07-06-2010

In 2007 Paris introduced its public bicycle rental programme called Vélib’. With over 20,000 bikes throughout Paris, the bike stations are found as frequently as metro stops.  For just one euro a day one can make use of the brown hooligan-proof bikes. Although Paris’ metro system is sometimes beautifully decorated and brings you everywhere, you never get to see much of your surroundings. Cycling (by night!) along the Seine river, across the Pont Neuf and through the Louvre museum is an unforgettable experience.

With the two-wheelers came the bicycle paths. Most bus lanes were transformed into strips of asphalt where buses, taxis and now also bikes meet and compete. The sudden introduction of thousands of bikes into a city that wasn’t used these slow-moving objects did not go flawlessly. Cyclists had to conquer their place in the always chaotic traffic. Slowly they found out where they best lined up at traffic lights in order not be immediately run over or honked away. For me as a Dutchman, I had to adjust to the French drivers that seem a little afraid of cyclists and have no clue of how these new traffic participants behave. Paris tries to build bicycle paths, but these are designed by people that never rode a bike themselves. Biking around, I found incredibly sharp corners around trees, unintended speed ramps and obscure junctions. Maybe the French road constructors can consult with their Dutch colleagues for some tips and tricks. I also would suggest that all Dutch bicycle thieves move to Paris, where the anti-vols, literally “anti-thefts”, break if one only looks at them. 

However, the most stunning experience for many drivers must have been me riding around with someone on the back of my bike. Many cars slowed down and drove along just to have a look. A bus full of tourists sparked many flashes on the side where I rode instead of on the other side where they had a beautiful view of the Louvre palaces. Given the dangers involved, is cycling in Paris still advisable? Obviously, it comes with a risk. Traffic can be incredibly fast, but as long as Parisiens are a little afraid of cyclists, they will keep an eye on you. Nothing can beat the experience of circling the Etoile roundabout at the Arc de Triomphe, cruising down the Champs Elysées and peddling your bike along the Seine. Cycling in Paris is a fabulous new way to explore this stunning city.

Roel Klein Wolterink is a MSc Molecular Medicine student at the EUR. He recently received the Prof. Bruins Scholarship and is currently doing research at the Pasteur Institute in Paris. 

17-04-2010

A week ago, I met Thekla at Senegal's Léopold Sédar Senghor International Airport in Dakar. Both longing for holidays, we could take two weeks off. Because of very favourable circumstances, the two of us had ended up in this West-African country unknown to both of us. We spent our first day on the impressive Ile de Gorée, just off Dakar's heavily polluted coast. From this now secluded place, slaves from Africa were sent off to the Americas, a trade the Dutch mastered very well.

After dinner back in Dakar, we waited for the bus back to Parcelles Assainies, one of the Northern suburbs of Dakar. Waiting for bus one to arrive, we had the usual, friendly chat with just another person who happened to be a musician. On Sundays buses don't run that often and our musician offered to flag down a taxi to share with someone else going in the same direction. In only a few minutes now, we drove off.

In the middle of a dark alley, we stopped. The friendly musician started a vague story about tourists raping their girls. He recognised me as possibly one of them and took me to verify it wasn't me. By that time I fully understood that we were being robbed. Of course I still needed to pay. First the taxi driver who needed to be compensated. Then the other person, a stranger to the musician five minutes ago but now his best friend, skillfully playing with a knife. And finally the harp player. It happened quickly. They left us with our now empty wallets and the taxi driver that dropped us off back home.

We were flabbergasted and a little scared. We had never expected this. We're both relatively experienced travellers and don't consider ourselves naive. It left us more disappointed than angry. Money, to us, is only money and thus replaceable. We all know the prejudices about poor Africans being only after the white man's money. I hate these prejudices to be confirmed from time to time, because I believe they don't hold true for the vast majority of the population. Countries such as Senegal benefit a lot from positive attention. Luckily, this happened to us the very first day. As I write this, we've spent more than a week here, surrounded by people that are among the friendliest I've come across. I feel sorry for all the other honest and hard-working people that struggle to make a living. And I still believe that crime is virtually non-existant here, if compared to the metro of Paris or any other metropole.

