Where there is no Rite Aid.

It is a source of unmitigated shame that I’ve lived in Geneva for over a year now, and my French remains minimal to execrable. I can offer a bouquet of excuses for this atrocity (I speak English at work, I can mostly understand it now at least, the accent is so different from Spanish, it’s impossible to deal with multiple self improvement tasks at once), but really it stems from the fact that the moment I open my mouth to stammer something in French, your average Genevoise responds in perfect English.




I don’t understand how it is that they can switch between a multitude of languages without a flicker of hesitation, yet seem congenitally incapable of understanding me when I say “deux.” Deux, des, de, d’: to my ear they all sound essentially the same. Doo. Duh. De. Day. No matter how long I spend shrieking into the Rosetta Stone, both the computer monitor and your average francophone stare at me with a complete lack of comprehension when I try to pronounce my address: 2 Quai…. My parents required me to learn my address at age four for safety’s sake in the U.S.

I’m just winging it here.




The one place where my French is generally well understood, besides Senegal, is the pharmacy. The thrill of being able to communicate for myself, just like a real grown up, has led to my volunteering to be the pharmacy translator for a whole host of expats and interns at the WHO.

I’ve developed a whole dialect that is a mélange of French, Doctor, and spirited mime. It’s very effective.

This routine had its beginnings as a medical student on holiday in Hanoi.
Four medical students headed to Vietnam for one last long holiday before intern year. Alas, one of us didn’t have a levonorgestrel intrauterine device, and thus still had periods. To the pharmacy for the necessary supplies. Of course, we couldn’t just walk in and grab what was needed from the shelves. We had to ask the non-English or Spanish speaking pharmacist for this. Unfortunately, Lonely Planet does not include the word for tampon in its “Conversation and Essentials” section for Vietnam.

We broke into teams to maximize our chances of success. Two of us engaged in a vigorous game of Pictionary, that was remarkable more for its hilarity than effectiveness. The pharmacist was initially bewildered, than disturbed, by the odd stick figures that ensued. I paired with another to shout out as many synonyms as we could think of for tampons in as many languages as possible (Tampons, pads, Kotex, tampax, toallas, towel, diaper, menstrual, menses, period, bleeding, …). One of us finally happened upon Kotex, pronounced with a Pepe le Peu accent. The American rendition of Kotex had resulted in naught, but when re-delivered with a ridiculous accent, voila!

However, this is not Hanoi. This is not Senegal, where anti-malarial prophylaxis will be handed across the pharmacy counter to every tourist, regardless of what they think they have asked for. This isn’t Rome, where a smile and blonde hair will net schedule two medications along with your Zofran. It’s definitely not Costa Rica where the contents of the Physician’s Desk Reference are available to be tucked into your handbag along with your tube of Retin A.







This is Switzerland; there are rules about rules. There is an index for the rules. Rules are embraced here. These are people who enjoy reading instruction manuals. People even follow cross walk signs!

None the less, on my second day here, I managed to walk into a pharmacy, get the medicines I needed and a discount. All without speaking real French or having health insurance.
For any of you, who might find yourself in an international pharmacy, with an urgent need, I share the secrets for my success.

Start with this:
Je suis medicin.
I’m a doctor.

Non tisane. Je ne veux pas d une tisane. Piulule sil vous plait.
No, not a tea. I don’t want a tea. I want a pill please.

This is important: the voice must contain a hint of disdain at the paltry offer, without offending. They believe this is strong medicine. You want the real stuff. Remember to smile with your eyes while still maintaining a furrowed brow and a note of desperation in your voice.

A gaggle of pharmacists will now convene, and chatter in their high pitched native tongue. Pay them no mind.

With an air of authority, confidently inform them of the generic name and dosage of the medicines you require. Cést necesaire! Obligatoire!

Repeat, “Je suis medecin.”

This is where the mime comes in. Whatever they have now said, likely is a question about why you need the medicine. What’s wrong? They are concerned about you.

Lean forward, and with a confidential air, discreetly wave a hand vaguely in the direction of your chest, abdomen and pelvis. Let the hand begin fluttering around the xyphoid process, pass a few circles over your abdomen, press the hand into the general area of the bladder, then let your hand fall limply to your side. Maintain an expression of generalized distress with an undercurrent of embarrassment. I have found that this adequately conveys the symptoms of everything from gastroenteritis, to a bladder infection, to contraception.

Repeat, “Je suis medecin.”Et voila!