To say that I'm as sick as a dog puts that dog in much too favorable a light. I can't remember the last time I was this sick. I've got the works: stuffy nose, sore throat, tight chest, rattling cough, small fever; you know, your basic nightmare. It's been coming on since yesterday, and since one of the kids I babysit is sick, I guess I should have seen this coming. So this morning I walked to the local pharmacie, which is only on the next block.
Now, here's the thing about going to the pharmacy in France: you must tell the pharmacist behind the counter what's troubling you, and they will choose an appropriate medicine for your ailments. For me, the good news with this is that I don't have to stand in the cold remedy isle at CVS staring at a hundred different cold medications, trying to decide which is the best for me, which is already difficult without the cotton that someone had stuffed into my head. The bad news is that I have to make sure the pharmacist understands what the hell is wrong with me.
I looked up a couple of words in the dictionary before I left:
my nose is stuffy = Je suis enchifrené
sore throat = mal a la gorge
to cough = tousser
Success! Not only did I get the goods (pills for the sore throat, pills for stuffy nose and fever, and cough syrup that, according to the pharmacist, will knock me out with only one soup spoon dose) but I was also able to carry on a small conversation (they're moving around the corner next month).
I think I'll celebrate by going back to bed.