Roel Klein Wolterink is a MSc Molecular Medicine student at the EUR. He recently received the Prof. Bruins Scholarship and is currently doing research at the Pasteur Institute in Paris.

26-04-2010

The other day, fellow student Hélène defended her thesis about the role of a common protein in T cells. I’ve seen a few thesis defences in Rotterdam and they always seemed something to look forward to: showing family and friends the results of working late and during weekends, concluding a few years of work, and a fresh start. An exciting day. This French thesis defence was nothing like that.

A first observation: the French write bibles of four to five hundred pages, while a Dutch science thesis is a compilation of articles sandwiched by an introduction, conclusion and, most importantly, acknowledgements. There are more differences: a doctorat in France takes three years, thus one year less than in The Netherlands. And while publications are essential for Dutch PhD students, they are not crucial in France and don’t relieve someone from the obligation to write a bulky book.

For Hélène’s thesis defence, there was no general feeling of excitement or interest in the lab. As if this was a regular seminar, we left the lab three minutes prior to the announced starting time. The meeting hall slowly filled up and we started fifteen minutes late. The committee that would later interrogate Hélène sat in the front row. Like the hall, the meeting itself was stripped of all ceremony. No people to accompany the presenter: the typically Dutch paranimfen were absent. No dressing up, no formalities, nor a formal welcome by the jury. Hélène said ‘hello’ and presented her work in one hour.

The first juror thanked her briefly for her presentation, took three minutes to cite half a page of her introduction and then asked: “Don’t you think it would be better to replace this and this word with that word?”. Her second question was about page four of total 438 pages. While a Dutch thesis defence is a political fencing between scientists criticising each other’s work, French colleagues try to score points off by formulating long sentences that measure up to Caesar and Céline.

But what I missed most was the registrar (the Dutch pedel) announcing the end of the meeting after one hour. This committee continued for three hours until the streams of words dried up and people were thirsty. We drank a glass of champagne, and that was the day that just another PhD student graduated. A touch of traditions would have made this a nice show for the audience. Some glamour would have made this an unforgettable day for the student. And a little time keeping would have made everybody happier.

Roel Klein Wolterink is a MSc Molecular Medicine student at the EUR. He recently received the Prof. Bruins Scholarship and is currently doing research at the Pasteur Institute in Paris.

12-04-2010

When I went to Holland for a few days, I saw the results of the strike by the cleaning company's employees, who normally keep the stations clean. They have had enough: no decent canteen and paid coffee only. Above all, the merger of several cleaning companies has caused unacceptable working conditions and dramatically low wages. Strikes are unusual phenomena in The Netherlands, as we tend to continue talking for days and days until we find a solution that is at least acceptable for all parties.

Not so in France. When reforms of the retirement conditions were announced and long before the actual discussions started, the French unions called their members for a strike to have a stronger position when eventually the discussion would start. And so it happened that a week later kids couldn’t go to school and many people weren’t able to reach work, because most of French public transport was hit by the strike.

It wouldn’t be France though if this wasn’t all perfectly orchestrated. Streets were lined by the buses of the police that directed the protesters. The public transport in Paris ran a minimally required service: a result of earlier strikes when there was no single metro or bus for weeks and the French economy heavily suffered.

It appears to me that in France not a single day passes without a strike somewhere in the country. I questioned the effectiveness and asked my colleagues what they thought of this recent strike. They were fed up with the numerous strikes this year. Metro drivers profit from almost the best retirement conditions in the country. This is a direct result of the power they have. If they don’t work, nobody can go to work.

I think that the attitude towards strikes is largely culturally and historically determined, because in France people can’t believe that a Dutch judge can forbid a strike. In France, strikes are considered a very important right of employees.

I think a strike is a very effective measure if used sparsely and at the right moment. In my opinion, it should be a last resort. In France, strikes are part of society and thus normal. In Holland it’s something unusual and thus gets a lot of attention. Without a doubt, tomorrow there will be another strike somewhere in France. And without a doubt, it’s for a good cause.

