and cheese and clammy Metro poles. For months now, we have been slowly (and I mean sloooowly) completing this heinous process, aware that a visite medicale was in our near future. As the appointments began trickling in, and we began to talk amongst ourselves, it was clear that this was not just any doctor’s visit.

“They stick you in a room topless!” girls cried in horror upon return from their visits.

“But why? WHY would they do such a thing?” the crowd of anxious girls listening in would demand fretfully, brows furrowing and jaws dropping, many unconsciously clutching their chests in alarm.

Apparently the answer was to determine whether or not you had tuberculosis. In which case, if I indeed had the famed disease of Nicole Kidman’s doomed damsel in Moulin Rouge, by the time my appointment rolled around, I would have spent the last four months infecting all of Paris. Good timing, OFII.

Mysterious topless TB tests looming in my future or not, I was required to appear at 9:30 this morning at an obscure office in the Bastille neighborhood. My friend Hannah and I, both having landed the same appointment time, set off early this morning, the light hazy rain making my hair stick up in strange ways. After laying down 55 euros for a stamp (an inconvenient substitute for a co-pay), we pushed open the doors of the inferno and were faced with two waiting rooms packed to the brim with sullen-looking foreigners, passports and stamps in hand.

An hour passed. Hannah read off and on and I mindlessly flipped through a magazine I’d already read a few dozen times. Finally, our names were called—Hallelujah!—and we were moved into the next room. Another hour passed. Our names rang out again, and we were shuffled into a small room with two doctors administering simple tests and checking measurements: height, weight, eyesight. Except, at no point was I asked to remove my two and half-inch heels, or my jacket. So, by Parisian record, I am about 5’8” and weigh about 10 kilos more than usual. Also, I'm pretty sure I said "C" on my left side when he pointed at "O" and I still passed with flying colors. Go figure. O isn't that important anyway.

After this lovely jaunt—my male doctor gruffly asked me if I was pregnant. Hannah’s patted her stomach and cheerily asked, “Pas de bébé? Pas de bébé?” (No baby? No baby?)—we took our seats once again. We figured the toplessness had to be next. Had to be. And what do you know, we were right.

By the time another half-hour had passed, I was finally up for my x-rays. Four of us stood in front of three doors, marked like a shoddy "aaaand Bachelor #1!" type show. A tiny French nurse explained that I was to enter the room, take off my shirt and put my hair up. Sounds good, I thought, pleased that I had understood my directions. It wasn’t until I was in the tiny closet-like room with my shirt off that I realized I had no idea what to do next.

There I was, standing fully clothed from the waist down, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and wondering why they had chosen such a bright yellow to paint the walls. Then, out of nowhere, an adjoining door was yanked open and a grumbly x-ray tech, (also a very small French woman. I’m sensing a theme…) bustled me out of my closet. Before I knew what was happening, I had managed to wind up pressed up against a large machine, both of the two nurses were animatedly telling me to breathe deeply, and then I was shooed right back into door #1.

After redressing myself, I burst out of the closet into the hallway I started from, looking mildly flustered along with my fellow visa-seekers, only to take a seat for another half-hour. Hannah soon plopped into a seat next to mine, and we waited to see a new doctor who would cluck about how good our x-rays looked and take our blood pressure before sending us on our way.

Almost four hours after we’d walked through the door this morning, we watched yet another employee land a glorified sticker in our passports, declaring us fit to return, TB-free.

Thanks, OFII. Don’t know what I’d do without you.