by Nicky Gentil
Barely had we left the cabdriver when I turned to my husband and said:
‘I totally agree that it makes sound ecological sense to use public transport. That said, here’s one extremely good reason to take taxis: I always have the most surprising conversations with cabdrivers. Well, perhaps not always. But over the years, I’ve had some pretty memorable ones! And that’s precisely why I’ve been thinking for some time now that they could make a really great subject for a book. One day, maybe…’
*
The piano recital lasted about an hour and, ultimately, we were really pleased we’d forced ourselves to abandon our sun-drenched terrace. In fact, so transported was I by the music that I even forgot my most surprising conversation with the cabdriver.
Or so I thought…
To this day, I would be quite incapable of explaining just what it was about that particular cab ride that galvanised me. What I can say, though, is this: that night my subconscious must have set to work, very hard indeed. And the consequence was crystal clear.
The next morning, in the space of two hours, this book literally ‘wrote’ itself in my head.
Naturally, it took me somewhat longer to put everything down on paper.
What follows is the result…
The Caricature
In June 1987, having just completed a four-year degree course in modern languages, it was with one single goal in mind that I left university. My dream was to pursue a career in translation, but not just anywhere. I wanted to work in Paris.
The road to fulfilling this dream was a little long; in those pre-Internet days, devoid of Skype and communication by email, applying for a job abroad was somewhat more complicated than it is today.
Better late than never, however. Having spent a year surviving financially thanks to a combination of some freelance translation, lots of babysitting and the occasional temping assignment, I finally managed to obtain a much coveted − at any rate, by me! − translation job in the French capital.
I don’t think I shall ever forget the day I got that job. My temping assignment of the moment, for a major property company based in central London, saw me working in a massive open-plan office. And when I announced my good news, the screams of ‘congratulations’ ran from one end of this huge open space to the other in what I can only describe as the verbal equivalent of a truly amazing Mexican wave! Everybody knew just how much I had been dreaming of this job and, that day, they were all eager to share in my unbridled joy.
*
It was not until some weeks later, as the date for my move to Paris approached, that some of my friends (and here it’s important to specify that it was not just English friends, but French friends too) began to express their reservations about the big step I was about to take:
‘Are you really sure you want to live in Paris?’
‘You know Paris is very different from the rest of France.’
‘The Parisians aren’t very welcoming. They’re very distant.’
‘They can be rude and aggressive too.’
In spite of these reactions, my enthusiasm remained undiluted. I longed to live in Paris. And that was that.
*
A few weeks later, at the beginning of October 1988, I arrived in, to my mind, the most beautiful city in the world (and, while I’m on the subject, I’m happy to say that to this day, more than thirty years later, I still genuinely believe it!) to begin – at long last – the new life for which I had so yearned.
Fortunately for me the warm welcome I received flew completely in the face of everything I had hitherto heard about stressed-out, aggressive Parisians. Many of my colleagues displayed, on the contrary, much kindness and generosity towards me, going out of their way to help me find a studio flat and lending me bed linen and crockery until my things were shipped over from England.
In other words, the stereotype associated with the inhabitants of the French capital was turning out to be wrong. So very wrong!
Or so I thought…
*
The stormy weather on that late December evening caused a major delay to my return flight from England, where I had just spent the Christmas break. Consequently, it was around two in the morning when the plane finally touched down at Charles de Gaulle airport.
In those days, I really could not afford to take taxis, especially for a relatively long journey like this one. But, since I had no wish to take the bus at such a late hour, I decided to take one anyway.
During the first twenty minutes of my journey everything seemed absolutely fine, so I happily dozed in the back.
It therefore came as a something of a shock when quite suddenly I heard the cabdriver exclaim:
‘Putain!’1
Reacting in a rather British way to this somewhat inelegant exclamation on his part, I chose not to react, opting instead for a dignified − almost regal if you will − silence.
A few seconds later, my cabdriver therefore decided to up the ante with:
‘Putain de merde!’2
Again, I chose to ignore him, causing his irritation level to rise even higher, as demonstrated by his subsequent thump on the dashboard with a tightly clenched fist whereby he repeated just for good measure:
‘Putain de merde!’
Since I could now no longer ignore him, I tentatively took it upon myself to ask:
‘Monsieur, is there anything wrong?’
‘Yes! Of course there is! Putain! Putain de merde!’
‘What on earth’s the matter?’
‘I forgot to change the zone on the meter! Putain!’
‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand.’
‘Well allow me to explain… There are three different rates – one for Paris and two others depending on which suburb you’re in. Anyway, when you got in the car, I forgot to change the zone. So, you see, the meter is clocking up a rate for the city of Paris, not the suburb, and is therefore displaying an amount that is way too low for this journey!’
