An American Gimp in Paris...

Last night I had the unique opportunity to be carried down stairs by three strapping French men, ride in a French ambulance, go to a French ER, and to witness two people getting arrested, all thanks to a slippery staircase and poorly designed shoes.

Said slippery staircase is in the Institut Charles V, where I take two of my classes. I was leaving my French theater class with a large group when my flats – with their laughable excuse for traction – hit the slippery stairs the wrong way and I suddenly found myself sliding oh-so-elegantly on my butt down the rest of the stairs to the landing of the first floor (second floor to Americans). I immediately felt pain in my ankle and knew I’d sprained it. Everybody from class was so incredibly nice; running to get ice, supporting my foot, and calling for Professor Tufts, my theater professor whose class I had just left.

Prof. Tufts called the French pompiers (firefighters) to take me to the hospital for an X-ray, and three of them came up to bring me to the ambulance. I got to wear a super attractive puffy leg brace, and they put me in a little chair that they then carried down the last flight of stairs. One of my friends snapped a couple photos of me being carried down like a princess. I am very much looking forward to showing my future grandchildren photographic evidence of the time Grandma got literally picked up by three French firefighters.

Then it was off to the emergency room at the Hôtel Dieu, punctuated with the jokes of the pompiers that there we no choice: they'd have to amputate my whole leg. Professor Tufts and I then got the – privilege? – of witnessing firsthand a French emergency room. Within the first five minutes we saw a man being taken away in handcuffs (he left screaming in French, “But I’m not a member of al Qaeda, you know!”). As we saw more of the other patients in the hospital we saw that this was by no means an odd occurrence; it looked like I was the only one there for a non-drug related reason. Everywhere I looked, there were people on hospital gurneys with IV’s apparently sleeping off drugs. By the time my x-ray was being taken (a few hours after we arrived; French ER’s are no more time-efficient than American ones, apparently) we saw another man escorted out by police officers in handcuffs. As Prof. Tufts said, “Welcome to another Paris.”

X-rays and a multitude of doctor visits confirmed what I knew from the beginning; my ankle was sprained. I was discharged with a still pretty painful ankle, lovely painkillers, and – my personal favorite – a super-dorky fashion statement in the form of an aircast for my ankle. Luckily it’s not a boot and I can wear shoes with it. But yes, that’s right…for the next three weeks I get to hobble around Paris in a bright-green ankle brace. How super-chouette.