While living in Brussels in the 1980’s we decided, on a whim, to drive to Paris with a friend visiting us from Canada. It was the perfect spring weekend to show him the sites. Two men sitting up front with me lounging in the back enjoying the ride—loving being the passenger.
Upon arrival, we did the usual tourist number, sitting in coffee shops along the sidewalk, sipping cafe allongé and enjoying the joie de vivre—watching the French do what they do best—being French.
The evening’s highlight was supper at Chez Julien, an historic restaurant in the heart of Paris. We were impressed: it was cosy and intimate, decorated in art nouveau style with antique gas light fixtures standing next to small round tables, reflecting in the back wall to wall mirrors—giving the illusion of expanded space. The place was filled with smoke and reverberating conversation. Waiters, wearing uniforms of black pants and white shirts appeared out of nowhere, swirling around, serving us wine while we waited to order. Our Chateaubriand was a delight and the crepe Suzette flambé, an art piece by itself, left us wishing for more. The wine kept flowing as the men were finishing one bottle after another— loving the “s’il vous plait, fill it up” attention. They were feeling quite happy by the time we left.
Test number one was to find our parked car, number two was finding the key which my husband finally located (oh, how did it get there?) in his jacket’s pocket. The men got in the front laughing and singing and I crawled in the back. Unknown to me, we took off for Place Pigalle, the red light district—a request from our visitor. It was our lucky evening—the area was swarming with gendarmes patrolling the streets. One of them just happened to be standing next to our car while we were stopped at a red light. As our windows were down, he couldn’t help but hear the two men belting out another version of “Old Man River.” For some reason he didn’t seem to share their enthusiasm for singing and leaning in the window ordered my husband to step outside the car— which he did with great difficulty. The gendarme shone his flashlight inside and stated in French (the gist of it to the best of our knowledge): “I hope there is someone else in here who can drive or else this car is not going anywhere!”
All eyes were focused on me. I was incredulous —he can’t mean me? How did I get tagged to be the designated driver? I have never driven in France, let alone Paris, where traffic at midnight is like the morning rush hour in downtown New York!
Seething, I got into the driver’s seat and started driving without a map—having only the address of our hotel and the aid of a singing duo. To make things even more challenging, the streets had French traffic symbols standing on every corner with a maze of directions — if only I could’ve understood them! Droit, gauche, tout droit, upside down, inside out, zigzag and a circle, plus some more—enough to leave you scratching your head! There were abundant “roundabouts” (a french favourite it seems) with cars coming from the left, the right and sometimes straight ahead. It was “priorité du droit” and then it was not but most of the time the winner was the aggressive driver coming head on —taking a chance. I was confused and had no idea which way to go. Tires were squealing in front and back, people were waving their fists yelling “merde” (or who knows what) —I didn’t get too much of a chance for an accurate lip read!
It was a close call—we got off easy. There was no more singing in the back, just a sheepish silence. The perpetrators knew they were in serious trouble, judging from my facial expression and the promise that, ” I will kill them, if and when I find my way back to the hotel.” It was time to think about payback—they owed me big time!
They didn’t disappoint me. The next day, on our way home, sitting in the back of the car, I felt like a princess surrounded by fluffed up pillows, holding a gift box in my hand —a silk scarf from Boutique Hermes. I laid back, kicked off my shoes and thought “Ahhhh! C’est la vie!” — as the French would say!
