I must admit after almost ten years of being married and two little girls, it’s always nice if a man notices me. There are lots of ways to get a woman’s attention. Different cultures have different ways of doing it though some tactics are just plain universal.
Today, after getting off a crowded tram, an African guy (not African like we say in the US, I mean born in Africa and still speaks his own dialect) looked at me indiscreetly up and down and said, “Bonjour,” emphasizing the “jour” sound and making me smile. I didn’t look at him but it made me laugh. I don’t know if guys in Africa act like that or if they reserve that behavior for France or just European girls. I’m sure if he did that to an African chic, she’d give him a look that would kill him and anyone else in her view.
One time, an African guy literally hung out the window of his apartment and asked me if I’d like to go up and join him for a coffee. This is light and fun comedy! These tactics might not bring in high sexual returns but at least these fellows are getting the ladies to smile.
French men do not give anyone the time of the day, they’re like gay man except they aren’t gay, well not all of them. Although they act as though they are not interested, they do steal a look when no one else is looking. I have no idea how these guys operate or get laid. They will only look indiscreetly at a woman if she is a bimbo.
I love watching men watch women. When a whorish woman walks by, men automatically turn their heads as if being pulled by an invisible thread. I love it. Great stuff. Women naturally look too but their look is more of disgust whereas; a man’s expression doesn’t change much. He could just as well be watching a bird peck at some seeds. So, I don’t know what is going on in their heads, but I do know some gears have shifted up there (and down there too). Are they really as visual and sexual as people say? Do they imagine the woman who just walked by, naked, bent over, doing her doggy-style? Please do not enlighten me, I don’t want to know.
Other tactics men do which seems to be reserved for men of North African descent, not to be confused with what the French call Black Africa, is the infamous whistle. Not the Bugs Bunny cartoon saloon-type one or the kind you train your parakeet to do. No. This is a high-pitched, ear piercing one you use at sporting events or to call your dog. And just to side-track here a second, do you remember Bugs Bunny when he would dress as a woman and walk into a bar and the dogs or men would all of a sudden go berserk and whistle, bang their fists on the table and their heads would get all big and steam would come out of their ears? What was that? It’s truly demented. Getting back to the ear drum puncturing whistle, if you have experienced this then you know how degrading and unnerving it is. Once, I got so mad, I went right up to the guy who did this and whistled in his face. I don’t remember how he reacted but it seemed like the perfect thing for me to do at the time.
Look, I understand that most North African men might not be used to seeing free-flowing hair and tight fitted jeans since they do come from Muslim countries. Let’s put it into perspective. Say I lived in the United Arab Emirates as a woman and for years all I saw were men covered from head to toe in loose fitted white clothing, which is really how they dress. One day I see a hot guy wearing jeans and his hair blowing in the wind. I would probably let out a noise or two. But, after a while the novelty would run out, wouldn’t it? Frankly, I don’t think this particular whistle has anything to do with a man’s level of European women exposure. And, out of all the ways to pick up a woman, the whistle is by far the strategy with the lowest returns in my portfolio. Any of you men out there with positive affects from whistling? Is that how you met your wife?
And what about the car honking? Men, please tell me what you want! I don’t know. Are you just acknowledging us? Do you want us to smile and wave? Do you want me to drop my bags and run after your car? Maybe jump a taxi, “Follow that honking car! I’ve been waiting for a honking man my whole life!”
You all know you’re driving by too fast for us to even see you, right? So, why do you honk? Is it like some reflex – you see someone sexy and your hand automatically jerks up and hits the horn? Say something at least after you honk, “You’re hot! I wanna do you!” Seriously, guys, we’d like that. (At least I would). The “beep beep” holds no merit by itself, spice it up and get a little feisty! Maybe, just maybe, you’ll get lucky.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Driving in France - Part X
I was running out of time to take my driving exam and didn’t know what to do. The driving code is only valid for two years. I decided my best bet was to register at a school where I could drive an automatic car. This would at least get rid of the whole stick shift distraction and let me concentrate on more important things. I found the only driving school that had an automatic car. It was a school that catered to handicapped students. I explained to the driving instructor, an older man with as much enthusiasm as a math teacher, that I had little time left and had been driving an automatic car for many years. We began classes in a car fit with knobs and gadgets for people who only had use of one hand.
