There are many ways to wake up in a Parisian hospital: birds chirping, medical equipment coughing, and nurses rolling their carts down the hallway.
Or, in this case, a completely naked redhead standing by your window, studying the morning fog.
I was a few days into recovery from my first hip replacement in 2023, at a physical rehab facility north of Paris. The place had already shown its approach to patient care: avoiding it. Pain medication arrived like French transit strikes. They had told me there was privacy, but not if that meant you wanted keys to lock up your passport or computer, or even your door.
Back in my room, I blinked hard. He remained still and nude, as if this was a normal morning habit.
“Bonjour,” I offered. Seemed like a reasonable thing to say to an uninvited naked stranger in my bedroom.
He turned for a moment and regarded me with the blank expression of someone thinking about some other time or place. Then resumed his weather watch.
My new titanium hip prevented dramatic escapes, so I decided to try to get him to talk. I tried French, then English. I asked if he needed assistance or a nurse. His responses consisted of incomprehensible muttering that offered no insights.
I was praying for the nurse, hitting the alarm button uselessly time after time, when he marched over and grabbed my bag of oranges.
What followed was one of the more surreal food fights of my adult life. He began pelting me with citrus fruit. One orange. Then another. Each throw accompanied by that same blank stare, like he was conducting some experiment and I was the test subject.
“S’il vous plaît, monsieur — non!” I protested, catching oranges with both hands and stashing them around me.
Apparently, that wasn’t having the desired effect, since he grabbed the entire bag and dumped the remaining oranges over my head like confetti. I picked them up, watching him retreat to the doorway to observe the results.
He looked curious about what I would do next. Hell, I was curious about what I’d do next.
That’s when inspiration struck. I pulled out my phone and began typing notes. I hummed the mandolin solo to “Shady Grove” — that song was stuck in my head that day — as I documented the encounter. If I was going to be subjected to performance art, I might as well write about it. I even smiled and nodded encouragingly.
After a last stare, he shuffled away down the corridor. Still nude, still silent, still carrying himself with the dignity of someone who had completed an item on his to-do list.
Forty-five minutes later — record response time for this establishment — a nurse finally answered my emergency call.
“What is your problem?” she demanded. Not even a bonjour.
“Well,” I began, “there was a naked man throwing oranges…”
She scanned the room, noting the distinct lack of naked men. Her assessment: “I don’t see him now! Don’t call us if you don’t have a real problem!”
She stormed off, and I was alone for many hours until the next meal, which would also be served cold and late.
It was nearly impossible to get this image out of my mind… Where did he come from? Was this normal here? Why hadn’t I seen him elsewhere? Was this place also for mental rehabilitation along with the physical clients like me?
This just underscored how helpless I felt, unable to walk, denied private space, subject to whoever would walk in next. I was ready to escape.