somebody grant me the strength to go to work tonight 😭

Gendarme Wants to Give You a Ticket

July 7, 2017

Morning comes earlier than any of us want. Travel days are the worst because moving from one place to the next is work. We could go the easy route. Hire a car. Slam the bags in the back and the bodies in the front and get us to the next way point but this is not travel and teaches the kids nothing. We exit the building and move up the street towards Meromesnil Metro Station. Jumping on the second train because the first is brimming with rush our travelers. No thank you. I am already sweating my ass off in the morning sun and emerging heat. We need to go 14 stops and I am not doing that on top of people with all my shit. We step on, each of us finding a pocket of space for our gear and bodies. I am dripping standing next to a young, well-dressed couple. He is wearing a smart bow tie. I pay him a complement in French; “C’est bon cravate”—nice tie. A moment passes and he asks, “Where are you from?” is damn good English. “San Francisco,” I reply. We exchange pleasantries and talk about Paris, telling him we have visited a few times. “You like this city?” Yes, we like it. I tell him that Parisians have an unfortunate reputation. He nods but I continue, “You have rules. If you don’t follow them, then you are not treated well.” San Francisco has rules too. I bet most big cities do. Knowing the rules unlocks the mystery. It starts with making an effort towards the language. The French truly appreciate when you make an effort to speak their language. American are no different. Most French folks speak decent English, even though they’ll tell you otherwise. Not true. They say same about my terrible French. “C’est bonne!” Your French is good! Not really but thank you. I cannot converse freely the way I would like but I find that the mix of their English and my French is good enough to connect with people. That makes me happy.

The couple are on their way to a wedding. They are Parisians living in London for the last six years as management consultants. They are together six years. I say that Robin and together 26 and married 20 this summer. “Are you married?” I ask. “No,” he demurs. She flashes a smirk. “Have you asked her yet?” I press. “No,” he mutters. She grins again. “Ask her to marry you already, would you?” I push. Robin chimes in, “We were together six years before he asked me.” I nod. The young lady rescues the boy from me by telling him they’ve reached their stop. We exchange smiles and they head off to the wedding they are attending. We have more room on the train now because we are further out from the city center—beyond Zones 1-3.

We come out of the metro and I suddenly realize that I have no idea where the car we’ve leased needs to be collected. I should’ve print out the damn directions to the pick-up location but I did not. I am searching my phone the address and after a few minutes of looking silly and unprepared, I find the paper I am looking for. Voila! I see where it is and orient myself the map on the back of the bus stop. I march us across a large traffic circle and into a parking garage where the pick-up office is located. Inside it is climatized—thankfully, mercifully.

Paperwork and passport out, I make contact with the agent. He is an affable fellow and we talk about MMA and the upcoming fight between McGregor and Mayweather. We think there will be multiple meetings with the two fighters. I get checked out on the car by his colleague and we load up and go. Leasing a car is easy, driving in a foreign country is hard. I’ve now driven in three European countries. Ireland, Italy and now France has made my list of places I’ve driven. The cities are the hardest. You compete as a neophyte with seasoned and grizzled veterans and most often they show now mercy. We exit the garage after a little difficulty and are on the road to Honfleur. We need gasoline. I drive for about 20 kilometers and we pull off at a highway gas station. There it is: Autogrill. That Italian staple that I have written about before. The beacon that shines brightly with its cleanish bathrooms, coffee bar and aisles of snacks. We stop, fill up, pee and get some snacks and waters. Back on the highway, they are aggressive and chaotic in their driving style.

