The Ryndex

I have always dreamed of going to Lisbon. At least since Christmas. I had the guides, I printed out the Google maps, and Duckie had even presented me with a Portuguese phrase book. When my sweet friend JJ came to visit, we tossed around ideas for a trip, and as soon as Lisbon came up — we got online and booked the trip within the hour.

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What’s wrong with Michael Moore’s new scathing rantumentary on universal socialized health care?

Nothing.

I went to the theatre from the privileged position as a Canadian living in France. His newest film, Sicko, goes over the health industries in my home and host country as well as England and Cuba (all with their socialized medical systems) and compares them extremely favourably to the USA.

As in his other films, Mr. Moore has an agenda. He strongly believes that a medical system centralized and controlled by the government instead of being regulated by the invisible hand of private industry is superior in every way — for the doctor, the patient and the taxpayer. I agree.

As in his other films, he’s an adept narrator, editor and filmmaker. He supports his thesis with examples and stories, bringing along highly personal anecdotes and interviews. He’s engaging and emotional.

As in his other films, he’s combed the public records, highlighting his ideas with the histories of public officials and health industry tycoons. He adeptly strings together accounts of corrupt lobbying and lawmaking, unethical and murderous business practices, facts and studies.

As in his other films, he’s unabashedly unbalanced. He’s borrowed the “pry-from-my-cold-dead-hands” rhetoric that we usually see on the right. He’s selected his examples carefully and edited his film with narrow precision — no “yes, but…” or “even if…” or “in spite of…” waffling that peppers the sophisticated and civilized speech of the left.

He’s not here to debate the pros and cons of socialized medicine. He’s picked his side and he’s here to convince you.

I’m not interested in providing balance, either — although I could certainly tell you that his sloppy kisses to the Canadian and French health care systems aren’t the entire truth. The Canadian system does have longer waiting times, and even those that could afford to can’t jump the queue. The French system is laughably bureaucratic, with paper hurdles and reimbursements to be filled out, pushed to and ignored by functionaries. I know a few British doctors, and none are not nearly as pleased with the NHS as the rosy cheeked millionaire that Mr. Moore interviews… And I’ve had supplementary private health coverage in both Canada and France.

Okay, I’m a waffling leftie, sabotaging my own arguments with my eminent reasonableness. Whatever.

There are inconveniences and inefficiencies in France, Canada and England. In the states, there are blatant and heartless abuses, horrifying fiscal mechanics of weaselly private insurance megaliths that thrive in a marketplace that should not be a marketplace.

I have a friend that explained to me the tactics of an insurance agency blocking the expansion of a hospital in Arizona by buying the surrounding land. Why? It wasn’t an affiliated hospital, and they’d obviously prefer customers/patients use their hospital. That’s pretty much the most screwed up, wasteful thing that I’ve ever heard.

Back to France: I took a sick day yesterday. Of course, it wasn’t scheduled, so I phoned my manager and let him know. Back in Canada, that’d be the end of the story. I’d have gone back to bed and slept until I felt better. Here in France, you need a doctor’s note for any length of sick leave. It isn’t easy to find a drop-in clinic in Paris, and the doctor’s office I picked was pretty busy — the receptionist warned me, but I decided to just sit and read my book (alternately shivering and sweating with my cheerful little fever). I was there three hours. I was tempted to ask for an extra day off of work (and I would have gotten it) just to make it worthwhile.

I paid the doctor cash, and she gave me change out of her own wallet. I stopped at the pharmacy for antibiotics and throat spray. It came to 30€ total, but most of that is reimbursable if I ever bother to send the paperwork in.

I’ve had far more fortune in my social circles than I deserve. I mean, I’m perfectly presentable and all and normally almost capable of keeping up my end in a “conversation”, but come on — there’s no way that I’ve attracted such gracious, generous, tasteful and warm friends just using my limited charm.

But, dear sweet-ass reader, I’m not talking about you this time…

On Tuesday night, I decided to fight an oncoming cold with a megadose of sleep. I was in bed and my door buzzer rang. I threw on a robe, and it was my neighbours, who were mortified to have woken me. I reassured them that I was, indeed, in bed ridiculously early and as far as I could tell in my half-asleep haze, they invited me over for a drink the next day.

On Wednesday, I tapped on their door when I got home. They hadn’t prepared a simple drink — It was a full blown discovery of Antillais cuisine. Starting, of course, with a punch.

Punch, in Canada, is light, fruity and frothy… and is so frequently non-alcoholic that we have an English expression for the naughty business of sneaking alcohol into it (i.e. “spiking”) A punch over here, pronounced ponsh, is heavy, heady old rum, sweetened with cane sugar syrup and a bit of lemon. Canadian punch is a just a tickle in comparison (a slightly creepy tickle if it’s served in cut crystal).

I got a surprising amount of neighbourhood information from some of the other guests. Except for crêpes, I seldom eat in my arrondissement. When I go out, it’s normally in another quarter. So I discovered which bakeries were the best at which items, where the fruit was freshest, and (thankfully) where to get the best crêpes nearby. My old favourite crêperie has gone seriously downhill…

The meal was, of course, delicious. They cut up a red pepper that was sufficiently hot that you didn’t actually eat it — you just touched it to your food and then passed it to the next person. We finished with a homemade chicken colombo (which resembles curry), and many desserts.

The next day, they knocked at my door and dropped off additional leftovers. Hooray for neighbours!