Le Walk, Le Trip, Le Splat

I’m told that the French find Americans annoying. Not all Americans, I reckon. Just those other Americans: the white tennis shoe-wearing, loud talking, McDonalds-loving Yanks who give the rest of us a bad name.

I politely greet French people with a “Bonjour” and thank them with a “Merci.” I understand their currency (the Euro); I don’t expect them all to know English. Most of all, I don’t want to bring bad attention to myself as an American. If I act like an idiot, I might bring (more) disgrace on my country. This is my thought pattern when I travel abroad: Be respectful. Don’t act like it’s the first time you’ve crossed the Atlantic. And, for God’s sake, don’t give the French another reason to laugh at us.

With that in mind, let me share a moment from my vacation to Nice, France last month.

Scene: My sister, Donna, and I are crossing an intersection on the way back to our hotel.

The action: We are walking past the midpoint of the intersection where there is a minor (very minor) elevation in the pavement.

The result: I fall with a loud splat into the geometric center of the intersection. (Did I mention that the pavement is in pristine condition?) To my left is a handful of French motorists that are either (1) surprised they are getting a comedy show or (2) feeling pretty righteous about all that’s wrong with America. After taking a few seconds to comprehend what I had just done, my sister helps me up and we make our way to the other side of the street.

Did they really know I was American? Maybe not. But the spectacle I made obviously pegged me as someone who was not French. No self-respecting French person would go splat like that.

Splat [noun]. The act of falling on hands and knees in a comedic fashion. See Three Stooges, Jerry Lewis.

The good news was that I didn’t break any bones. But, once back at the hotel, I saw that my knees were badly scraped and bruised. This resulted in a trip to the pharmacy where I asked for ‘le Bactine.’

More than six weeks later the scrapes have not fully healed, nor has my pride. I still wonder how I managed to trip (and fall) over what was no more than a couple extra molecules of pavement. I can only chalk it up to the thrill of being in the South of France. I'm just pleased I could entertain the French on that beautiful January day.