Look Both Ways

My worst nightmare came true. No Jean-David did not leave me on the street awaiting December 15 for my flight home to a glorious American Christmas, nor was I summoned by Nicolas Sarkozy for a questioning of my purpose in France.

I was hit by a motorcycle.

I was hit by a motorcycle on my way to go start processing my health insurance papers. How’s that for irony?

For no reason, I wasn’t pressed for time-but of course when you are a faux-française you feel the need to rush anyway, just to fit in I suppose. Walking down Avenue de Versailles I saw the 22 stop at the red light. I decided to sprint so I didn’t have to wait another 10 minutes for the next bus. However, as I was gracefully nipping across rue Mirabeau a motorcycle turned the corner and came at me like a bat out of hell.

Everyone knows that feeling of watching yourself from the outside of your self. Yourself is about to creamed by a moving vehicle and your other self is the one that has her hands clapped over her eyes yelling, “Oh F**K!!! LOOK OUT!” Thankfully, my (outside) self orchestrated some sort of ballet-esque pirouette as the motorcycle swerved and flipped over, rudely expelling the driver from the saddle.

Amongst the “Nom de dieu! Fils de pute! Mon moto, putain!!!” The motorcycles tire was spinning madly on my right calf as I tumbled mid-air over the churning bike and flopped right onto my ample-backside. I sat there sprawled in the middle of the street with my skirt flipped over my thighs like a life-size doll, and started hysterically sobbing like an infant that falls down hard and scares themselves.

Through my tears and stumbling around grasping at my hard-won papers ready for the Social Security office, a nice lady came to my aid to help me stand up, examine my cuts and bruises, offer me a glass of water and try to comprehend whatever I was saying…which I believe was a mixture of blubbering, English and very-bastard-French. I rejected all offers of help and after making sure I didn’t have a concussion or any serious contusions I shakily walked across the street (yes I looked both ways!) to wait for the next bus, call Jean-David in tears, and go to my appointment at the Social Security bureau.

Walking back home from Social Security the colors looked brighter, the cars seemed faster and I seemed more alive. Or rather I seemed sore and bruised but thankfully had all of my limbs in working order. Each painful stride was exquisite. I was here, walking, breathing and taking in all of Paris’ wonderment.