Few French experiences make you feel more like a herd animal than the visite médicale at the International Migration Office, compulsory for all solicitors of a residence permit.  One rainy Wednesday morning in November, I took the line 3 metro to the terminus at Galliéni, on the Paris outskirts, for my 8:30 appointment.  At ten after eight, a clump of foreigners had already gathered in front of the building.  Some stood smoking or chatting in huddles, but everyone kept one eye on the reception desk inside.

We stood in the misty cold for quite some time before the center was finally opened, by a blond woman who kept her eyes fixed on the rising metal grate as if this task were both captivating and crucial.  I knew that in reality, she merely wanted to ignore our existence as long as she could.  A state employee who had probably been at the same job for years, she found little pleasure in her profession, and, like most French bureaucrats, held contempt for those she was employed to serve.  Such contempt came easily in this sort of establishment, I realized, as I considered the huddle of foreigners standing patiently outside, shifting our weight from one foot to the other to keep warm.  As newcomers, we knew little about our rights; our simple hope was to have a  smooth visit, and to leave in possession of the health certificate authorizing our residency.  We needed something from people at the International Migration Office, not the other way around, so we were not in a place to ask questions or demand respect.

We were finally allowed into the waiting room at a quarter to nine, after standing patiently in the entryway while the blond woman, her voice booming, chatted with her colleagues, oblivious to the crowd gathered before her.  Knowing that we would not protest, she took her time with her morning socializing, getting down to business only when her co-workers had disappeared into their offices and there was no one left for conversation.

The medical center was designed in the pragmatic fashion of modern socialism.  The monotony of the white walls was broken by doors painted in primary colors.  A poster encouraging safe sex hung on the wall, emblazoned with a yellow condom and advertising a toll-free hotline.  Otherwise, the walls were bare, and I quickly became bored, and then agitated, as the names of those who had come in after me were called and I watched them disappear for their examination.  When I notified the receptionist, she was unmoved, but smiling.  “Don’t worry,” she said, “You’ll be called soon.”  She repeated these words when I returned to her desk five minutes later, but I knew how this sort of place worked; if I took her advice, I’d be not worrying until three in the afternoon, and when I finally protested, I would be scolded for not having spoken up earlier.  I took the matter into my own hands, tracking down my papers – a middleman had neglected to advance them – and delivering them to the receptionist myself so she could call my name.

I went with two young men into the first examination room, where a doctor indicated with his index finger a coat rack where we were to hang our things.  A second doctor in a white coat beckoned me – since I was the closest – to stand under a wooden rod.  He measured my height and promptly shooed me away so one of the other examinees could take my place.  Then he directed me to a scale and told me to report my weight.  I didn’t feel like I could move fast enough for the doctors, and worried that I might break their rhythm.  “60 kilos,” I called across the room, trying to ascertain the precise value, which kept on changing, “point 3, or 6, or 5.”  But I had to jump off the scale before it settled because one of the young men was inching up behind me for his turn to be weighed, and one of the doctors had shoved a card under my chin, instructing me cover one eye and read a word at the very bottom.  “Lapin,” I read easily, before being directed to stand against the wall and read from another eye chart on the other side of the room.

We were herded out into the hallway to make room for three more patients, and our medical forms were returned.  The doctor had written that my height was 170 meters and my weight was, simply, 61 kilograms.  A clinician pressed a blue hospital gown into my arms and rattled off instructions for the chest x-ray.  Then he turned to another examinee to repeat the same instructions.  After changing in a cabin that hung heavy with the smell of perspiration, my x-ray was taken with great efficiency.  Then I was directed to redress and go for my urinalysis.

I took my place on line between two men after the requisite stop in the bathroom, cradling a plastic cup with urine in my hands.  The men were also holding cups.  I laughed to myself, avoiding their eyes by studying the white linoleum tiles on the floor.  It seemed indecent to be able to peek at one another’s urine, comparing the yellowness and seeing whose cup was filled the highest.  It seemed especially humiliating to be surrounded by men, although this reaction was probably due in part to values that the French deem “puritanical.”  In any case, at the Migration Center, gender didn’t make any difference. We were all simply patients, without feelings or any real identity.  We passed before the doctors in an unending stream, no different from the assembly line of foreigners they processed daily.  The man in front of me shifted on his feet and nearly bumped into me, prompting me to step back quickly to avoid a nasty spill.  As the queue advanced, everyone watched as the next patient put his cup on a table and returned to the waiting area.

The situation seemed oddly humorous, despite my suspicion that I should feel annoyed.  As I watched the stream of men and women deposit their urine samples and pile into the waiting station, it occurred to me that I was taking part in an immigration procedure the likes of which I would never have to endure at home – where foreigners were always “the others.”  Here in France, I, too, am merely a foreigner, another eager residence-seeker.  At least, I thought, I didn’t need to be here; my life did not depend on the outcome of this medical exam.  I wondered how many of the people around me were political refugees, and whether they were nervous.  Which ones were students?  Why had these people left their homes, and what dreams were they trying to build in this new country?

My reverie was interrupted by a man who called my name and handed me my chest x-ray.  Then he led me and nine others down a ramp and told us, once again, to take a seat and wait to be called.  In the final examination room, the doctor asked me, in English, if I spoke French.  “Oui,” I replied.  “Très bien,” he said with a wide smile, somewhat surprised.  Many French, who are often overprotective of their language, seem to remember only those Americans who gesticulate liberally as they hoot in on the metro, asking, in unabashed English, what will be the next stop.  Their defensiveness is instantly transformed into flattered admiration the moment they hear French words, mildly accented, falling from American lips.  I wondered what percentage of those passing through did not speak French, and if it was frustrating to try to make them understand his questions.  I wondered if the doctor ever discovered terrible illness.  I obeyed when he told me to take off my shirt and to lie down on the table so he could take my pulse and listen to my heart.  “Perfect,” he said, as I breathed.

As I lay there on the table, shirtless, waiting for the examination’s end, the office door swung open.  One of the examinees who had been on line with me for the urinalysis, a North African, froze on the threshold.  His eyes darted away from me, to the doctor, and then to the floor.  “I’m sorry,” he muttered, backing out and closing the door behind him.  “He had the wrong door,” said the doctor, with a shrug.  I said nothing but smirked, imagining the man's surprise at mistaking the examination room for an exit door and walking in to see a half-naked woman lying on a table.  I could not feel embarrassed, although perhaps I should have, because in that place it was impossible to feel like a real person, anyway.  Not a person with hopes and dreams; and, certainly, not someone capable of either seduction or desire.

After the examination I put my shirt back on and took my chest x-ray, which the doctor handed me in an oversized manila envelope.  “This is for you,” he said, as if presenting me with a gift.  There was one final wait to hear my name, and then a smiling clerk stamped some papers and handed me my dossier.  I had a clean bill of health. “You're free to go home,” she congratulated me, reminding me to keep the papers in case I needed them for next year.

I stepped outside into the cold rainy air, clutching my x-ray in one hand and the medical certificate in the other.  With a sense of emancipation, I walked to the bus and hopped onto the metro, starting to feel like a person again, and making my plans for the rest of the afternoon.

Mail:  GParnes@Yahoo.com

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