It’s not easy making friends in the French capital.
As you’ve seen, I’ve had to resort to drastic measures.
But, the other day, I made a friend. All on my own. She isn’t the wife or girlfriend of one of my husband’s friends, nor is she a friend of a friend. So who is she, you ask?
She’s my pharmacist.
You see, in Paris, a pharmacist is not just the person who sells you panadol. A relationship with a pharmacist is one of the closest you can have in this cold, often unfriendly city. You tell her all your deepest, darkest (admittedly, health-related) secrets, and there is nothing that embarrasses her.
She dispenses invaluable advice along with equally effective medicine, and she does it with a smile.
In this city, a visit to the chemist is not a chore, it is an adventure. I went in for one specific reason, and came out with a armful of helpful suggestions, some relating to my ongoing battles with headaches and a rebellious stomach, others about the philosophy of life itself.
So the next time I feel lonely in Paris, I know just where to go.
Pharmacy image courtesy of ell brown on Flickr.