I'm trying not to brag. I don't want to make all of you jealous of my fast-paced, eclectic lifestyle. But this morning I came quite close to witnessing an international incident.
There I was, on the blind, uphill curve so dearly loved by road walkers in this county, when I spied him over the crest of the hill. He was a lithe, gangly man riding a bicycle with traffic. That meant he had no idea what kind of vehicle was about to obliterate him from behind, nor the speed of his imminent demise. Not that he cared. He pedaled, with white-leather-tennis-shoe-clad feet, nonchalantly down the middle of the blacktop lane, his slim legs encased in acid-washed skinny jeans, torso hugged by a skintight black turtleneck, close-cropped gray locks topped by a jaunty black beret. I swear I heard him singing Alouette. I am surprised he was not toting a canvas bag containing a small wheel of Camembert, with the end of a baguette poking out the top. He was happily ignorant of the long, open-trailer semi loaded with rock bearing down on him.
I passed Jean Paul Pierre, then the oncoming truck. A quick glance in my mirror showed no evidence of brakes being applied. I had to take another route home this evening in order to stop at the dead-mouse-smelling post office. I know not whether there was a smear of French cheese on the roadway. I'd like to believe my fleeting foreign friend survived.
Alouette, gentille Alouette. Alouette, je te plumerai.