With my life currently in this angry man’s hands, naturally I sought to defuse the situation, making him an offer that was − in my humble opinion − most generous:
‘I completely understand how annoying this must be for you. And let’s face it anyone can make a mistake. So, why don’t you tell me what this journey should really be costing me and I’ll pay you that amount, instead of the amount displayed on the meter, when you drop me off.’
Bizarrely, my kind offer only served to make him angrier as he exclaimed:
‘But I’ve no way of knowing, putain! It varies considerably, from journey to journey.’
Now at a complete loss for words, I remained silent until the taxi pulled up in front of my building.
Alighting from the car, I then handed an amount to the cabdriver that was substantially more than that displayed on the meter, still clinging onto the belief that my gesture would appease him. Sadly, though, there was nothing for it. Upon counting the money, he practically spat out another really angry ‘Putain!’ to which I replied:
‘Don’t overdo it, now. I’m trying hard to be generous with you. I’m under no obligation to add anything to the amount displayed. But I’m doing it anyway, to help make up for your mistake.’
My words did little to calm him down. Quite the opposite in fact!
‘But you’re forgetting the suitcase. Putain!’
The rule has long since changed but, in those days, cabdrivers used to charge a supplement for suitcases. However, since at the time I rarely travelled anywhere by taxi, I had absolutely no way of knowing this. Consequently, my ‘generous’ increase was actually anything but in the eyes of the cabdriver. As I subsequently found out, all I had added was in fact the mere equivalent of the additional amount owed for my luggage!
All of a sudden this scene taking place before me, in the street in the middle of the night, with, as its mai
n player, a man who was the very caricature of every description I had ever heard of aggressive, stressed-out Parisians, struck me as quite ridiculous. To the extent that I could not help but burst out laughing which, as far as my cabdriver was concerned, was evidently the worst thing I could possibly do.
With his already high level of anger seriously on the rise, in response he grabbed my suitcase and tossed into it the street before screaming out one last ‘PUTAIN DE MERDE!’ for the road!
*
Luckily, this type of exchange with Parisian cabdrivers – however ‘entertaining’ it may be − occurs only very rarely.
On that note, I now invite you to discover the tale of a somewhat more amusing cab ride…
The Tease
I live on an avenue in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris.
Well ‘avenue’ is in fact saying a lot because in reality the road is quite narrow − just fourteen yards − and only two hundred and sixty yards long. To put it in perspective, that avenue generally referred to by foreigners and Parisians alike as ‘the most beautiful avenue in the world’ − in other words the Champs-Elysées − measures seventy-six yards wide and some two thousand and eighty yards long!
Be that as it may, it is not so much the (in my view inappropriate) term of ‘avenue’ that poses a problem as the actual name of the street itself, because, as luck would have it, this name sounds very much like that of another avenue in the exact same arrondissement. Furthermore, this ‘other’ avenue happens to be genuinely worthy of the term because it is much bigger and, above all, extremely well known. The real thing, if you will.
For the purposes of this tale, let’s imagine, that my avenue is called the Camps-Elysées. Do you see the problem now?
Over the years, I have observed that whenever I take a taxi to go home, the conversation can go one of two ways.
Conversation A goes something like this:
‘You want to go to the Camps-Élysées? Sorry, never heard of it! The CHAMPS-Elysées, now there’s an avenue that everybody knows. But the Camps-Elysées, well, frankly, I don’t know what you’re talking about…’
Traditionally, at this point, the cabdriver will look at me as if I’m some kind of madwoman! After all, EVERYBODY has heard of the Champs-Elysées, haven’t they? So how could anyone possibly get this name wrong?
This is my cue to convince the cabdriver that I know exactly what I’m doing by giving the following details:
‘I’m quite sure you do know the avenue to which I’m referring. It starts at the crossroads of street X and goes all the way up to avenue Y.’
‘Mais oui! Of course I know that avenue. I know it well. I take it almost every day. So that’s what it’s called? Avenue des Camps-Elysées! Really? Well, well, well! You learn something every day. And today, you’ve really enlightened me. So thank you. Thank you very much. Avenue des Camps-Elysées it is then.’
Conversation B, on the other hand, goes like this…
I get in the taxi, announce my address, and the cabdriver sets off without questioning it.
I therefore have to check that he’s understood correctly:
‘Monsieur, can I just make sure we’re clear on this? I want to go to the Camps-Elysées.’
‘Yes, yes, I know you do. I heard you. You want to go to the Champs-Elysées.’
At this point, I risk offending the cabdriver − who is already sorely tempted to add something along the lines of ‘Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?’ − because I am now obliged to insist, emphasising the name of a destination that, as far as he is concerned, does not require any emphasis whatsoever! And that is why, here, it is wise to proceed as tactfully as possible:
‘That, Monsieur, is precisely my point. I’m NOT going to the Champs-Elysées. The reason I want to make sure you’ve understood the exact name of my avenue is because it really is called the CAMPS-Elysées. Do forgive me for pointing this out. I’m merely trying to prevent you from making a classic mistake.’