22-03-2010

Housing shortages are a universal concept and common not only among students. Many people will at some point in their lives encounter problems finding a nice and at the same time affordable place to live.

We all would like to live in a beautiful canal-side mansion in the city centre of Amsterdam or in that spacious villa with French windows near the sea, but even finding a normal, though convenient, place can be difficult. That’s no different in Paris, and the combination of a beautiful and lively city, constant change of inhabitants and limited space make Paris’ housing market an even more lucrative source of income for rack-renters.

The Institut Pasteur realized they have a responsibility in helping people from abroad to find a place to live. The Résidence Internationale welcomes researchers and visitors and provides them with a bed, desk, two chairs, a space-ship like shower and two hot plates. To ensure that people don’t stay the rest of their Pasteur career, the maximum duration of a stay is six months.

I was very aware of this rule. Monsieur Mandart who runs the place surprised me the day I arrived: “You’re staying longer than six months, right? If you file another form, you can extend your stay so you don’t have to find another place for those few months left.” I verified a few months later (“Pas de souci!”, no worries) and submitted a new form, signed and – even more important – stamped. Ten days later my request was denied. It is going to be very busy in April, because a lot of people will start courses at Pasteur. The Résidence is fully booked and by the way, the maximum stay is six months. And I must understand it’s much more difficult for people who visit Europe for the first time to find a place to live (I do!).

In short: Find a new place and do it quickly. Only three weeks left now. I’m asking around, searching notice boards. I browse the internet for studios. Although I knew prices in Paris are exorbitantly high, I was astonished by an ad for a studio of 8.2m2 behind Montmartre, hidden on the seventh floor of a big building and accessible only via service stairs. There’s one small window in a pitched roof and the shared bathroom is one floor down. The room is available – after paying the eight hundred euro key money – for a cool nine hundred euro per month. Since spring started in Paris, I’d rather go for the romantic idea of sleeping under one of Paris’ bridges.

Roel Klein Wolterink is a MSc Molecular Medicine student at the EUR. He recently received the Prof. Bruins Scholarship and is currently doing research at the Pasteur Institute in Paris.

08-03-2010 

One day after the dramatic accident just outside Brussels where two trains collided, the Dutch radio reports there will be no Thalys trains from and to France today. It’s unsure whether it will be possible to resume the Amsterdam – Paris service tomorrow. Train accidents have a big impact on society, as trains are considered the safest mode of transport. Moreover, it disrupts a vital transportation network and the impressive view of twisted metal terrifies us. People that were in these crashing Belgian trains must have been horrified when they saw the other train quickly approaching theirs. Out of control, nothing you can do to prevent the crash.

I travelled to the Netherlands to spend two weeks ‘back home’ to report to my supervisors and to participate in an Immunology course at the Erasmus MC. I love the red Thalys trains that promise to take you to Rotterdam in only two hours and thirty-six minutes. And although the trains rarely stick to this optimistic schedule – broken radios, spontaneous emergency braking and snow strongly interfere with normal operating procedures – Thalys travelling usually is pleasant and quicker than travelling by car, bus or plane, but there’s a downside as well: it has been stripped of any scenery and isn’t anything but efficient.

I vividly remember a train trip from Cairo to Alexandria. Together with a fellow member of the international organization of medical students, IFMSA, I arrived at three o’clock in the morning to Cairo’s chaotic airport. The city had cooled down a bit, but it still breathed the heat that dominated the day. Our taxi driver took us to the train station at speeds that completely mismatched the road conditions. He charged us a ridiculous amount of money that he quickly lowered as soon as the white-uniformed tourist police arrived (whom we naturally had to compensate for this special service in the middle of the night). We bought tickets for the next train and passed time away in plastic chairs, sipping a hot coke in a bar infested with flies. Half an hour to departure, we entered our train and had to confirm with other passengers that we hadn’t entered the presidential coach by accident. During the break of day we sat in our thrones and were served a majestic breakfast. As we rode through Egyptian farmlands, we saw people fetching water, walking their children to school and chatting with their neighbours. Although I understand that safety and speed have become first priorities, I miss this kind of a view when the Thalys speeds between two dikes, splits uninspiring farmland in two and races through tunnels and concrete bunkers.

