On our first drive into Aix-en-Provence back in July, I accidentally drove our rental van uphill the wrong way up a long, cobblestone street lined with steel stanchions which was barely wide enough for a single car. I was still suffering jet lag and was in a state of severe culture shock (I hadn't had time yet to fully appreciate the unique French approach to driving and was distracted by the chaos unfolding before my windshield) and didn't realize what I had done until I was about halfway up the alley. Just as we managed to interpret the meaning of the "Do Not Enter" sign which I had blithely driven past and the enormity of the situation hit me I glimpsed a narrow slice of blue sky at the top of the hill in front of us and realized, with a pounding heart, that we just might make it after all if the gods smiled upon us. Though if I'd remembered Shakespeare, I'd have remembered that like flies to wanton boys are we to the gods, they tear our wings off for their sport (I'm paraphrasing) and would've been better prepared for what followed. For no sooner had hope flickered fitfully in my breast than a sleek, predatory-looking white sports car tore around the corner and came at us headfirst down the hill. The driver, a grizzled grey-haired guy who looked like a mafioso, screeched to a halt and glared at me in disbelief. I gestured in the universal sign-language of helplessness, hoping to inspire sympathetic understanding, hoping that he would back up just a little bit and let me out, but he just sneered and began driving slowly but inexorably toward us. After all, he was indubitably right and I was equally indubitably wrong, and there were signs all around to prove it. So what could I do? I started backing up. Down the hill backwards, narrowly missing the posts that lined the way (it was a rental VAN, remember), craning my neck, peering from one mirror to another, yelling for guidance from Mike in the back seat, I could see that my antagonist was becoming amused. A crowd gathered to watch. Finally I reached safety, slumped back exhausted in my seat, the spectators applauded (I don't know if they really did but they should have!) and my evil nemesis roared away in a cloud of exhaust, bound for one of Dante's deepest subterranean levels, I hope. I had thought that this nightmarish event would be the nadir of my driving experience while in France, never to be surpassed for sheer horror, but, gentle reader, how wrong I was.
There are 2 garages in Eguilles, Garage A, the authorized Renault service, and Garage B, an independent, somewhat scruffy-looking operation. Garage A had installed a new tailpipe and muffler for us some time ago, which I wrote about in an earlier blog, but it wasn't done right and a rubber gasket-thing kept falling off and the whole car would start rattling like it was in its death throes. I learned how to reattach the gasket, and didn't think it was important enough to take back for repair. Two months ago I had taken our car, a 1996 Renault Clio, to them for an oil change. Because we have to ferry Mike to and from school, it's absolutely essential that we have the car by 4:00 in the afternoon, a fact which I went to great pains to make clear to them. "Oh, sure!" they assured me. "It'll be ready." When I returned I got these surprised looks, as if to say "What? You thought we were serious?", and the information that they hadn't even started yet. So I drove off in a huff. At the earliest opportunity I took it to Garage B. They noticed that the windshield was cracked and that my insurance covered it in full, so they changed the oil and replaced the windshield. Oh good, I thought, a prompt, reliable mechanic. Since it doesn't rain very often here it was a good 2 or 3 weeks before we got in the car one morning after a heavy overnight downpour to discover that the blasted thing was leaking like a sieve. The seats were soaked, the felt-like material on the ceiling was dripping and every time we turned a corner, the centrifugal force caused a spate of cold water to fly out of the compartment on the ceiling which holds the inside passenger lights. When I turned right, the water flew out to the left, and when I turned left, vice-versa. So I kept meaning to take it in but hadn't gotten around to it when, a week ago Friday afternoon (of course! Does most car trouble occur on Friday afternoons, just when mechanics are closing up shop for the weekend? Why, yes, I believe it does.) the car died in the village as I was on my way to pick Mike up. I was able to leave it parked, take a bus downtown, rent a car from Hertz and pick Mike up on time, thereby minimizing the trauma. On the following Monday I had it towed to Garage A, they replaced the battery (and, incidentally, replaced the tailpipe gasket-thing) and I picked it up on Wednesday. The proprietor asked a few gentle leading questions and finally gave it as his opinion that this car was one of the thousands that been partially submerged during severe flooding in Nimes in 2003 and had then been eased surreptitiously onto the used car market. Aha! I had just been reading about this flood, and this revelation explained a lot, like how the tailpipe had rusted completely through. When your car has been up to its door handles in muddy water, there are bound to be problems.
