Thank God for stop-and-go traffic. Something to cut your teeth on. Approaching the cluster of merging cars, I put the car into second, very consciously. It's been a little while. Both for the car-driving and for the manual transmission. So far so good though; no stalls. I am confidence. What was I nervous about? So far, I had only ever ridden as a passenger in cars in France. Or, as a pedestrian, almost been killed by cars in France. French people seem to drive like they walk - step first, look later. Or maybe just more aggressively than in the United States. Like a high schooler; Brand new license ...in public, French people seem to move so... myopically? Aggressively? It's a mystery to me that I don't see people on the sidewalk run into each other more often. Two people, walking toward each other, not acknowledging each other, not willing to adjust course... and then just bump into each other. Then awkwardly shuffle past. A tiny, bizarre moment then move on.
When Americans drive like that, I think they are assholes. Not in general - just on the road.
***
I grin closed-mouthedly over at Rebecca. It's a road trip. We're moving, and I say where and how fast. What freedom means. I really do love public transportation, but... Maybe I'll tell Rebecca that.
"I really do love public transport, but..." Inhaling for effect.
About two hours earlier we had left Jonah's apartment trailing all our luggage and a bag of recycling. Doing our part. We stepped out into the rain and turned right, hugging the awningless buildings for cover. With no wind the rain was falling straight down, and we were getting soaked. I saw the squat, half-dome shaped recycling containers across the street, and coming to a crosswalk I glanced up at the signal to see if the green man symbol was illuminated. It was not... I plodded on. There was sure to be a place to unload the recycling before we got on the tram.
***
I can't remember what it's like to ride a tram in Bordeaux without being minutes from missing whatever it is I'm trying to catch. Teeth gritted, jaw muscles twitching. Fists clenched and unclenched. Curse words muttered, muted; Rushed, harried. Stressed. I'm not used to being so stressed, and I'm silently holding it against my guileless fellow passengers. Where are YOU trying to go? I'm in a hurry here! You... possessed of neither so important a destination as mine, nor so dire a need to arrive there quickly!
***
We spilled out of the tram dragging our luggage and the recycling through the sea of people behind us. It was time to talk strategy. I'm really hoping that this card will work. If not... Dramatic ellipses. Or a phone call to my bank. But that would involve speaking French, which is apparently(?) not something I came to this country, this France, to do. Rebecca hitches up her gigantic backpack, and I grab the suitcase.
***
- Oui.... eu... j'ai un reservation sous le nom de Boyette.
- nD'accord... Looking... looking.... Oui, Mr. Boyette. First sigh of relief, don't overdo it: I still don't know if the card will work.
- Pourriez-vous me donner votre carte bancaire pour que je puisse verifier qu'elle va bien marcher? Here goes.
In what seems like seconds, the clerk returns my bank card, and hands me the keys to the car and my rental contract. Rebecca and I thank her, exit the building, and take our luggage (and the recycling) out to the parking lot. I reach the car first, then turned to look at Rebecca with exaggerated bemusement. Like I was wearily looking "to camera". Like Jim on The Office.
- We got a soccer-mom car, I said. Bemusedly. She didn't hear me.
- What's wrong, does the key not work?
- Oh no, it wor... well, I think so. I hastily pressed the button, and the locks clicked.
- Oh, well, what's wrong? She: Slightly annoyed by the delay for dramatic bemusement in the pouring rain.
- Nothing's wrong. Weirdo.
We threw our bags in the trunk. I stood for a moment, irresolute, grasping the recycling bag. I went to put it in the truck, then stopped. I shut the trunk. We are not bringing this fkn thing with us.
Back across the station.
- So, we need a map, and we need to get some food.
- Are you going to get your Prince cookies? Rebecca teases.
- No, I say, witheringly. Lip-curlingly. The tiny newsstand is packed.
- Can I have that map of France, s'il vous plaît? I looked to my left. The lady behind me was stretching her hand full of euro bills toward the counter.
- Ma'am, I can't reach you; you'll have to wait a moment.
- Well, I can't get any closer because there's a sac down here, she fumes. Looking down, I see the offending sac: My bag of recyclables. Gently I nudge it farther along.
- I'm sorry sir, we can't use a card for purchases of less than five euros. Looking... looking... I need something to make up the difference. My eyes alight on a pack of Prince cookies. Sighing, I reach for it.
- Et cela aussi. This too.
***
Before we left for good, I had to pull the car around to a garage so that the technician could give it a good looking-over. We walked around the car, and then he glanced over my contract. Pointing to a part of it, he went over something very important, in very serious tones.
- ....Do you understand? he finished.
- Oui, tout à fait. Yes, totally.
- What did he say about the contract? Rebecca asked as I climbed into the car.
- I'm not sure.
***
French for "detour" is détour. French for "France by car" is labyrinthe.
***
Having a car for those four days never got old, and it was exhilarating at the very beginning. I kept grinning and glancing over at Rebecca. Then, turning my eyes dutifully back to the road, I piloted the vehicle gingerly yet confidently. I was stoked. There was more to it than just the feeling of freedom. There was another feeling. Contentment. A domestic feeling; In a safe, practical car. It was easy for me to forget the month-ends spent flirting with poverty and ruin. At the start of our drive, I felt... responsible, and mature. Like this was my car, which I'd earned through some successful - though indeterminate - activity. I was a successful twenty-something without having gone through the trouble of being a success. That was my life for four days. Feeling mature, domestic, successful. A rental identity. Rental car, rental feeling.
***
As it turns out, the French are good drivers. At least, they're no better or worse than Americans. Still, as I maneuvered onto the motorway, I clung to my preconceptions of how to survive as a driver in France.
"I have to keep reminding myself to be an asshole," I told Rebecca.
Then again, as someone who indulges as freely as I do in stereotypes about French people, and their driving habits, perhaps it was mere self-flattery to think that I needed any reminding.
Here's our car, and Rebecca, in the mountains:
Next Part: The Pyrhenees!
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