About a month ago, I met and rode mountain
bikes with Franz Schneider for the first time. (I’d contacted him through his terrific
mountain-bike website, biker.lu.) Franz bike commutes to work and he made a plan
for us to meet up on his way home in Strassen (Stroossen
in Luxembourgish), a neighboring town about three miles from my
Luxembourg apartment. We’d ride to his house and, after he changed clothes and
bikes, spend a couple hours riding the trails and dirt roads of the Strassen
Forest. Sounded good to me.
So we meet up, chitchat a little while
riding and, just after pedaling into Strassen, we pass what appears to be a
drunk (or dead?) guy lying in the grass next to some bushes at the side of the
road. My initial thought is: “Interesting. I didn’t think Luxembourg had
drunkard-slash-junky-looking folks lying around, but I guess they do.” At the
time I’d been in the country for two weeks and hadn’t yet seen anyone like
this. And then, truthfully, I didn’t give the guy another thought. (If I had stopped to think about every dubious-looking
character I saw lying in the grass at Maritime Heritage Park on my way home
back in Bellingham, I’d have never made it home.)
But Franz is clearly alarmed. He skids to a
stop, gets off his bike and approaches the guy. A bus driver pulls over, jumps
out of his bus to see if he can help. A passing motorist stops too. Franz tries
to rouse the guy but he’s not moving at all. I’m sure he’s dead. Wow, my first
dead guy, I think to myself. Welcome to Luxembourg!
Soon enough, the guy starts moving around,
gives a big exhalation of breath whereupon the air all the way from Strassen to
Luxembourg reeks of booze. He tries to stand, plants his feet wide apart for
balance and looks right at me. He says something that has great meaning to him
in Drunkenbourgish and then keels over and passes out again.
It’s cold, a damp 35 degrees that chills one
to the bone, and so Franz and the bus driver are concerned that the guy will
freeze to death. Franz dials 112 for an ambulance to take the guy to the
hospital. Ten minutes later an efficient team of EMT folks arrive and herd the
guy into the back of their vehicle. Addi, my drunken friend!
All I can think of is the two emergency
room visits I had in recent years—for facial lacerations when a tree fell on
me; a broken collarbone—and how they each cost me more than $1,000. And that’s
with insurance and without an ambulance ride to get there.
Back on our bikes, Franz and I continue on to
his house. I ask him if the drunk guy is going to have to pay for his
treatment. He wasn’t sure, but he didn’t think so.