I return the next morning. This time I don’t have to say a word. The same girl smiles, says “Bonjour,” and shakes my hand as if I’m her favorite uncle. Then she hands me a stamp—sees I haven’t a clue, which you’d think she would have figured out by now—licks it, sticks it to the ticket, puts it in the envelope, addresses it for me, and charges me twenty euros, about $25.00.
“Merci, merci, merci,” I say and walk back to the Poste to buy a postage stamp. I wait in the wedge and get the same lady as yesterday. “Bonjour,” I say, and hand her the letter. She looks at me bewildered. I look at her more bewildered. She hands the letter back to me and says, “Non.”
“No?”
“Non.”
“Pourquoi?”
“Ce n’est pas le bar.”
I’m dumbfounded. She bursts out laughing. “Ce n’est pas le bar.” This isn’t the bar. It’s a joke, she’s making a joke. I put my elbows on the counter, lean down, and demand, “Un bière, s’il vous plaît.” We laugh together, both of us pleased that I got it, then she takes the letter, puts a stamp on it—certain I wouldn’t do it correctly—and charges me seventy-five cents. “Au revoir,” I say, “À bientôt.” I can’t tell if she’s happy about that or not.
The Police
I’m driving home, still thrilled about my success with the Poste lady, when two gendarmes standing on the side of the road point to my Twingo and order me to stop. I’ve been through this before and know what to do. I park and get out of the car like John Wayne.
“Qua,” I say, “qua?”—which isn’t a word. “C’est une problem? Qu’est-ce que c’est.” What? What? What is it? I walk toward them, talking, asking questions, in English and French. As expected, one cop walks away. The other shudders and begins backing up, realizing he’s dealing with a loon. He’s short, square, solid, a Breton who could handle anything—guns, knives, bombs, terrorists, wild pigs—except what I have: English and bad French. He’s out of control, and both of us know it. Desperately, he looks around for his partner, who is now in the pâtisserie, and out of sight. I put out my hand to shake, and say, “Bonjour, Monsieur Gendarme.” Hello, Mr. Policeman. I’m over fifty years old, and I’m addressing him like a three-year-old. He looks at me with hatred, but he’s French and won’t be rude, so he shakes my hand as if I have Ebola or the plague and walks me back to my car. He opens the door, ushers me in, and locks the door before he shuts it and walks away.
I wave and call out, “Merci, merci, au revoir, Monsieur Gendarme.” It’s the last time I’m stopped by the police in Plobien.
My Second Accident
Throughout June and early July I’ve been invited to friends’ homes for dinner, but when Donna arrives the invitations increase: she speaks French and has savoir-faire.
It’s one of those long French dinner nights at Sharon and Jean’s, an evening that starts at eight thirty and ends early at two in the morning, where I drink too much: Ricard for apéritifs; rosé with the chips and crudités; red with the meal; and a homemade Breton moonshine that makes calvados taste like apple juice—a drink strong enough to souse a pig, embalm a brain, and receive open-heart surgery without anesthetic—as the digestif. No question about it, I’m semi-looped, not an uncommon experience for me in France.
“Can you drive?” Donna asks.
“Shore,” I laugh, “and you can’t.” The Twingo is a stick shift, and she only drives an automatic.
We say our au revoirs and à bientôts, kiss cheeks four times, and manage to leave by two thirty. The drive home is short, less than three kilometers, on a one-lane back-country road, a road guaranteed to have no traffic or gendarmes at this time of night, a road I drive every day and know as well as the road to our home in California. Pas de problème. And there isn’t, until we get to the house.
The driveway is gated—like every detached house in the village—and the gate is held in place by two five-foot-high cement posts. I turn into the driveway, and one or both of the gateposts leap in front of me, causing me to destroy the passenger-side mirror and scratch the car from the right front fender to the rear. Compared with the earlier accident, it’s nothing. Added to my earlier accident, I figure next year I’ll be driving a bicycle.
Donna says nothing, having long ago adopted the Japanese (which she is) strategy of silence and waiting. I don’t say anything either. What’s to say? The screech of cement ripping metal says it all, and hearing what I heard, I don’t have the heart to look. I park the car, and we go to bed.
