I reached France about six hours later
than I and KLM had planned, thanks to Holland’s friendly neighbours to
the east. I spent a longish day in the lounge of Schiphol (sipping Pastis
to prep for my time in the Provence). Most morning and early-afternoon flights
within Europe were canceled after ground personnel found a WWII bomb under the
C gate. Just after lunch, security closed Schiphol entirely as a Lufthansa
airliner was approaching. From my comfortable chair I witnessed our national
response to an imminent Al Qaeda attack. Code orange was confusing Dutch TSA
officers. The Dutch commando unit in desert camouflage (admittedly, it was a sunny day)
frantically ran back and forth by the Starbucks stand. What to do? Coffee, or
country and queen? Apparently, the German pilot misunderstood descent
instructions from the Dutch tower. This reminds us all of the infamous German
coast guard joke:
Ferry captain calling in: “May-day, May-day,
May-day we are SINKING!!” German coast guard responding: “Okay, okay, okay, but
what are you (th)sinking about??”
We bought a 1998 Honda-CRV for 2000
euros from Alessandro, an Italian researcher from the Galileo school of
astronomy. Alessandro is a deep thinker indeed as he foresaw administrative
hassles ahead: a Japanese car with Italian plates to be driven in France by a Dutch
geologist with a US address. The otherwise stoic French DMV official would
surely flinch this time. Alessandro suggested that I use the car “for the time
being” until all paperwork was sorted out. Time being in this case is five
weeks and counting. He brought the Honda to Nice airport and we said our bonjour, ca va?, ca va bien!, et vous?, ca va, merci!, au revoir. I was thoroughly
pleased with putting Lecon 1 into practice until I discovered that I had
misplaced the parking stub and I would have to pay for the full day’s fare. A frantic search of my pockets, bags, and
Honda came up empty. With only 20 euros in cash I headed upstairs to the gate
hoping that I could sneak out by tail-gating an unsuspicious driver, a trick
that we have rehearsed frequently at the Ann Arbor YMCA. But no such luck. The
barrier of parking lot D7 in Nice airport has no Mediterranean attitude. Fortunately,
the guard at the gate - Fabien, according to his nametag – who is responsible
for the just-in-cases like me, was preoccupied with the Olympic Marseille versus
Toulouse pre-game show. “Excusez-moi de vous deranger, mais mon chien a mangé
mon ticket” (my first full sentence in French!!) was met with a blank stare. However,
“I hope that the French teams will do well in the Champions league this season”
did wonders. He couldn’t be bothered and opened the gate without looking away
from the television.
The
rond-point.
Driving in France is a bit like
downhill skiing. One looks ahead and ignores mirrors.
Moreover, changing lanes is obligatoire. While Americans let off steam in yoga,
spinning and free-weights dojos, the French relieve anxiety and sweat in
traffic. Yet, traffic moves in reasonable
good humour. The round-about (rond-point in French), hailed everywhere
for its safety and efficiency, is France’s most difficult traffic obstacle, the
mogul of the traffic piste. It is where the elite driver stands out. The rond-point serves well as a model for the atom. There
are discreet traffic lanes but Heisenberg urges drivers to go whether they please. When you approach
the rond point, you are reminded that “vous n’avez pas la priorité”. If you play by the rules, it takes 10 minutes and some bravery to enter the
rond-point. The French driver ignores authority and gets on
with life. In my early French driving days (Sep 1-7, 2012), I would maneuver my
way as quickly as possible to the lowest orbit of the rond-point. I would do 360s, 720s, and even 1080s to
catch my breath. Indeed, I was the laughing stock of the rond point, despite my
Italian plates. When I had mustered enough courage, I would turn on my turn
signal (more ridicule!), look over my shoulder (loud laughter!), plan my exit get
out and off I go to collège, sailing school, the
fencing hall, or ping-pong club
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