Of Late

So, after more than a week of absence, here I am. 

It seems that France has determined to give me the most rounded of experiences.  I’ve had some really fantastic experiences (getting engaged to a wonderful person I met here !), but this last week, something pretty awful happened.

I was walking in Noisy le Grand in the Pavé Neuf, and was suddenly pushed over from behind.  After a few kicks to the head, the attackers took my bag and fled. 

I was an absolute wreck, screaming and sobbing (to my credit, however, I did scream out in French.  You never know what you’ll do under pressure, and I actually feel pretty pleased that, even under pressure, I could still think in French.)  Thankfully, there were plenty of witnesses on the street who called the police and the firemen, so after an initial looking over, I was sent off to the emergency room and then later, to the police station where I filed a complaint against the attackers.

But even though this agression, as they call it, was absolutely horrible, now that I’m a bit further removed, there were actually quite a lot of funny moments.

As I said, after I went to the emergency room, I went over to the Commissariat to file my complaint.  When I walked in, hair everywhere, mascara streaking my face, the man at the desk said, « Let me guess :  You were attacked by two men from behind.  They kicked you and stole your purse. »  I confirmed this, thinking he must have heard about it.  Well, no, he hadn’t heard about my particular incident, but said that it happened fairly frequently over there in the department 93.

Anyway, I began the complaint with this particular man at the front desk, but then, after a few minutes, a really beautiful girl walked into the station.  She was tall, thin, and had these really high heels, long gorgeous hair, and a Louis Vuitton bag.  Would you know ?  The policeman told me to wait a minute and then went outside for a smoke with the girl who, I later found out, had to stop in weekly due to her probation.

After he left, a very dour, man-faced woman came down and asked it I’d been helped.  Confused, I looked out the door where the man still stood talking with the pretty girl.

 « I’m not sure, » I told her.

She followed my gaze, and then told me I’d better follow her upstairs. 

I followed her into this really bleak room with hardly any light and extremely old computers.  We sat in front of one that had a sticker on the outside that read I do evil things.  The woman then said that I should tell her exactly what happened, and she would type out my statement.  So, I began to talk--fairly slowly, I thought.  She kept holding her finger up and asking me to stop, as she typed what I’d said.  She typed, that is, with one index finger.  Then, after every sentence, she stopped and reread everything she’d just written.

Eventually, she began asking questions which I answered as best as I could.

« Did you see the attackers. »

I said I hadn’t seen their faces, but saw their backs as they ran away, so I gave the vague description that I could give :  I described their race and age range.

« Victim…cannot…describe…attackers. » She read aloud as she typed.

« Well, » I said, « that isn’t completely true.  Like I said they were probably  ____ years old and of ________________origin. »

She sort of rolled her eyes and went on with other questions.

« Did you see where they went after they took your bag ? »

« They ran into the alley between the Marantha Church and the hôtel by the woods. »

« Victim…is…unable…to…say…where…attackers…fled. »

Any time I brought up the fact that she’d typed something I hadn’t said, she attributed it to correcting my French.  The situation got so frustrating, I just let it go.  I quit correcting.  I quit arguing.  I just stared at her with glazed-over eyes.   At that point, I’d spent almost five hours in the emergency room and police station, and all I wanted to do was go home, take a shower, and get warm again.

And, I’m happy to say, that’s the way it eventually turned out, because nothing, no matter how horrible, lasts forever.  I eventually made it out of the police station, and I spent the evening watching Le Petit Nicolas with my fiancé, remembering why I fell in love with France in the first place.

And in other good news, some friends of mine went back to the place where I was attacked and found my bag, my train pass, my driver’s license, my Bible, my umbrella and a few other odds and ends in the woods over there.  I’m really grateful for the things I did get back, and on Sunday, when I had the elementary age kids in Sunday school, they were all extraordinarily well behaved and oohhed and ahhed over the chocolate cake I’d made.  I don’t expect the behavior to last, but I’m enjoying it while it does.