Allergic to France

Ever since we moved into our apartment in February, the paint has been peeling in the bathroom. At first it was just a little ugly, but recently we've had large flakes of paint drop onto us while we're showering. So I called the landlord, and she made arrangements for a painter to come by.

The first inconvenience I had with the painter was that he had a very low tolerance for my bad French. Every time I talked to him on the phone, he insisted I hand my mobile over to someone who could translate. Ok fine, it's his country, he has a right to demand coherent conversation in his language, but a little patience wouldn't hurt.

The second, and much bigger inconvenience was that we couldn't use the shower for two days. Which meant driving to work grungy and showering there. This wasn't bad for David because he regularly uses the showers at work after lunch-time sports with his colleagues. But for me it was new and uncomfortable, having to drag all of my necessary girl-type stuff into work.

I knew there were lockers at work, but I'd never seen a soul set foot inside the women's. On Tuesday morning I ventured in with my bag in tow, thinking I should have at least tested the showers before I got myself into this situation. The locker room was completely empty and the showers were a campground-level of clean (no dirt, but spiders). And, as Murphy's Law would have it, there was no hot water. But it wasn't exactly freezing, either, and I managed a sort of wash-and-dash method to get myself cleaned up. Just as I was rinsing out my conditioner (I know, what kind of idiot bothers with conditioner when they're taking a cold shower) a little bit of warm water kicked in and I was able to warm myself up before leaving.

The third, and worst consequence of having our bathroom painted happened that night when we got home from work. As Dave inspected the work in progress, I changed my clothes and noticed what I thought was a bug bite on my leg.

We decided to take a walk in the park and I started itching the back of my head, then my stomach. I lifted my shirt to investigate and Dave said "You have hives!"

By the time we'd gotten home and I'd pulled off all of my clothes, the hives had spread across my stomach and chest and were starting on my legs. I called Dave's mom to whine, then mine. I was really worried that my mom was going to freak out when I told her I had hives, but when she saw me on the webcam itching myself like a dog she just started laughing. We both wound up in a fit of giggles. I figured, if your mom's not worried about it, then it can't be that serious, right?

That night I slept in fits and spurts, waking up to scratch and worry about how I was going to get myself to a doctor the next day. I'd already had my fill of French doctors, and the experience was certain to give me even more hives.

When we woke up yesterday morning the hives hadn't gotten better, but they hadn't gotten any worse, either, so I decided to go to work. I chose a long-sleeved sweater and long pants (yes, it's still cold and rainy in France) to hide the bumps and packed my bag for the cold-ish shower.

When I stepped out of the shower I was covered from chest to ankles, front and back. I looked like a tragic burn victim. The only fortunate thing I had going for me was that my face wasn't affected and I could hide in my clothes.

Amazingly, by lunchtime 90% of the bumps were gone. I was happy and confident enough to tell the story to my group on the way to the canteen.

But then by 2:00 in the afternoon they were back. And they'd begun infesting my neck. My workmates cringed, chattered back in forth in French, and one of them handed me a piece of paper with the name of an over-the-counter anti-histamine written on it.

So I grabbed my bag and drove into the village of Meru to find the pharmacist.

At the pharmacy I had a relatively successful French conversation. Which doesn't mean I understood 80% of it, but I got the vital words. I think. It helped that I knew what she'd be asking.

Me (in French): "I have a problem....." (point to my forearms)

The pharmacist came around the counter and took a hold of my arms to examine them.

"-------- ---- --- ------ --- manger(eat)? --- --- ----- ----- boire (drink)?"

"No, I eat the same things."

"---- ------ --- - --- --- ---- ----? ---- ---- --- --- ---- --?"

"um....we have a....painter"

She threw her hands up, nodded, and dashed back behind her counter to rummage around while I congratulated myself on finding the magic word. I have no idea what it is about getting the bathroom painted that gave me an allergic reaction, but I guess maybe it's the dust.

She returned with a box and rattled on in French. Then she watched me scratch myself, frowned, and went digging around for something else. She handed me a tube of anti-itch cream, gave me some more instructions I didn't understand, and sent me away 13 euros lighter.

I went back to work and the new intern translated all of the safety precautions and instructions for me. When he got to the side effects he couldn't think of the right words in English, so he had to mime vomiting, bloody nose, etc. It was a pretty amusing game of charades.

Last night I was positively irritable with itchiness. I must have used half of the tube of cream and started rubbing bagged ice cubes up and down my legs to soothe them. The intern had read that I should start the pills at night, so I held off until 10:30 and took the first.

Half an hour later I wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and never open my eyes again for the rest of my life.

I woke up this morning completely hive-free. Unfortunately, the waking up was pretty difficult, and taking a hot shower in my own apartment didn't do much to perk me up, either. Those French anti-histamines really pack a wallop. I spent all day on the brink of a nap, leading my colleagues to laugh at me and the intern to ask if it was worth it.

Yes, it was worth it. But I'm not taking another one of those pills again until I'm completely covered in hives and have a day to spare as a zombie.