Back in New York but not without a little excitement in France last week. After a few days of indulging in the culinary riches of Brittany (the crepes, cider and oysters were excellent), I clumsily managed to fall of a cliff while attempting to get onto a pristine little beach in the region.
Needless to say, it hurt like a bitch but I did get to sport a sexy French ankle brace as you can see from the picture below 
(taken at Heathrow Airport on the way back to the States - photo courtesy of my simply-communicate Publisher, Marc Wright).
Many thanks to Marc and his family for looking after my left foot after I journeyed back to the UK. Yes, somehow I managed to take 2 trains and make my way to London after gimping my way through France.
While having a foot injury isn't a lot of fun, the situation completely opened my eyes to the excellent health care being received in other countries. Michael Moore was right.
Normally, a visit to an emergency room in New York takes no less than 2 hours, sometimes 3. At the Centre Hospitalier in Paimpol, I waited only 10 minutes to be seen. Before I knew it, I was being wheeled off to Radiology by 2 gorgeous French men, followed by a couple of X-rays and a thorough consultation with an attractive female doctor. The hospital staff's good looks would put the cast of "Grey's Anatomy" to shame, and the conditions in the place were absolutely immaculate.
After my speedy visit, my friends then drove me to a nearby pharmacy where the pharmacist kindly came out to the car to personally fit me with my ankle brace. She also loaded me up with some good painkillers and anti-inflammatory drugs which later put a glazed, goofy grin on my face (much to the amusement of the friends I was staying with).
The pharamacist was just one of many people I encountered in France who were absolutely lovely; the minute I tumbled off the cliff, a French woman rushed to my aid holding her husband's crutches which they generously let me borrow.
A million thanks also go out to the bevy of helpful people I encountered at Gare Montparnasse, Gare Nord, St. Pancras Station and Heathrow Airport. While I may have felt a bit blue about my sudden predicament, I wasn't exactly crying at the fact that I was able to move to the front of the ladies room queue!
I'll always look back fondly at the gracious and thorough care I received in France. And to that I say, "Merci beacoup!"
