Referring to yesterday's adventures, when I went out on my own for the first time since being out of the hospital for an appointment with the doctor who sent my butt into emergency on Jan 10th. Or as I've come to think of her, "Dr B who saved my arse".
Dr. B. was pretty shocked to see me, which was looking back on it, a bit of a wake-up call already for the day, only to be followed shortly by another big one on the street.
So she took my BP, which was as usual, hovering around 140-145 in both arms and I was eventually on my way after giving her my meds list and other info.
So the app was a wrap and I stopped into the pharmacy downstairs, filled out the R/X and confirmed with the pharmacist that indeed, there is a taxi station, "just around the corner". K, well, that turned out to be a long-ass corner and when I finally creeped to where the ONE taxi was waiting, it was empty. And yes, "creeping", is the right word as I was seeing first hand that this little body o' mine is still but a whisper of its former self.
So yes, this cab gong show; I at that point was already very fatigued and sporting a sizable headache sans-medication in purse, so I just hovered in the area hoping my presence would perhaps invoke that of the driver's if he was in eye-shot at a cafe or something.
He was not, so I hoofed it back to the main blvd, taking what I thought was a shortcut and ending up a bit lost walking an uphill grade winding me back to the blvd where, for 15 more minutes, I Mr. Magoo'd around some more, being passed by three cabs with their service lights apparently on.
When one finally stopped and after I piled my limbs into the back seat with the rest of me, he informed me that my destination was not acceptable as it did not match his, which was in the direction of Paris. Heeeeeeeere we go, I thought. Knowing that the drive home was a bee line of perhaps no more than 8 measly kilometers, I asked him if he'd prefer that I find another taxi and due to his accented French quickly escalating in both volume and speed, the tears just welled up and I broke down in some formidably frustrated silence.
In true French form, instead of just reading the situation and chilling the hell out and perhaps choosing to calmly agree to drive me anyway, (after all I WAS in a TAXI CAB), the ride was riddled with his phone bitchings the whole way about his horrible passenger, talking to me only to most condescendingly every 2 minutes or so inquire, "how much further it will be, Madame?", to which I'd answer with phrases like, "now, it's probably 5.6 kms", to which he'd repeat, "Straight on?", which I'd confirm, being the bee line that it was.
So eventually I made it home--sweet, dear, blessed home, without any fainting or tripping or other such possible fancy foot works. I took a painkiller and had one helluva lie down after shoving some baguette and diet butter down the gorge which had in the process, become ravenously hungry.
So, let this be a lesson, (I ALWAYS almost type, "lesion" when I do that word!), to any would-be tourists thinking about a Parisian holiday and especially to those who like the night life: If you ever find yourself in the wee hours looking to head home and that's anywhere outside of Paris proper, be forewarned that even IF a cab stops, there is a very good chance that the driver will not only NOT agree to take you to your destination, but that said message may very well be delivered with a finger being waved in your face, complete with tick tick sounds, 5-20 non's in-an-unbelievable row and sometimes, even cherry-topped with a tire-squealed exit stage left.
I can honestly say that that exact scenario has played out in this town at least 5 times since I've been living here in '02.
As for the would-be taxi blues number, thanks to this post and your reading it, that's now off of my sonic to-do list.