It’s tricky to break a habit you’ve practiced so hard.
We practice our gear changes. We practice looking right, then left. In hopes of adolescent escape, we pore over every detail of the driving manual, learning defensible arguments in case of/for when we get pulled over by the police; spotting our spots, rattling bass and wild eyes from a mile away
I felt like a glitch. The first time I climbed behind the wheel of a car in France, where they drive on the WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD; I was a faulty robot. My arm swiped the air over my right shoulder looking for a seatbelt; my left knuckles grazed the door as I thoughtlessly groped for the gearstick. Do not compute.
I couldn’t switch off those automatic functions, the things I had tried so hard to learn to do.
I slowly drifted towards parked cars. I circled roundabouts repeatedly, trying to muster the courage to exit into the lane every fibre of my being was telling me not to.
And then, years of practice, learning and experience, just like that, was gone.
I could drive, successfully, incorrectly.
I can thank my fellow French road users for my speedy improvement. They relentlessly honked, yelled and raged at me in encouragement; practically nudging me into intersections with coy bumper kisses and cutting in front of me at high speeds to generously show me the way.
And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly parallel park onto the sidewalk, they would save me the embarrassment, swooping in behind me to take the park off my hands.
I mean, wow, guys. Merci times a thousand.
But after all this time – almost a year driving on the roads of France, I still can’t figure out what the pedestrians are trying to teach me.
Every day, I encounter them, with their baguettes (yes, every person has a baguette on them at all times), their low-heeled boots and cigarette clouds. They scuttle around this city, invariably hurried (presumably to get their baguette where it’s going), and completely and utterly impervious to the cars and trucks, with their speed and their weight and their potential killing abilities.
Is it carelessness? Is it coolness?
The French pedestrian does not stop, or look for vehicles before crossing the road. The French pedestrian pauses only momentarily – a pause so slight it can not always be captured by the naked eye – to allow the motorists to slow and stop for them, facilitating their safe passage across the road. Crossing or no crossing; red light or green light. The French pedestrian is fearless. He does not have time to wait for ten or twenty vehicles, filled with twice as many people, or important cargo, to pass.
His baguette loses freshness with every second.
I always slow down for them, begrudgingly. I don’t really have a choice do I? Stop, or hit them; what can I do? They stride with such purpose, thinking nothing of the great divide between safe and happy curb and dangerous, scary road.
They rarely even raise their eyes.
Except before; just before when I drove home. He looked up, already two steps out on to the crossing as I raced off a roundabout (which I now navigate with great confidence, obviously).
His eyes met mine, without a smile or a wave. Just his eyes.
And I knew I couldn’t hit him. No matter how stupidly placed that crossing was, how ridiculous he was for crossing there, or how badly I wanted to mow him down Grand Theft Auto style – at that moment; I couldn’t hit him.
Safely on the opposite trottoir, he sauntered into the distance, phallic bread loaf fresh and proud in his fist.
Bastard.