22-02-2010 

It takes time to adapt to life in another country. One encounters many differences, especially because they are more distractive than similarities. In France, people obviously don’t speak Dutch but prefer French. In winter, men and women only wear black or grey coats. Instead of football, organizing strikes became the number one national sport. Big trucks do not spray salt on icy roads; but spray sand to avoid skidding. Seen in a broader perspective, these are all minor differences. The similarities by far outnumber the differences. After all, France is an advanced Western society. The life expectancy is eighty years and women live longer than men. There’s plenty of food available and it’s sold in supermarkets. Children go to school five days a week. There are too many cars, trains are always delayed and people complain of noisy aeroplanes.

To me, life in France was never very different from its Dutch counterpart. Still, I feel much more at home in Paris now than four months ago when I had just arrived. I know my way around and regularly I can show lost people the way. I found my favourite supermarket, nice places to eat and picked my favourite parks. I know it takes me twenty-three minutes to cycle to the Gare du Nord when I ignore a few pointless traffic lights.

This weekend, the boulanger that had already been recognizing me for the last few weeks, confronted me with a habit I wasn’t aware of: on Saturdays I take a demi-baguette and a croissant, while on Sundays I always ask for a baguette. I didn’t know about this routine I developed and felt caught a little. I felt happy and smiled, as she made me feel part of French society. Or maybe of the Parisian society. Or at least part of the people that buy bread at the boulangerie on Rue Vaugirard in Paris’ fifteenth arrondissement. Nevertheless, I felt happy. A few seconds ago, I was officially recognized as a citizen of that beautiful city I always wanted to live in.

Of course, the boulanger that recognized me probably doesn’t care much about whether I feel at home in her native country. Our conversations are limited to less than a minute. She wants me to come back to buy bread. Just another regular customer in the queue of people that buy bread at the only boulangerie that opens on Sunday.

23-11-2009

Rail transport is my favourite means of public transport. Trains are not as cramped as buses or metros. I doubt anyone can enjoy an early morning bus ride in times of rain. A vehicle driven by a grumpy driver and jam-packed with miserable people casting accusing looks at fellow passengers that wish to exit at the next stop. Unintended pricks by dripping umbrellas and human sweat mercilessly chase away the last bit of happiness. Trains on the other hand are a great place to read, study, sleep or gaze out of the window. Trains, as opposed to planes, allow time for adaptation. I remember a Northern England trip on a brightly lit commuter train from Manchester to Liverpool, the rain pissing down while we listened to The Beatles. Put together with the announcements of stations in a strong accent, this journey took me to another world, away from home. I was travelling.

Nothing like uninspiring bus stops, a number of train stations are true architectural museums in themselves. Before I went to Paris for research, I went there three times and arrived three times at the Gare du Nord. Not the Eiffel Tower, but this train station has become my symbol for Paris. Recently, I went to this terminus three Fridays in a row to fetch friends from the last train of the day. Before the combined Thalys train from Amsterdam and Cologne arrives, the Eurostar delivers up to 750 passengers from London. The arrival of these passengers is unmistakably announced by small groups of elated British girls, well-equipped with wheeled suitcases and ready to plunder the grands magasins on Boulevard Haussmann. Next to enter the station are the businessmen and women, whose pale faces stand out from their smart black coats. The platform doors then close behind the Indian families who always seem to take along a good part of their household goods.

Five minutes later, the arrival of Thalys is announced in four languages. An interesting mix of people enter the platform to welcome their friends, loved ones and business partners. I lean against the ticket machine at the far end of the platform and watch the new arrivals. The slight differences between the Germans and Dutch become apparent: Germans wear slightly old-fashioned clothes, the Dutch are a bit taller and talk louder. Then, suddenly, I spot my visitor in the crowd. We greet, and for a moment we stand still, overwhelmed by the size of the building. When we exit the train station, we’re immediately immersed in the Parisian mix of brasseries, metro signs and taxis impatiently waiting for train passengers who almost arrived at their final destination.