So I paid the man and drove directly to Garage B to have the windshield, which was guaranteed, reinstalled correctly but on the way I noticed that the turn signals, which had always functioned perfectly, weren't working. Friday afternoon (this last Friday) Lois took the rental car to pick Mike up and drive to Aix to return said rental and I went to pick up our car from Gargage B. Windshield done, no charge, no problem. I call her from the middle of dense downtown Aix rush-hour traffic to tell her I'm just a few blocks away and to go ahead and sign the rental back in when - may the sky fall on my head if I'm not telling the absolute truth - I notice the dash lights getting kind of dim and the BLINKIN' CAR BLOODY DIES!!! Right by the entrance/exit to the largest public underground parking lot in Aix, at 6:00 on Friday!! The walls of Jericho would have fallen in 2 seconds flat to the cacophonous blast of horns that rent the evening air when traffic came to a halt and I put my flashers on. Hell hath no fury like a French commuter delayed, especially on the way to the weekend. I was able to push the car a couple of blocks (slightly downhill, thank goodness) with the help of a sympathetic passerby and find a parking spot, where I left it over the weekend with an explanatory note in the window. Fortunately, as I mentioned, I was near the Hertz office, where Lois and Mike had just returned the rental car. I called her and she re-rented the same car and we drove home and had pizza and watched some BBC nature DVD's. (Thanks, Donna and Dennis. We opened the present a little early. Hope that's okay.) Although, to tell you the truth, I was more than a little uneasy watching those innocent, unsuspecting big-eyed prey animals being savagely grabbed and gobbled up by sharks, crocodiles, tigers, wild dogs, etc. Reminded me too much of me at the mechanic's, if you know what I mean. On the drive home we had noticed that Garage A was still open so we pulled in and I told the boss what had happened. He told me to come back in Monday (today) and we'd have it towed in again.
So this morning, after dropping Mike off at school, I returned to the garage and rode with the tow-truck driver into Aix, after he dropped off a mangled Renault Twingo at another garage en route, and we retrieved our car. Frankly, I was pleasantly surprised that it hadn't been towed away by the gendarmes. The driver, Mumu (that's what he said) and I had a great time discussing politics (Mumu doesn't much care for W! Surprise!), kids, cars, and France. By "discussing" I mean he would rattle off a stream of mostly incomprehensible French while I nodded intelligently and then I would respond in broken Franglais to what I hoped he had said. It actually worked out pretty well. Surprisingly, we never got around to sports, although I DID learn that he himself is not a fisherman, but his brother is! By this afternoon the master mechanics at Garage A had determined that it needed, not just a battery, but an alternator and some other mysterious parts the translations of which I can't find anywhere, so I don't know what they are except that they're elements of the electrical system. The car'll be ready on Wednesday. If this doesn't fix it, we've resolved to give it to an automotive school or something and lease a car for the remaining 7 months of our stay. Well, thanks for letting me whine. I mean, "share". I certainly feel better. How about you?
I can't believe I forgot to mention, in the last blog, one of the true highlights of the Mimet village Christmas festival: a version of "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" sung as part of the grand finale by the conjoined forces of the 5 adult choirs which had performed earlier in the evening. When I heard those unmistakable "A-weem-o-way"s, a chill ran up my spine. The words were in French, of course, and we couldn't really understand them, so it wasn't until afterwards that we found a program and discovered that they had actually been singing "Le Lion Mort Ce Soir", which is The Lion Dies This Evening, and which may, for all I know, be the authentic title in its original African language. It would be just like the American recording industry to sanitize it, presumably to protect us from the grim realities.
I read about the death of Peg Bracken, author of the "I Hate to Cook Book" and many others. She and her husband, her 4th, used to come into Wilf's when I was working there and I had the pleasure of waiting on them numerous times, and it was always fun, but one had to be on one's toes. She was very civilized but a real live wire, sharp as a tack, with a roguish twinkle in her eye. I guess former journalists are like that. More recently I had seen her in Powell's when she returned to Portland during visits from Hawaii, where she spent the last few years. I'm glad I got to know her a little.
