Our friend Wally turned 30 last week, which I still have a hard time wrapping my mind around because surely he must be a few years younger than us. Anyway, he celebrated on Friday night at a bar called L'Orange Mechanique, which, of course, is the French title for "A Clockwork Orange".David and I came by for a little while and met a few of his rock & roll friends. But Dave has quit drinking in preparation for the race, and I had been feeling a little under the weather for the past few days, so we left early and were home in bed by midnight.
In hindsight, perhaps we shouldn't have gone out at all that night - although I only had one drink and we didn't get home that late - because I woke up on Saturday feeling far worse than under the weather.
The depth of my sickness didn't really hit me until I'd walked halfway across Levallois for my blood test. The hospital is clear on the other side of town, a good kilometer away, and as I stood swaying in the middle of an intersection trying to remember which way to go, I thought, "shoot. I should have asked Dave to drive me."
Well, I ploughed on to the hospital and staggered through the labyrinth of halls up to the lab just 15 minutes before they closed. I recognized the receptionist from my past two visits and she eyed me warily. I smiled weakly and asked "Am I too late?"
"Too late for what?"
"For a blood test." Of course, I don't really know the exact words for "blood test", but this bit of communication was done with the French word for "blood" and a miming of a syringe on my arm. It got the job done.
"Ah, no" she told me, "we don't do blood tests on Saturdays."
"But the sign on the door says you're open on Saturdays."
"Just for people to pick up results."
How French. At this point I knew I was a goner, but I had hoofed all the way across town, and I was annoyed. I also knew that if the receptionist was a man, I might be able to cute my way into something, but she was in fact a lovely young woman, and we all know you can't get any favors out of those.
But still, I was there. And I was exhausted and deflated. I pressed on:
"So. You only take blood during the week."
"Normally, yes."
"Great." I coughed for emphasis and sighed. "Ok, have a good day then".
I turned to trudge out the door. Halfway there, she called after me:
"Do you have your request?" The printed piece of paper from the doctor with the list of tests required.
I turned around slowly and shuffled back to the desk. I pulled out the paper and she began tapping on her keyboard.
"We can do this today, but next time don't come on a Saturday."
Hot dog. How did I get away with that? My bad French? My cute accent and American pluck? My pathetic state of health? Probably the combination of the three. Or maybe she wanted to see if she could make me faint by taking a little blood out of me. I dunno.
The nurse came out of a back office and I escorted myself to the little room and pulled off my jacket. She took my blood and I scooted out of the lab, waving weakly and telling the receptionist that she was very very nice.
She raised an eyebrow and locked the door behind me. Done.
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