23-11-09

The Institut Pasteur’s campus is divided into two plots at the Rue du Docteur Roux. Various buildings house the numerous laboratories, lecture halls, and the bright library. I work at the Cytokines & Lymphoid Development lab on the on the fourth floor of the Mechnikov building, named after a Russian microbiologist who came to Paris to seek Pasteur’s advice on rabies vaccination and never left. Although Mechnikov is best known for his work on phagocytosis, a process in which a cell ‘eats’ a micro-organism or particle, he also hypothesized that the lactic acid present in sour milk could prolong life. This theory inspired many scientists and Mechnikov thus became the founding father of Yakult and other probiotics.

Pasteur didn’t think highly of Mechnikov’s “The prolongation of Life: Optimistic Studies”, in which he recommended one yoghurt a day to keep the doctor away. Rather, Pasteur concentrated on microorganisms that spoiled beer, milk and wine. He developed the famous technique that still carries his name. Every day, millions of litres of milk are pasteurized to kill potentially harmful microbes.

Nowadays, food is still important for the scientists at Pasteur. Daily, the restaurant serves three main courses in addition to the daily pizzas, pastas and snacks. Salads, fruit and a wide variety of desserts serve to further fill up trays. Pasteur’s crème brûlée – served on Fridays – is said to be Paris’ best. The bowl of mayonnaise is put on ice, because the sauce is freshly made every day. People take full advantage of the suggestions box to submit their remarks and compliments to the chef. Obviously, le déjeuner – not to be confused with the petit déjeuner or breakfast that is often ignored – is considered an essential part of day-to-day life in France.

In Rotterdam I usually brought my lunch box containing cheese sandwiches, since I didn’t particularly like the expensive plates of pale pasta topped with intangible reddish sauce and putty-coloured grated cheese served in the faculty’s mess. I must admit that, once in Paris, I rapidly changed my views on a normal lunch. It took a few days and numerous comments on my poor lunches, but now I’m also filling up my tray with salads, fruit and a dessert. Lunch is a good time to get out of your lab, refresh your mind and socialize. That takes some time, but after a good lunch, I feel ready for a long afternoon of work. And in case you’re in a hurry, one can always revert to sandwiches.

15-10-09

Tomorrow I’ll set off for Paris. Finally, I’d say. My last three weeks in Rotterdam I participated in the Laboratory Animal Course as some of my work at the Institut Pasteur will involve lab animals. Although some parts of the course were better than others, in general the programme was good and helped to understand the concepts of lab animal research.

The lectures took away the daylight time and left me with only the evenings to say goodbye to friends and pick and pack things to take along to Paris. Tight planning, lots of travel and a never shrinking to-do list. I found it difficult to sit still and wished that people talking slowly would speed up a little.

I recognized this rushed state of mind from previous trips when I tried to combine medical studies with assemblies of IFMSA, a worldwide organization of medical students working together to improve global health. Several times a year, we gather to inspire others with new projects, to learn from each other during trainings and to meet the people with whom we organize numerous exchanges. Somehow it was always possible to schedule journeys just after or around exams and obligatory courses. That involved a lot of creative planning and often I found myself packing bags late at night. Not a single evening on my own. Nevertheless, I always looked forward to travelling and even to the rush beforehand.

The hurry also meant seeing many people, getting lots of things done and it became an essential part of travelling.
In that sense these last few weeks were not any different from previous outings. There is one big difference though. For IFMSA I would spend a few days or sometimes a few weeks abroad. This time I’ll not return home for the next eleven months. I will live and work in another country, another city. Make new friends. What will my colleagues be like? I haven’t seen my studio at the Résidence des Stagaires yet. Away from home, my girlfriend, family, friends. But getting to Paris does not take any longer by train than going to Groningen or Maastricht, and people that wish to drop by in Paris already outnumber the weekends in eleven months.

However much I would like to start a (transient) life in France, saying goodbye and leaving also makes me feel sad. Maybe Haracourt was right. One always leaves behind a little of oneself in every hour and every place.

