Yeah, okay—this happened:
I was on a jam-packed Métro car Friday, standing near the
door. At the Cité station an old guy with a cane was trying to make his way
from the back to the door and the doors-closing alarm sounded. It wasn’t my
station, but I stepped off, while still holding on to a rail to make way. If I
thought at all, I was thinking I could block the door until he got out (and I
did wonder what was up with no one making room for him to move).
On the DC Metro system, the doors stop closing if they
encounter an obstacle.
On the Paris Métro, they don’t.
Interestingly, my forearm puffed up like a snake that
swallowed a fat rabbit within seconds. I mean, the train hadn’t pulled out of
the station before it ballooned. There was no pain, and nothing felt broken
(although I acknowledge that I’ve called
this kind of thing wrong before), so I proceeded to the musée du Luxembourg
to see the exhibition on Gertrude Stein and Pablo Picasso.
It did occur to me that I might want to ice it, so when I got
back to the hotel, the food and beverage service manager gave me a pack of ice
(pneumatically sealed plastic bag) and I spent a couple of hours balancing it
on my arm.
It does seem to have helped; here’s how I looked yesterday:
Let me emphasize: no pain, and everything is working. I’m
already supporting an entire orthopedic practice; I really don’t want to have
to start all over again.
Oh—the old guy got off at the next stop, and his son—who’d
also tried to hold the door for him—reunited with him.
All’s well.
(Except—hotel housekeeping: I’m sorry about the blood on the bedding.)
And if you see this sign in the Métro, pay attention:
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