It’s Saturday in France; in Tours, to be more precise.
I’ve lost about half a day, somewhere, in my circadian rhythm, mostly desiccated (along with my nose and throat linings) in the A320 over the Atlantic, I’m sure.
I had a bit of kerfuffle getting to the airport in Seattle and then getting out of the airport at Roissy-Charles de Gaulle. For one thing, it always takes me a while to get to know a new clutch’s feel, so I hop and jerk about at least long enough to give the rental guys alternate hysterics and panic attacks. I'm driving a tiny Fiesta I've named Le Lapin Gris, and my sat-nav is a posh English cow I call Jill.
.
I admit I was white-knuckled part of the time in traffic getting around Paris. And it seems like I was only in the industrial part—which went on for many, many kilometers. At one point I thought I must be passing over a garbage dump that hadn’t been processed since Mitterrand’s presidency; the stench was enough to peel your skin.
And then there were the motorcyclists—who are apparently legally allowed to whiz between two lanes of traffic with the urgency of carrying orders from Garcia. They can do that in California, too; but here I swear the highway lanes are narrower and there’s nothing like trying to shift gears smoothly in an unfamiliar car, follow the instructions of that sat-nav cow and then suddenly seeing some two-wheeled maniac coming into your side vision (since cars are too close behind you to give you any rear view) about 7 cm off your side mirror, just as he’s scooting ahead.
So, by the time I got to Chartres, if I hadn’t already had the intention of laying down my burdens, I would have laid down the burdens of travel and French drivers. (Apparently it’s illegal to let someone signaling a lane change into traffic in front of you; but you do get extra points if you jump in ahead of someone else who’s committed the cardinal error of leaving half a car-length of space in front of her.)
The Chartres experience requires its own post(s); it was so intense and I’m still absorbing it some. Let me just say: that is some special space, sui generis.
Right now I’m doing the unheard-of (for me): lingering in the breakfast room & not doing anything (except writing this, which I’m about to stop). As soon as this post hits the web, I’m officially back to living in the moment.
This magic is starting to work already.
2 comments:
I first drove in Paris in 1958, and after two years of driving a francaise in Saigon it was a delight. The French in those days had only one traffic rule: the vehicle on the right has the right of way. My next trip to France, after almost half a century's absence, was a terrifying eyeopener to automotive progress, and my three drives between Charles de Gaulle and our midtown hotel are probably still remembered vividly by some of the French drivers who encountered me along the way. Since then we always pick up the rental outside of one metropolis and return it to the next nearest dropoff point to our departure terminus. And I would never dream, nowadays, of trying to drive a stick shift through any French city.
I've been providing amusement on the highway, in parking garages & along teeny-weeny streets. I wanted to put a sign in the rear window: idiote Américaine. I don't recall having this kind of problem on my last couple of road trips here, including one with my British company car. It may be the onset of decrepitude.
Post a Comment