Conversation B can now continue, in much the same way as conversation A, to conclude with:
‘Mais oui! Of course I know this avenue. I know it well. I take it almost every day… etc.’
Since I have lived at the same address for a good ten years now, every time I take a taxi home the conversation is practically a reflex, as if the sentences are pre-programmed in my mind. All I have to do is press a mental button − A or B according to how the cabdriver reacts upon hearing my address − and the set phrases pop out without my even needing to think about it. It’s always like that.
Well almost…
One day, when, upon hearing the name of my avenue, the cabdriver remained silent and just started driving, naturally I thought we must be going for Conversation B.
I thus pulled out the appropriate stock question:
‘Monsieur, can I just make sure we’re clear on this? I want to go to the Camps-Elysées.’
To my surprise, the cabdriver’s response was again one of silence.
Somewhat taken aback, in a bid to obtain any kind of verbal reaction, I now decided to volunteer a mere:
‘Monsieur?’
But the response remained steadfastly the same. Silence. This time, deafening.
Well, if that’s how it’s going to be, let’s go with silence, I thought to myself.
And that is how this particular cab ride started – with me feeling rather irritated. After all, I had taken the necessary precautions to ensure my cabdriver did not fall into the classic trap. So now all I had to do was sit back and let him get on with it. And if he did go to the wrong street, the mistake would be on him.
That day, however, there was no mistake. On the contrary, I was surprised to see that the cabdriver was going the right way without requiring any directions at all from me.
It turned out there was a very good reason for this.
As the taxi approached the crossroads that marks the beginning of my avenue with the problematic name, the red traffic light could not have come at a better moment. The fact that the cabdriver had to stop the car meant that he was now perfectly placed to savour the delicious moment. Delicious, that is, as far as he was concerned!
Turning to me, with a massive teasing grin on his face, he said:
‘Madame, I happen to know this avenue VERY well indeed.’
‘Really?’
‘REALLY!’
‘How is that?’
‘You see that building just there?’
The building he was pointing to was the very first one, number one in fact, on my avenue.
‘Well, the thing is, that’s where I was born! There. Just opposite. In that very building! So, you see, how could I possibly not know this particular avenue?’
Thrilled to have scored such an amazing point, the cabdriver was unable to contain his smile – a smile so wide that it spread from ear to ear, rendering it clearly visible even from where I was seated in the back of the car. It was, moreover, a persistent smile for it remained firmly on his face right until the moment he pulled up in front of my building.
That put me in my place!
Another Tease!
It was a good while before I realised that the cabdriver was going in completely the opposite direction of where I needed to be. Worse still, it was all down to my poor instructions.
Without further ado I explained my mistake, whereupon the cabdriver could not resist having a little ‘I told you so’ moment:
‘And yet, you must admit, I did ask you if you were absolutely sure.’
By way of an apology, I tried to make light of it:
‘I know. I’m sorry. But what can you do? It’s well known that we women have no sense of direction. We may have many other truly great qualities but, sadly, we don’t have that one.’
The cabdriver, however, managed to go one better.
‘What?
You women? No sense of direction? Are you kidding me? On the contrary, I’d say you all have highly developed skills in that department! Especially when it comes to relationships − a fine example, if ever there was one, of how the female species tends to do all the directing! Wouldn’t you agree?’
Now how could I possibly argue with that?
The Beginner
Sometimes, I come across a cabdriver who is just starting out. Obviously, everyone needs to start somewhere. The tale that follows, however, clearly demonstrates that there are beginners and, well… beginners!
*
Our cabdriver’s response to the name of our destination – la rue Saint-Louis-en-l’Île − situated in the heart of Paris and known to all, was most unexpected:
‘Where’s that?’
Acknowledging the look of surprise on our faces, he added:
‘I’m so sorry. It’s my first day.’
My husband, being not only Gentil by name but also gentil3 by nature, immediately proceeded to put him at ease by replying:
‘Don’t worry. Everyone needs to start somewhere. But you’ll see, it’s really easy. It’s the street that goes right down the middle of the Île Saint-Louis.’
‘Where’s that?’
This left my husband speechless. So I decided to take over:
‘Well, that’s really easy too. The Île Saint-Louis is just behind Notre Dame Cathedral.’
Sadly, in spite of our best efforts to help this young beginner, his answer came back, for the third time, in the form of exactly the same question:
‘Where’s that?’
No comment.
Postscript
Having ended this particular tale with the words ‘No comment’, I now feel inclined to do just the opposite because translating this piece from my original French manuscript turned out to be a particularly poignant exercise for me. I wrote the English version just one week after watching in horror – like countless other people – as Notre Dame Cathedral was engulfed and considerably ravaged by flames.