01-10-09

If you want interaction with the French, you need to be able speak their language. During my presidency of IFMSA-NL, an international organisation of medical students focusing on global health, I took a break from medical studies and studied French Language & Culture at the University of Amsterdam. For one year no mass gatherings of 400 students, no complicated cascades of protein interactions. I switched Harrison’s Internal Medicine for the Petit Robert. The refrigerator-shaped medical faculty changed for the better into the art-deco Bungehuis in Amsterdam. I joined classes of fifteen students, as the only non-female student.

A typical week would start with French literature. Our eccentric and (obviously) red-haired teacher subjected us to her favourite Maghreb-related works. I revelled in reading complicated novels and enjoyed the captivating discussions. Still, I almost failed my test, because I never understood how my teachers knew what moved the author to write that particular sentence that characterizes a whole oeuvre. Who said studying humanities is easy?

In that sense, Tuesdays were better. We got going by spending three hours turning Dutch texts into proper French. Our teacher had written the textbook himself and had been translating these texts over and over for the last decade. Still, without any signs of exhaustion, he devotedly corrected all common mistakes.

By translating texts about Duchamp’s urinoirs, train trips through Europe and restaurants in Lyon, I got a grasp of how to write French the French do. After lunch we opened our ‘Grammaire Plus’ books. These classes reminded me of the pre-high school era: we all took turns in reading out loud our answers. Not much of academic schooling I’d say. This problem was recognized by the university, and therefore a course in Word, Powerpoint and searching the library was upgraded to the obligatory Academic Skills class.

I always looked forward to the French culture lecture on Friday. For two hours, we were entertained by madame Chatot, the epitome of French women herself. She told us why Paris is the centre of the world, why most French women, in contrast to their Dutch counterparts, continue to work after bearing children and why it’s ridiculous that a judge in the Netherlands can prohibit a strike.

I learned a whole lot that year. I can find my way in Amsterdam. Of course my French improved and I have some understanding of French politics. More importantly, I learned how other students perceive health, what they think about medical students and how 400 year old books are science too, and that these books are as important as the most recent, evidence-based meta-analysis in PubMed.

14-09-09

In October I will change Rotterdam for the City of Light, Paris, to work on a research project at the famous Pasteur Institute. For a long time I have wanted to live in France, or even better, in Paris. Years ago, I started browsing university websites, scanned books about living and working in France, imagined myself soaking a piece of baguette in my breakfast coffee. It turned out to be easier than I thought to squeeze this francophilia into my study programme. The next few months I will study the development of T lymphocytes, cells that are part of the immune system and help to prevent and clear infections and tumors.

Nine years ago I was in Paris for one week: I went on an exchange. During that tremendously hot and smoggy week in June, students from the prestigious Lycée Louis-le-Grand toured us around, showing us their French high school lives. We visited numerous museums, but were also supposed to participate in ordinary classes. We didn’t get much of it though. The history teacher tried to involve us in their lecture about ‘OTAN’. The most important lesson learnt that day: always reverse a French acronym before thinking about its meaning. In order to fully immerse us in French life, we stayed with host families.

I stayed in a beautiful apartment in the 5th Parisian arrondissement, but my host family wasn’t much like the typical French family Dupont. In contrast, my exchange peer was James. His Irish mother and British father had moved to Paris for business. They served bacon and eggs for breakfast and they spoke English at home. Luckily, James was terribly in love with Julie who also participated in the exchange programme. She lived with her parents in a villa next to the Eiffel tower. Monsieur and Madame Durant were glad to invite us over for dinner. While James flirted with Julie, I struggled to explain in French how drugs can be both legal and illegal in Holland and the same time.

I’m looking forward to live and work in Paris. Autumn must be beautiful. Finding my way, at first with a map as backup, later pretending to be a real Parisien, who has lived there all his life. Improving my day-to-day French and embellishing it with some slang. I’m curious to find out what lab work in France is like and how my future (French and international) colleagues work together. When will I bump into the first frustrations and will this idyllic image of French life break?