The next day, before Donna wakes, I go outside to see what I heard, and it’s every bit as bad I feared. The mirror’s hanging out of its casing like guts, the scratch is a full-body gash. I know I’m supposed to report it, but I don’t have the nerve to return to the Renault garage and see the look of disapproval on the nice man’s face when he sees what I did to his car. Besides, Donna and I are returning to the U.S. in five days. My plan is to drop the car at the airport and hope they don’t see the damage until we’re over Greenland or Prudhoe Bay. Donna thinks I’m nuts and breaks her code of silence (she’s Japanese-American, after all) to say so.
“You’re nuts,” she says, “Of course they’ll see it. Why wouldn’t they, it’s their job?”
What she doesn’t know is I have a plan: I’m going to tell them a story that will make sense and break their hearts—if anyone asks.
Five days later we return to Aéroport Charles de Gaulle to dump the Twingo and fly home. My plan is to park in the farthest corner of the lot and get out of there as quickly as possible. I turn into the TT car rental area, and a young man who’s lurking near the gate points me to an empty place right next to the office. Donna looks at me, then slides down in her seat. The young man sees the damage, runs to the office, and returns with the papers I’ve already become too familiar with.
To save time, something I’ve never known the French to care about, the lad—Monsieur Felix—completes the papers. He fills them out without saying a word until he gets to the place where he has to explain what happened and show it with a diagram. “Monsieur,” he says, and turns the papers around and hands me the pen. I draw two posts and a gate with the car and three stars turning into the driveway.
Monsieur Felix looks at me, at the drawing, back at me. He’s eighteen years old, and already he’s a critic. No wonder Foucault and Levi-Strauss are French. What the hell do they teach these people in school? I inhale slowly, deeply, and exhale. “Une chien,” I say.
He says nothing.
“Oui,” I say, nodding vigorously. “C’est vrai,” and I point to the three little stars. With much waving of arms and hands and pointing of fingers accompanied by screeching sounds and a bark, I show Mr. Felix how I was driving home very slowly, carefully, about to turn into my driveway when a dog, a baby dog, “un chien bébé,” jumped in front of my car, and I had to turn the wheel into the post to avoid “morte le chien . . . C’est vrai.”
Monsieur Felix looks at me with sorrow and concern. He’s young, serious, sympathetic, responsible, trusting. I don’t want to lie to him or Renault or France. I cross out the three-star chien, sign the paper, and hand it to him, once again honest and guilty at the same time.
He signs the papers, accepts my damaged car, and drives us to the terminal, making sure I get out of the country without getting behind the wheel of another Renault. At the terminal, he shakes my hand and Donna’s hand and wishes us, “Bon voyage.”
The next year I lease another Twingo without a hitch. Since then everything on the road has been fine—c’est normal—probably because I now drive like a Frenchman, which means all of us are uncertain about what to do when entering a rond-point. Cédez le passage. It’s a difficult rule for driving and a daunting rule for life—especially for an American.
10 Things I’ve Learned about Driving in France
1. The car to the right has the right-of-way at all intersections except at ronds-points, where the car to the left has the right-of-way, and at entrances to ronds-points, where no car h
as the right-of-way: cédez le passage, except on the Périphérique, where cars entering have the right-of-way, except for cars exiting.
2. Posted speed limits are a fabrication, except where there’s a sign that looks like a warning for a nuclear disaster: a black dot with three expanding semicircles radiating outward toward a picture of a driverless car and motorcycle. This sign means I’m about to enter a speed trap—and if I’m traveling five kilometers (three miles) over the speed limit, a radar gun will clock me, a camera will photograph me, and I’ll get a very expensive ticket in the mail. It’s like if we tell you there’s a speed trap up ahead, and you are stupid enough to speed through it, you’re going to pay through the nose. Note: the ticket is not for speeding, which everyone does, but for stupidity, which French people abhor.
3. Any open space, no matter how tiny or where it’s located, is a possible picnic area or parking place. If there are trees, bushes, or a wall nearby, it’s also a possible toilet.