We are on our way to Giverny. Monet’s home for 40 years and the back drop for his most famous painting: The Waterlilies. We exit the highway sooner than we thought but then spend the next twenty minutes traversing the narrow streets of little hamlets as we meander through the French countryside towards his home. The girls are already there having Ubered out to the Charles de Gaulle to collect their rental car. We have been swapping texts since our last metro station. We arrive in Giverny and find the public parking lot and make our towards the visitor center. The girls have walked to the top of the small town to visit the grave of the impressionist master. It is hot. Still. We connect with them on their way down the hill. Bathroom and food is in order. We satisfy the first requirement and then locate a spot in the shade to eat, carrying our food from the café out to it. Salad, quiche, sandwiches for the kids and a small bottle of rose that Robin and I share. We sit and eat. Claire feeds the wandering chickens lettuce from my salad. She earns enough trust to pick one up. We finish the meal. The girls want to see his house and of course the pond. I am done. Driving is stressful. It is hot. I want to leave the beauty of this place for the cool of the coast. Hopefully, it is cool. We don’t leave until we’ve had a stroll through a garden. They are cleverly arranged in single shaded colors. Purples, pinks, reds, etc. Different plants in varying shades of the same color. We stop for homemade ice cream after a short visit to one of the many gift shops for a quick purchase of a postcard and a pretty scarf for my lovely. Red petals on a white background in a very soft fabric. It suits her.

Back on the highway, we are cruising now with our destination plugged in to the vehicle’s GPS. We pass through one toll plaza and another. On the third, I am whistled at by a police officer and motioned to pull over. Fuck. Drink driving laws are very strict in France and my petite glass of rose at lunch has me palpitating. Robin offers a mint. I refuse. The last thing I need to do is call attention to myself further. I pull over and find a parking spot in the small lot as directed. A man on a motorcycle that had been behind me is now off his motor and walking towards me. I am out of the car, documents in hand. Passport, international driver’s license, vehicle registration and insurance papers. I am ready to submit myself to whatever my fate will be. This is my bed but I have no idea how I made it.

Turns out he was a plainclothes gendarme. The tipoff was his small armband with the “gendarme” inscription on it. He had been following me for a bit and when we got to the toll plaza he set the hook. He is irritated. I speak little French and he speaks less English. Perfect. I can play the confused tourist. The young man tells me to wait and marches off to find someone who speaks English. An older gentleman appears. He asks if I speak French. I tell him only a little. He says, “You can’t drive in the middle lane.” What? Everyone is driving there! “You can only pass here,” he continues. I am confused still. He asks me to wait, “I speak for you,” he says. I can sense that he is empathetic and the young one is fired up to write a ticket. He goes and speaks to him. They both return a few minutes later. I am admonished for staying in the middle lane the whole time and instructed once again to not stay there but to use it for passing only. Yes, sir! A day or so later I learn that I would have been fined and expected to pay on the spot. Better carry cash and no more rose at lunch.

That goddam stupid tax raises its head once again. This is the fee for being a tourist or a foreigner in a foreign land. It comes in many forms and this will not be the last of this tax we will pay. We are cruising along and before you know it we are heading over this beautiful bridge. One problem, we didn’t need to go over it. 5,40 euro each way brings our tax to just under $15.

We get ourselves back on track and find beautiful Honfleur. What a spot. Wow. Just wow. Water town, full of friendly people. Yep, this will do and it is a welcome break from the pace of London and Paris. Only thing is that it is still hot! No rest for the wicked. We arrive at our apartment and Louise greets us. She is sweet and friendly. I bust out the French and she accommodates. “Would you like to speak in French? She asks. “Oui!” I say but we still switch back and forth between English and French. She gives us the layout of the apartment and the town makes her goodbyes and heads off. The kids go about unpacking us and I move the car into the narrow street parking spot with 27 point turn. I get the giant Peugot within a couple of inches of the wall and leave just enough room for a small vehicle to pass.

Rani arrives after driving in circles. I had already been downtown for staples, wine, cheese, bread, fruit. We need a bigger shop and part of that is to stop in to the local butcher. I fumble over my French and Sebastian the butcher responds back with, “We can speak in English, if you like.” Yep, I’m tired and I want to get shit done. We settle on these amazing bone-in pork chop. We ask him to hold them until we return from the main grocery. We get that done and then get home to cook. Pork chops coated in fleur de sel trappeur with mushroom and haricots verts and a green salad with butter lettuce as the base.

Dinner completed, we head out for a walk on the town to see what it offers. We find the harbor in time for the sunset and locate a carousel. They kids go for a ride and they are in heaven. When we are done, it’s home to collapse. Long day, again.