Last Friday evening I had a business meeting near the Grands Boulevards. I arrived early and being on Detox, I was feeling weak with hunger. Needing to be in top form, I dashed into a Carrefour City and treated myself to an organic carrot salad, which I wolfed down voraciously in the long hallway entrance of the grocery store before heading back across the street.

The entire mission took less than five minutes of my time, but in that time, an accident had occurred. I did not see the accident, but I saw a body laying across the bus lane, a man in a suit the color of oak. Another man was crouched by his side and I was relieved to see that the accident-ee had been wearing a helmet. A second man stood nearby on a cellphone, while a third was directing traffic. I could not identify it, but there was something very odd about the scene.

In retrospect, I realize that if any of the French folk I know had been involved in an accident, there would have been some serious screaming, involving some very colorful language being thrown about. An agitated fist, or six, would be menacing the heavens above. Friday night, everyone on the scene seemed to be moving, well, not exactly in slow motion, but in no motion, without being perfectly still, either. Not a single voice was raised.

I was very relieved to see that the man had been wearing a helmet. There were enough good samaritans onsite that I was clearly going to be of no help and a crowd was starting to form, so I scurried on by, glad to hear sirens arrive. The accident happened less than 10 metres from the door I had to enter. As I turned to ring the bell, I saw that the man, who seemed to be in his late thirties, had a beard and a disconcertingly large pool of blood under his helmet. The door opened.

I went directly to the first floor and from the conference room I heard a few more sirens, then things seemed to calm down below. When I left the office over an hour later, there were still policemen on the scene. And an odd looking ambulance. Then I saw the curtains. White curtains, hanging on metal poles, forming a neat white cube that seemed to be floating there, not really connected to the black asphalt on which it stood. That ambulance was not an ambulance, it was a morgue truck and the man I had seen was dead.

I did not know this man, nor anyone who did know him. But my heart went out to his family and loved ones as I thought of the ripple effect the loss of his life would have. The man and his death touched me, like haunting waves of air stirred by the flapping wings of butterflies.

I wasn’t going to write this post. But my good friend, Out and About in Paris suggested I should use it as a reminder to everyone to be safe on the street. She is right, and I do so in honor of this man, hoping that if he had to die in a road accident, perhaps the loss of his life would save another, by reminding us all how important it is to pay attention in the street. Cellphones, down, everyone. Heads up.
Please, everyone, listen to The Man and be safe out there!!!