911's the Number....

Not that we’ve had lots of need for emergency services, but there have been a few incidents here that are worthy of note.  In France there are specific numbers for the specific departments: 15 for the ambulance, 17 for the police, 18 for the fire.  I was recently informed of a European-wide number, 112, on which the operators will often speak English.  So we have lots of choices in the case of an emergency.

Our family’s first brush with the emergency services came as Ed was running.  He and a friend turned the corner to find two men, violently engaged in a fight, with a crowd semi-assembled around.  Upon asking if anyone had called the police, they were told that this type of thing was better sorted out on its own.  After sharing the story with others they came to realize that it may have been mafia-related, hence the reticence to call the police. 

A similar story happened not to me, but to a fellow student in my French class, a German woman who lived a few towns away and was driving into the city for class.  As she drove down the highway she heard a very loud noise on her driver-side window and blinked as a projectile flew past her face.  It turned out to have been not a bullet, but a bb missile of sorts.  She called the police, who informed her that there was nothing they could, or would, do.  Her window subsequently shattered, and her nerves were a wreck as well. 

During our cold spell the other week, the city was not quite prepared for an extended period of cold.  The water still ran in the main fountain, until it was so frozen over the water could not escape.  And as we walked past the local organic store late one Sunday afternoon, there were torrents of water pouring out from under their delivery gate.  It was clear a pipe had broken, and at that point I didn’t know the specific number for the fire department.  I went back to my landlord, who saved the day by calling in the fire department, saving me the awkward discussion with my limited plumbing vocabulary. 

And finally, this morning, what spurred me to write was that there was a car just around the corner from Noah’s school that had caught on fire.  Flames licking, smoke spewing everywhere, and a crowd seemingly just out of distance from the wreckage.  Someone had called the fire department, but I was too frightened to stay around to watch the event. 

There was a different sort of incident I witnessed the other day where an older man who lives near the older boys’ school was conscious, but with hardly any balance.  He was being escorted back to his home by what looked to be his wife and two parents from the schoolyard who were keeping him upright. 

There seems to be a bit more one-to-one compassion and help bred here, maybe from the simple act of living in a smaller town, or from living a more face-to-face existence of walking and shopping on a daily basis.  Not that the authorities don’t get called in when needed.  But where and when that help is needed seems to be on a slightly different axis than in the U.S. or Canada.  Having multiple numbers to call is intimidating to me, but the fact that my neighbors will come to my aide if needed more than fills that void.  And that goes not just for here in France, and but in Toronto as well!