4. Along with ronds-points, France has discovered speed bumps. Unfortunately, they are not uniform in height, length, width, or color—and they are moveable. Sometimes it’s a mock bump, red or white wavy lines on the road telling me this is where a speed bump would be if they bothered to put a speed bump here. As soon as I discover it’s not real, I race over it. Most times, though, it is real. I’m driving along and see a sign that looks like a picture of a World War I English doughboy helmet, and before it registers, I’ve cracked my skull on the roof of the car. For some reason only French urban planners understand, the bump is always immediately after the warning sign, and the steeper and sharper the bump, the closer it is to the sign. It’s taken me several head-shots, but I now remember the speed bump on the road under the viaduct near my house. I slow down, ready for it every time, until the time it’s not there—then I speed up. This particular speed bump has come and gone three times, returning to a different place on the road, higher, lower, wider, longer, sometimes made of rubber, and sometimes macadam, surprising me each time with a bump on my head. The last time I was there, it was gone, and I happily raced down the road only to discover it newly placed a few kilometers later when I smashed my head on the roof of the car as I raced down the road to the freeway.
5. Brittany has no toll roads, but the rest of France does—they’re called autoroutes, and they’re expensive, which means I need to carry lots of money when I’m traveling because U.S. credit cards aren’t always accepted. That’s the easy problem. The harder one is which line to get in to pay the toll? My normal American reaction is to race to the booth with the shortest line and smirk—but not in France! In France, the booth with the shortest line has a flashing yellow t over it, and that t means trouble for me. It means an automatic, electronic deduction will be taken from the prepaid card French people have and I don’t. And that’s not the biggest problem. The biggest problem is no one is in that booth. It’s empty—so if through ignorance or mistake, I get in that line, as unfortunately I have, ten, twenty, or three hundred cars will have to back up (as three hundred new cars move forward) to give me enough space to get out of that line and into the line with the flashing green arrow on top, or the picture of a man with a cap, or a picture of something that looks like a ticket. That is the line to be in. For an American, it is diabolical. I’ve composed a mantra so I remember: “the longer the line, the more likely it’s mine.”
6. France illuminates everything except its roads. It’s some of the darkest driving I’ve ever done. Plus, for some reason, which certainly cannot be energy conservation, drivers use their fog lights well into the night, instead of their headlights. People flash their headlights to tell me my lights are on then go back to their fog lights, letting me know (1) they have headlights, and (2) they’re not going to use them.
7. Given Derrida, Foucault, and postmodernists, it’s not surprising that French people excel at signaling. They use their turn signals to indicate intent to pass, actual passing, pulling over, turning left or right, parking, and parked—and they use their headlights to tell you the gendarmes are lurking up ahead or you’re doing something bizarre—like driving in the dark with your headlights on. Once they’ve given notice, however, they’re done. The rest is up to you.
8. I no longer drive on the autoroutes on July 1 (the start of July vacations), July 14 (Bastille Day), July 31 (the end of July vacations), August 1 (the start of August vacations), August 15 (Assumption Day), August 31 (the end of August vacations), or during any period called la rentrée, which in English means ‘See you in September,’ and in French means ‘Don’t even think about trying to drive anywhere.’ For the same reason, I avoid getting stuck behind deux chevaux, Smart cars, or farm implements. For other reasons, I avoid trucks carrying live animals on their way to slaughter. One whiff will tell you why.
9. There are road signs in France I’ve never seen before: a white diamond-shaped sign with a yellow diamond inside means I have the right-of-way; the same sign with an orange diamond inside and a black line through it means my right of way just ended. A triangular sign with a black X on it means no one has the right-of-way, which is the new rule of thumb, or the car to the right has the right-of-way, which is the old rule of thumb. A circle with a red rim means no vehicular traffic. A tiny white sign with the blue or black drawing of what looks like an old box camera means limited parking, and it’s up to me to post the time I arrived on my dashboard. I’m supposed to post it with a free time card (if I can find it) or pay three euros (if I can’t), identify the time I arrived, and leave the card on the dashboard for the police to see. The only way to know this is to get a ticket for not posting the time you parked. I know, because when I got a ticket and said to the policeman, “Porquoi?” he pointed to the tiny sign with a drawing of an old box camera and said, “Regardez.”
10. France has a Good Samaritan law. Every day, in every way, I try harder and harder to be one, because life is better and easier for all when I am . . . The operative word is “try.”
