I broke my foot in Paris.
That line, which I've repeated ad naseum all week in response to the countless queries of "Wha hoppon?", would lead you to believe there's a really good story behind it. There isn't. There's basically no reason for me to have broken my foot. I was stepping off a sidewalk and my foot slipped. C'est tout.
Here's what I wish I could say:
That line, which I've repeated ad naseum all week in response to the countless queries of "Wha hoppon?", would lead you to believe there's a really good story behind it. There isn't. There's basically no reason for me to have broken my foot. I was stepping off a sidewalk and my foot slipped. C'est tout.
Here's what I wish I could say:
- I was chasing pigeons
- I slipped in dog merde. Damn French people who don't clean up after their dogs...
- I was helping an old blind man cross the street à la Amélie and a speeding moped ran me over
- I was attacked near Pigalle and stomped on my aggressor's steel-booted instep like I learned in self-defense
- I was so inspired by the American Women's Gymastics Team's success that I decided to cartwheel down the Champs de Mars
- I was running to catch a train in the métro and the door closed on my hoof
- I was taking one of my signature jumping-in-front-of-monument pictures
