Thierry Pedragosa plays pétanque at Perpignan’s Parc Des Sports.

In grade school, I competitively played volleyball and basketball. In high school, my golf and tennis teams went to the state competition every single year. I have been a University of Kentucky basketball fan since I could breathe, and the phrase “Roll Tide” has a use for every situation in my life.  I thought I knew everything there was to know about sports around the world.  Then I met my match.

Pétanque.

My first experience with this French sport came in Collioure when I saw some elderly men playing a game with metal balls on a lawn by the beach.

“Oh hey look they’re playing pétanque!” exclaimed my fellow student Justine Dhollande.

“Peh-what?” I inquired. The metal balls lying on the crisp green grass reminded me of an outdoor game that I used to play as a child, bocce ball. 

Justine, who has family from the area, explained the game as the men threw the balls, which, one by one, hit the grass with a thump.

Pétanque is a sport where players throw metal balls, or boules, toward another smaller wooden ball known as the cochonet. To earn points you must place your ball as close to the cochonet as possible without hitting it.

To be honest, the activity appeared to be boring and old-fashioned. The men stood around chatting and smoking, only occasionally stopping to pick up a ball and throw it. I was shocked to hear Justine even acknowledge it as a sport. “This is not a sport. Football is a sport,” I thought to myself.

After learning a little bit more, I made pétanque my topic for my feature story. I was not ready to accept it as a legitimate sport. Where was the exertion? Where was the sweat? And what sport allows its players to smoke?

Just days later I found myself at Perpignan’s Parc des Sports for an interview with Patrick and Thierry Pedragosa, two brothers who are among Perpignan’s most famous pétanque players. My interpreter and I stayed to watch the tournament that took place later on the park’s dirt court.

According to Perpignan Committee President Jean Villarem, more than 140 men competed side-by-side in the tournament for a chance to compete in the “Grand Prix Delaville” alongside many world champions. There was no shade and no water for the players. Dust covered my toes and clouded my eyesight and the heat was unbearable, even at 9 a.m. The tournament lasted until 8 p.m. and those who won were expected to compete again the following day.

After one hour of baking in the sun, I decided that I had been too quick to pass judgment based on my first impression of the game I saw in Collioure. While the physical contact might be minimal, competitive players must be mentally prepared for long hours and physically exhausting conditions just like many other sports.  

Although I cannot say that I’ll be trading my golf clubs in for a set of boules any time soon, pétanque has reawakened my passion for sports, and made me realize that there’s always more than what meets the eye. 

“It’s just right up the street,” says Tracey Harding as the iron door closes with a clink. Tracey, an employee at the Académie de Langues France Méditerranée, and I continue on our way to the medical clinic.

After a week of walking on an injured foot, I feel a throbbing sensation as I limp along the gravel road toward a simple brick building with an iron door. I walk inside, hesitantly glancing into the hallway as Tracey studies the schedule posted nearby. Straight ahead I see majestic frosted double doors that captivate my interest. “That must be where the doctors are, “ I think.

Following Tracey’s direction I make a left turn to see a bland white room, stuffed with the sick and injured residents of Perpignan. At this overwhelming sight I turn around to find another room that is equally as as crowded. “I think we should come back,” insists Tracy.

At four o’clock, we return and finally sit down in the now barren room to wait for the doctor. Tracey explains that we are at a medical clinic and do not need an appointment. Patients simply show up and wait in line to see the doctor of their choice. As if on cue, a doctor swiftly enters the waiting room to call our only company, a family of three, behind the mysterious doors.

About 15 minutes later it is my turn to see the doctor. Adorned in jeans, a polo, and a youthful smile, Dr. Vergnieres seems to be less formal and more friendly than many of the stuffy physicians that I have seen in the past. He comfortably chats with Tracey as we head back to his neatly organized office, which perfectly contrasts his casual attire.

The visit continues in his examination room, conveniently connected to his office. At the end of the appointment he prints off my receipt and prescription and says, “23 Euros please,” with his thick French accent. I lay the bills on the counter as he reaches in his drawer to efficiently deliver my change.

My first doctor’s visit in Perpignan, and my first experience with a physician outside the United States, was an eye-opening adventure. There was no receptionist, appointment, nurse or insurance, and certainly no forms to fill out. I felt disoriented and frustrated, questioning how the World Health Organization could rank France No. 1 in overall health care out of 191 countries if they do not even have receptionists or nurses. In addition, the London School of Hygiene ranked France first place out of 19 countries in a study on “amendable mortality.”

After three doctors visits in one week, I feel much more comfortable with Perpignan’s health care system and medical community. Despite my original concerns, I find that their system is actually quite functional. Dr. Vergnieres spent about 20 minutes with me, explaining his thoughts and making an effort to accommodate me by speaking the little English he knew. In fact, I feel like I know him better after just a few visits than many physicians that I have seen for years.

And no bones about it, I didn’t miss filling out the paperwork at all.

     As I make my way around the corner, I feel a surge of anxiety. The cars rush by rapidly, one after another, blowing my dress in their wake, and suddenly the curved road next to our hotel begins to remind me more of the fourth turn of the Indy 500 than a side street of a medium-sized French town.
     I spend most of this first afternoon in Perpignan hesitantly trying to cross the road to get to the grocery store without losing a limb. A blue car speeds past as I try to step into the road. Although the passenger clearly sees me in my American attire of Nike shorts and a t-shirt, he doesn’t seem to worry about adding my name to this year’s list of French road fatalities.
     In the American South where I live, the residents drive haphazardly, so I thought I knew something about distracted drivers. But at home I can walk across a two-lane street with no need for a crosswalk. People wave and stop or slow down when they see you coming to let you pass through the street. So naturally I was shocked when our instructor soon warned us, “Pedestrians DO NOT have the right of way here.”
    Even days into my trip, I continue to question the motives of the lead-foot drivers of Perpignan. Their laid-back lifestyles contradict their uptight driving habits. How can you preach living a life of enjoyable moderation if the roads are so crazy? Do they simply forget their culture when they turn on the ignition?
     While I may never be able to answer these questions, I have learned to live with the driving disarray that is Perpignan. I’ve gained confidence in my intuition, and I’ve accepted that the fast driving, just like the unfamiliar language, is just part of their culture. Every minute that I waste watching the cars go by is time that I could spend strolling through a pastry shop or sipping rosé with friends. Now I step into the road, commit to the task of crossing the street, and hope that all goes well.