Tuesday, 26 March 2013

WATCH FOR THAT BUMP IN THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE

BEFORE: Terrorizing the 
mean streets of Backatawn
I'm not usually a superstitious woman. Black cats? Pffft. Walk past me all you want, you're the one that should be nervous! Walk under ladders? Why not? It's a very interesting vantage point from which to view construction workers. The Bermuda Triangle? Whoa. That's another story.

I learned this the way I learn all valuable lessons ... the hard way ... while on a trip to Bermuda on the weekend.
It's a beautiful island, a tiny rugged gem sitting all alone in the vast Atlantic, studded with dreamy grottos, clear turquoise water, pink talcum powder beaches and the friendliest people I've met anywhere.
I had never been to Bermuda and was told that the best way to see it is to rent a moped. They're cheap and fast and so am I, so it seemed like a good fit. 

Thankfully I went with someone who's a seasoned rider, so I got to tour the entire island before I ruined the vacation in the stupidest way imaginable. 
And I'll just cut right to that bit, since my wound is pounding like a bongo as I write this and it's just about time for another hit of dolls or whatever they call those marvelous little pills that smooth the edges off of everything, including your consciousness.
So I was being given a lesson in moped-ing at my hotel, Grotto Bay Beach Resort, during which I went from "I can't! I'm scared! Get me offa here!" to "This is EASY! Get out of my way, I want to go faster!"  in about three minutes. 
And because I was taking to it so well and also because sometimes my stupidity amazes even me, I decided I was now ready for hills.
"Won't my friend be surprised!" I chortled . . . fatefully, as it turns out.

Because as I hit the bottom of the hill, I realized I would have to make my way back UP the hill. But as I turned, I hit the gas instead of the brakes, the moped tipped sharply and I leapt for safety. 
Which turned out not to be safety at all but rather a searing pain, the kind that makes a Charlie horse feel like a caress, the kind that blinds you with agony. 
I hit the ground screaming, rolling around, hollering for my friend. 
"Where IS THAT USELESS sonofabitch?"  I wheezed, right before I blacked out.

AFTER: On the bright side, I always wanted a pimp cane ...


I'm told he rounded the top of the hill moments later and saw a rumpled heap at the bottom of the hill, beside a moped lying on its side, still running.
"Somebody left a pile of garbage right out in the  ... holy shit! Marie! Marie, are you all right?"
Well the answer was obviously, "This is all your fault!" as well as "I need an ambulance! And a drink!" 

To make a long story short, I got both. Bermuda's hospital staff are as marvelous as everyone else on the island, and within hours I was floating out the door in a wheelchair in a haze of prescription painkillers and blowing kisses to the birds and small children and pointing out butterflies that may or may not have actually been there.
Later that day I flew home, fainted on the plane, got wheeled through the airport like a celebrity who never washes her hair, and crawled into my bed. 

I have many other Bermuda stories to tell, but this one eclipsed everything. I'll be out of commission for awhile, but as long as I can sit up in bed and type in the lucid moments between happy pills, I will be posting. So stay tuned. Because if I don't have any lucid moments, this blog will be even more entertaining.