Backtracking...

Ok. Technically i am back in Brooklyn now and will be for a couple of weeks with not more work trips booked until Fort Wayne, Indiana (Woo Hoo!!) but i have been really crap at this blog malarchy so i'm going to back track.

20th - 21st Dec - Paris, France. A two day trip from London courtesy of the Eurostar, quite a different experience to the last time i visited some 16 years ago. I now know that the French do bath occasionally, don't all wear berets and are quite nice people. Well some of them are anyway

Paris is lovely, even when it's foggy. My favourite building would have to be the La Basilique du Sacre Couer at Montmarte, though not a happy clapper, i still found the building to be quite beautiful and the view from the park over Paris is something else. We were staying in Montmartre so spent most of our time in that neighbourhood the first day and evening. We found we were quite close to the red light district which was handy. We thought long and hard about spending 97 Euros each to see a troupe of topless women perform the Can Can at the legendary Moulin Rouge but then found we could shell out 5 euros each and see couples doing it at the SexOdrome. Unfortunately we were shattered from all that deep thinking and opted on a plate of cheeses, cheap french wine and an early night.

The second day started off quite nicely at the Eiffel Tower. I was especially pleased as i dusted off my high school french and managed to secure tickets for the two of us to the summit without anybody getting offended. I could tell Kelly was impressed.

Then it all went pearshaped. We were walking down some steps when one of those irritating fellows who want to draw your picture so bad they mock your accent because they are sure you find it charming ,called out to me. I turned, stepped back on to uneven ground and my ankle gave way. I screamed like a little girl. I didn't find it helpful when hopping around close to tears the irritating guy decided to tell me how unstable the pavement stones were. Several times. I wanted to punch him. Hard. In the ballbag.

The champ i am (or possibly the martyr/idiot i am), i muscled through it. I decided against a hospital as i didn't want to spoil the trip and bought an ankle support instead . We stopped for lunch and more cheap wine and the pain seemed to be a little duller. I managed to limp around Cathedral Notre Dame, did some shopping and had more cheese.
Back on the Eurostar the pain started to come back, i took off my sock and as i burst into tears, Kelly burst into laughter. I had a comedy foot. It had blown up so much my toes protruded out of the bandage like bloated pork sausages and my ankle was missing. I called an expert, my sister the vet. Apparently walking around and wearing a support sock were big no no's. I needed to soak it in ice water ( a little difficult for the Eurostar) and to elevate it. I also needed to go to the hospital to check for a hair line fracture.
Anyone who knows britain knows the emergency room at any hospital is pretty appalling. The time of year and time of night mean't it would be full of pissheads who had fallen over and cut their heads open before passing out in thier own vomit. I could of waited for hours so i didn't. I got home, iced it, elevated it and cried some more as i desperately tried to sleep. It helped when i thought how things could be worse. I thought of that man who had to gnaw off his own arm after it was trapped under a rock while out climbing and how the pain wasn't nearly as bad as that.