Oct 27th, 2015, 04:07 PM

Where the Lights Can't Reach

By Carl-Johan Karlsson
Regret blooms at STD clinics in Paris. Image Credit: Jzee via Flickr
A day at a Parisian STD clinic.

Shitty service, condescending looks, rude taxi drivers, cigarette butts, six-euro cups of tea and rain. Yes, you’re in Paris, and it’s horrible.

But once you have acclimatized—when you’ve acquired pills for your heightened blood pressure, you’ve started smoking, stopped smiling and no longer care that a meal in an upscale restaurant goes for the same price as a month’s rent in your home town—you start loving it.

Anyone who’s been living here long enough knows this. It’s not the Eiffel Tower, it’s not Sacré-Coeur, it’s not the fashion and the red lips, and it’s definitely not the damn macaroons; it’s the decadence and the wonderful arrogance that make the thought of going back home so dreadful.

She’s a rainy hag, but gives you comfort; she’s dirty, but beautiful; she’s a prostitute, but you secretly want her to carry your children; she doesn’t really want you, but for that, you love her even more. It is indeed the City of Lights.

But there is one place where the bright lights of the city can’t reach, and where the condescending looks and the arrogance won’t evoke any romantic feelings, but will simply make you want to pack your bags and get the hell back home.

In less romantic countries, the waiting rooms in STD clinics are constructed so you are relatively secluded from the rest of the patients. The sofas are separated by pillars and magazine stands so you can feel ashamed in private. But at STD clinics in Paris, the sofas are placed in a circle around a little wooden table, like in one of those tribal council ceremonies from an episode of “Survivor.”

The silence is almost unbearable and only interrupted by the short mechanical sounds from the ancient printer behind the reception desk. It feeds paper with one-second intervals, and in the quiet vacuum around the table of shame, the noise is successively heightened until finally each short motorized click feels like a sledgehammer against your anxious head, like a Chinese torture ritual. Why on earth do the French play calming classical music in parking garages but not in STD clinics?

The flat screen TV shows pictures of fruits wearing condoms (for some reason the banana is rotten) and slot machines where each lucky winner gets a specific disease. This round’s winner: a lifetime of herpes.

As you wait, you have to fill out a stupid form with stupid questions, like “Have you had unprotected sex?” “Of course not, I’m here for the ambiance and the free piss-warm water.” It’s almost as stupid as those forms you fill out at the airport when entering the US: “Do you plan to commit actions of terrorism?” Actually, there was some guy who tried to be funny and checked the "yes" box and ended up in jail.

It’s your number on the screen now.

You hope the doctor will look more promising than the establishment. He does not. He looks bored and aggressive and his head is shaved and perfectly oval, suggestive of an avocado pit. You want him to be an old understanding man, humbled from countless mistakes made throughout his eventful life, no longer capable of judgment and hatred.

But no, the middle-aged Parisian in front of you—too old to be cool, and too young to be wise—is very much capable of judgment. In fact, he sees it as his obligation to patronize you and exacerbate your anxiety; it’s all for your own good.

He exhales and utters a toneless “Bonjour.” It’s not directed to you, but it is part of his job description to greet patients. He points at the chair at the opposite side of the table. Even the chair doesn’t seem to want you there. You feel dirty and intrusive as you sit in it. You feel like apologizing to the doctor, but realize that would be really weird. The doctor pumps some disinfection liquid in his hands and demonstratively slow-rubs his palms against each other.

You feel tachycardia, cold sweats, dry mouth, self-hatred.

“Donc...”

At his first word you instantly become very aware of your linguistic insufficiencies. In crappy French, you confess your sins while the doctor rolls his eyes and turns his avocado-shaped head from side to side. A short silence, then a conclusive: “On n’aime pas ça en France.”

It’s unclear to you if you are expected to make a statement now, or merely sit there in silence as a subject to further judgment. You choose silence. The palpable tension in the room eventually reaches unbearable heights, and you reluctantly look up from the floor and in to his eyes. The condescending look has been replaced by one of boundless hatred, and suddenly you are struck by the tremendous fear that he will grab your balls and ask you to cough. As you brace yourself and prepare for your escape, he suddenly grabs a pen and scribbles down a referral to the lab. He hands it over, and looks at you with a satisfied smile. You have revealed your fear, and he knows you’re broken. 

Five minutes later you’re out the door. You curse Paris, and promise yourself to go to a private hospital next time—it won’t cost you more than the average Parisian meal anyways.