waiting, waiting, waiting

Hospital waiting rooms are pretty much the same all the world over: pastel coloured walls and uncomfortable chairs. This one has a checkerboard on the floor.

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Jules tripped up the stairs in the metro a week ago and has had these impressive bruises on her knees since then. She’s still limping and in pain, so I’m making her see a doctor before we leave Paris tomorrow.

We rang our travel insurance provider and asked for an English speaking doctor close to us. He told us to go to the Hôpital Arnaud Trousseau. We caught a cab. After wondering for some time why all the buildings had animals on them, we concluded that it was a children’s hospital. Fail.

The third person we asked knew of a good adult hospital close-ish, so we jumped in a cab and came straight here. Success!

We managed to convey to the triage nurse that Jules just wanted to have her knees checked. They called her in, but wouldn’t let me go with her! It was just to check her vitals and admit her (she has a Parisian hospital arm band and everything!).

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Now we wait.

They’ve taken her behind a door that has a very imposing ‘accès interdit au public’ sign. When the (very cute) doctor called her I stood up too, and he looked at me but then gave me the ‘you’re not allowed back here’ head nod. At least he was smiling while he did it. How do they manage a pleasant yet forbidding glance?

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She’s out! And alive! No broken limbs, just some bruises. And all done and dusted for €20. Now that’s service.

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