After a lovely and relatively relaxing two weeks in Nice, we are packing up and heading out of this wonderland of fresh fish, delicious Kir (that a mix of wine and cassis that is the aperitif du journey in Nice), and amazing shoes. Yes, even better than Venice. But more on that when I have more time.
Anyways, to set the stage -- dramatic pause -- we were almost done packing when we decided to take a pause and feed both us and the pigeons.. Off we headed to our favourite patisserie, which incidentally, also made great sandwiches. If we happened to notice a particularly succulent looking sweet, well, then it was just karma, wasn't it.
Delighted with ourselves we exited the store and decided to pick up some fruit from across the road. SEE? Sometimes eating heathy isn't always good for you. As I stepped off the curb, I checked for bikes, because they are perfidious.
And then my ankle, my right ankle, turned. I went down like a ton of bricks, Mom trying to hold me up, yelling my name over and over again. The instant after I fell, the first thing I did was to check again if there were any bikes approaching. I could just imagine the indignity of a trip to the French equivalent of Emergency and having to explain the bike tire marks all over my face. Not to mention that somehow I'd managed to roll around in the gutter. Thankfully, The Nicois wash their gutters every night, it was still relatively clean.
It's funny how your mind works when something unexpected happens. In this case, all I was interested in was getting up, because, let's face it,it's embarrassing rolling around in the gutter when you aren't drunk. As I tried to put pressure on my foot, it sent out a sharp reminder that something was wrong. So I decided to remain where I was for a minute so; Mom clucking around me, hitting the side of my head with the sandwich bag she was carrying. A very nice lady from the Sushi Shop (try saying that 10 times in a row) across the road came to my assistance and together, we managed to get me off the gutter on to a chair where I recovered enough to hobble home.
Mom went into nurse mode. Iced towels, formerly used to bring down the swelling on Mom's feet, were quickly applied with anxious enthusiasm. What was not taken into consideration until my pathetic yelping seeped in, was that while Mom can't feel too much in her feet, I was more than aware of my feet. Aleve was then shoved down my throat and dire threats of more injury to other parts of my body were issued if I dared move off the sofa.
Calm panic ensued as we discussed our options, if I couldn't drive the next morning. The car we'd rented was a manual. Mom hadn't driven a manual in 45 years. We could rent an automatic car and then she could have driven. Anyone else got that very cold finger of fear down their back?
We could throw ourselves on the mercy of the rental agency and stay in Nice until I recovered enough.
We were also supposed to pick up Sona from the airport bus that evening. Dare I send Mom alone? She had just figured out the four corners where we had staying for two weeks because of the close proximity to the patisserie. Could she be trusted to go twice as far (even though it was in a straight line) down to the Promenade and bring Sona back? I wouldn't have bet money.
In the end, after about four hours of ice and rest, I felt well enough to slowly walk down to the Promenade and collect Sona. After the stress had died down, I then had to listen to, over and over, how I was always telling Mom to be careful on uneven pavement, and I end up falling over a curb. Sona arrived and we had the pleasure of watching her joy at finally putting her feet in the Mediterranean Sea.
All would be well.
Did anyone notice how nice my pedicure still looks?
No comments:
Post a Comment