The photo above accompanied an article in La Provence about a study conducted in Sweden, the astounding result of which is the discovery that Santa, to discharge his Christmas duties (to wit, 2.5 million stops, assuming delivery of toys to all children regardless of country of residency, ethnic background or religious preference) would have to travel at a speed of 5,800 kilometers per SECOND (that's about, uh, let's see, 3500 miles per second). This allows him 34 microseconds at each stop, total, to descend the chimney, deposit the presents, eat the cookies, drink the milk, ascend the chimney, and take off for the next stop. Pretty impressive. I wonder who funded the study. This article appeared next to one about Leona Helmsley's dog, to which she left 12 million dollars, and which eats gourmet food off of silver plates. I know (do I ever!) that the dollar ain't what it used to be, but really!! I guess it shouldn't come as a surprise, though. Leona was always so generous.
We bought a sapin de noel (christmas tree) today. They're pretty dinky and shockingly expensive, at least here in the south (they're imported from Denmark), but it's worth it; it's only been here a few hours and already the living room smells wonderful. Like home. I'll send pictures next time when it's decorated.
Mike and his music class are singing tomorrow at a school christmas fete, then again more formally on Friday, and we've talked about going to Midnight Mass in the village on christmas eve, as well as attending a village christmas carol party at the community center (Salle Georges Duby. I think he was a historian, but I'm not sure.) on Thursday. I'll let you know how things went in the next post.
It's been 2 months since Le Divorce, and President Sarkozy, like the champion fighter that he is, has kept us dazzled with his fancy footwork, feinting here, jabbing there, backpedaling, all the while concealing his true intentions and setting us up for the roundhouse right, which came out of nowhere on Monday. You've probably read about this already, but you can imagine the effect it's had here in La Belle France. He was photographed with the woman who may indeed be the next Premiere Dame of France, Carla Bruni, former supermodel and current singer. (Photographed where? Why, Eurodisney, of course.) This continues the disturbing trend noted in this space ere now of high-level French politicos marrying showbiz personalities. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Clearly they more openly acknowledge the symbiotic relationship between politics and entertainment, which is after all just the newest incarnation of the tried-and-true bread and circuses approach to government. The appearance of the couple promenading through Never-Never Land was quickly recognized as another manifestation of what is becoming acknowledged as Sarko's overarching strategy, or modus operandus, that is, dazzle the unwashed masses with front page gossip while making the real decisions in secret. It's been referred to as publicizing his private life (the "peopleization" of politics) while privatizing the work of government, i.e., meeting with union leaders over lunch instead of in an official public forum. The decisions and agreements reached at these tetes-a-tetes affect the whole country, after all, but coverage of them is relegated to the back pages because the front pages are already full. The media is/are becoming aware that they're being cleverly manipulated and the editorial pages are very colorful lately. I think Carla would make a great first lady because of her what you might call vocational experience. She's had serious relationships with, among others, Mick Jagger; Arno Klarsfeld, the well-known activist lawyer and a friend of Sarko; editor Jean-Paul Enthoven; and then his son, philosopher Raphael Enthoven. How's THAT for a resume'?
I've tried not to complain too much about how cold it is here, but I must mention that an article in today's paper revealed that the French record for consumption of electricity in a 24-hour period was shattered yesterday, which is attributed to the unusual cold spell (or "cold wave", as they say here) we've been having. It's been below freezing for several nights and is expected to reach the mid-20's tonight. The photo below, though horizontal, shows me ready to depart for a jog through the countryside clad in my seasonal athletic garb. No, it's not gore-tex (I'LL show these people a thing or two about style!). Michael refuses to accompany me when I'm dressed like this for fear that someone will see us and... and what? Report us to the fashion police? Snicker in that annoying nasal French way? "I'll tell you what," I tell him. "You get rid of those calf-length camouflage pants and t-shirts with skulls on them and I'll get a new sweatsuit, OK?"
We hope you and your families have a relaxed but exciting, peaceful but festive week-before-the-holidays. Best wishes from our house to yours.
Joyeux fetes!
Lois, Tom and Michael
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