Shopping for . . .
The easiest things to do in the U.S. are often the most complicated in France. Take, for example, showering. For some reason I will never understand, until very recently, most French homes, hotels, B & Bs, gites, and chambre d’hotes had no shower curtains or doors.
In the U.S., I step into the shower (tub or stall), close the curtain or door, turn on the water, adjust the temperature, and enter the cascade, luxuriating in total, wrap-around comfort and warmth. In France, I step into the tub and freeze. In the U.S., showerheads are mounted on the wall above my head—exactly where they ought to be. In France, in an effort to keep the room from soaking because there are no shower doors or curtains, shower heads are set lower and are attached to long, slinky, eel-like hoses that have been unwillingly force-wrapped around the bathtub faucet and temperature knobs. Every time I see one of these contraptions I shiver: literally.
I step into the tub and stand there, knowing what I have to do and not wanting to—and knowing what’s going to happen next: no matter how I sit (lotus-style, with my legs outstretched, or on my cracking, breaking knees) or which way I face (toward the faucet or away), I’m going to drench the room. I’m going to uncoil the eel and drop it or lose control of it with my soapy, slippery hands and before I can recapture it it’s going to jump around like a lunatic frog and soak the room, or I’m not going to drop or lose control of the eel, and I’ll spray water on me, over me, and off me, and soak the room. There is simply no way an American can shower like this and not souse the bathroom.
There’s also no way to shower like this and not freeze. I sit or kneel in that moment’s least of the least uncomfortable positions and spray my left arm, shoulder, chest, face, head, back, while the rest of me goose-bumps, because it’s impossible to wet all of my body at once.
Even today, when more and more places do have shower curtains and doors, for another reason I’ll never understand, they do not fully close. There’s a gap. A planned gap, like if they close 80% of the space it wi
ll be enough! And, if by some miracle of planning or error the door or curtain does fully close, it leaks.
That’s showering. Then there’s shopping. In the U.S., I successfully shop for most things—the more important the item the better shopper I am—and almost never experience buyer’s remorse. In the U.S., I’m a shopper par excellence. In France, I’m subpar, and on really bad days, like the first times I shopped for food, I’m sub-subpar. In fairness, though, it’s not entirely my fault: there’s me, and there’s French people, language, customs, and rules.
Food
As I said, the easiest things to do in the U.S. are often the most difficult and confusing in France. Take, for example, shopping. After I verify the balance in my bank account and withdraw money, I drive to Leclerc, a chain of supermarchés that are France’s answer to Walmart, the French son of Sam, and shop for household items and food.
I know I should shop at the petit marché, from the moms and pops and the locals, where the quality is better, and it’s more interesting, quaint, and politesse. But to shop at the locals you have to speak French. Besides, the locals, meaning Sharon and Jean and Monsieur and Madame P, tell me they buy everything moins cher, cheaper, and soldes, on sale at Leclerc, which is why I’m going there, too, opting for low prices and invisibility above all, especially since I shop by geography and pictures: locate the breakfast cereals; look at the picture on the box; and for the first time in my life pray for U.S. hegemony and General Mills. From the start, Leclerc and shopping have been the scene and circumstance of some of my most stupendous humiliations, surprises, and lessons.
The first time I went to Leclerc, I parked in a football-field-size parking lot and walked toward the longest row of shopping carts I’ve ever seen. Several rows—the straightest rows of anything I’ve seen in France, except for traffic jams and Le Nôtre’s gardens: two rows here, two there, two there, each row with a hundred carts. The good news is the carts are outside, meaning there aren’t six hundred people inside, though the fact that they’re there means they expect six hundred people, and want them, and probably at better times—meaning worse times for me, not one thirty in the afternoon of a beautiful sunny beach day—get them. I make a note of this as I yank a cart and get nowhere. The cart cries out but doesn’t budge. I yank harder. It whines and still doesn’t budge. I lift the rear end by the handle and shake the cart to release it, expecting the front wheels or the carrier or the kid’s seat to come unstuck and discover to my amazement the carts are all chained together—like airport carts or railroad trains or prisoners. No wonder they’re in a straight row.
(Not Quite) Mastering the Art of French Living Page 5
