Chapter #12 Outline
"BITS AND PIECES"
In chapter twelve I mention a few of my other strange maneuvers and mishaps, earning me a reputation as the, “Crazy American Woman.” I begin with leaving the Lido on New Year’s Eve, and the insurmountable snag of Pierre trying to flag down a taxi, in a herd of other tuxedo-clad men with the same goal, and equal failure. Calling for desperate measures, my solution is to plant my feet firmly on the Champs Elyseé, flapping my arms wildly above my head, stopping a taxi just long enough for Pierre and Sport to slither in, pulling me in behind them. This plucky maneuver went well, and we were off to our next nightspot.
I tell of my death-defying cartwheel down eight or nine steps of a treacherous, stone stairway, after catching the three-inch heel of my shoe on the first step! When I eventually stop tumbling, I have only one useable shoe – and foot! Hoping no one saw the exhibition I bounce up quickly, looking like a cat that has just fallen from a tree. Taking on a proud appearance while hiding my pain, I walk several blocks home keeping Sport very close, to hide my shoeless feet. That mishap cost me a broken, right ankle! On the same subject, I tell of the motor scooter (a gift from Pierre), and the mishap, sliding fifteen-feet on a wet, cobble stone street, with my skinny carcass pinned underneath. Looking like a Flamingo with my knee bending in the wrong direction, and hunching over holding my ribs; Victor Hugo would have been proud of me! A Pompier (EMT), and several, pushy Parisians forcefully shove me into the ambulance. Not giving up easily, while speeding off with the serene blaring, I continue shouting my protest against the driver who caused the accident. That silliness cost me a broken knee, and two broken ribs! Then who could ever forget the truck hitting me from behind -- while walking on the sidewalk! There I was; lying face down on the pavement in an unladylike position, my skirt pushed up to my tushy, and stockings shredded, with blood gushing from both knees!
In the end, for better or worse, I would never trade my years in Paris for anything in the world. I confess that when I run out of life, I would like to face my maker knowing I have given it everything I had (without hurting anyone), while stubbornly reaching for all the fantastic things life has offered me. To quote the words of Mame: “Life is a banquet, and most poor bastards are starving to death!” That says it all, and besides; I would much rather be remembered as eccentric -- than boring!