During our first couple classes, I was nervous and overly insecure from my past experiences. But soon I relaxed and absorbed everything my teacher said. He knew exactly what needed to be done to succeed the day of the exam. He took me to the areas where the exams almost always took place so I would be familiar with every round-about, every intersection, every tricky turn.
The day of our exam, we were three. A woman who looked to be in her 40s who had a lame right hand, a young guy in his twenties who also had little use in his right hand, and me an American with full use of both hands. We were in the car on our way to the exam.
Being superstitious, earlier that morning I forced my 4 year old daughter to make a good luck drawing for me and repeatedly asked her, “Do you think Mommy is a good driver?” To which she would answer every time, “Yes! Mommy is a good driver.”
I also pocketed a tissue overly sprayed with rosemary oil for concentration and lavender for staying calm. I inhaled until I was dizzy. The entire car was filled with my potent oils. Generously, I offered it to my two friends to inhale. They declined.
The whole way to the exam, our teacher pointed out all the one way streets and things to remember. We listened with dogged breath. We arrived at our starting place which happened to be a parking lot in a cemetery which I thought was ironic. As we approached the parking lot, a stout middle-aged woman with short hair and hiking boots waited in the parking lot with a clip board.
“Oh, no," our trio groaned in unison.
“What?,“ asked our teacher. “Don’t worry. She looks tough but she’s very fair.”
The young guy had to go first which left me and the woman alone. She chain-smoked and furiously went over the driving rules out loud. She had grey streaked hair.
“I’m 24,“ she said.
“Ohhh,” I said thinking she looked almost 40.
“Yeah, I know. I look a lot younger than I am. People always think I’m 18,“ she said.
“Oh,“ I said again wondering who those people were.
She went next and then it was my turn. I got into the car and felt calm. The woman asked me if I was handicapped in any way.
“No, I’m American,” I said. Boy, that came out wrong. “I’ve been driving an automatic since I was 16 years old,“ I added to clarify things.
“I see. And you don’t want to change your ways?,” she asked giving me a sideways glance.
“I’m just more comfortable with an automatic,“ I said.
“Okay. We’ll let’s do it.”
We left the parking lot. I managed to remember everything necessary to appear as a good driver. As we got onto the round-about, however, I missed my exit. Instead of panicking, braking and trying to get off the round-about, I stayed calm and with the most class a dame could muster I said with poise, “Oops, I missed the exit. I’ll just go around again and do it right.” I couldn’t have been prouder of how I handled the situation.
The exam went on fairly smoothly though I did make some mistakes. I kept my cool and fairly she gave me several second chances to amend my mistakes and I did.
She shook my hand and asked me to get out of the car. I had no idea if I had passed or not, but at least it hadn’t been a horrible time. My comrades and I watched the examiner and our teacher talk for a while and then they shook hands, she went her way and our teacher told us to come get in the car.
He told us we wouldn’t have our results for at least 24 hours. The examiners no longer give the results in person because too many students had over-reacted.(Oh, how I understand this new rule!) But, he said he was certain we all passed. And, I’m happy to report my teacher was right. I passed my driving test!
Cheers all around! I was so happy I sent text messages to the world and because it is so hard, everyone was congratulating me as if I had just been elected mayor of the town hall.
And that, folks, concludes my Driving in France stories.
During our first couple classes, I was nervous and overly insecure from my past experiences. But soon I relaxed and absorbed everything my teacher said. He knew exactly what needed to be done to succeed the day of the exam. He took me to the areas where the exams almost always took place so I would be familiar with every round-about, every intersection, every tricky turn.
The day of our exam, we were three. A woman who looked to be in her 40s who had a lame right hand, a young guy in his twenties who also had little use in his right hand, and me an American with full use of both hands. We were in the car on our way to the exam.
Being superstitious, earlier that morning I forced my 4 year old daughter to make a good luck drawing for me and repeatedly asked her, “Do you think Mommy is a good driver?” To which she would answer every time, “Yes! Mommy is a good driver.”
I also pocketed a tissue overly sprayed with rosemary oil for concentration and lavender for staying calm. I inhaled until I was dizzy. The entire car was filled with my potent oils. Generously, I offered it to my two friends to inhale. They declined.
The whole way to the exam, our teacher pointed out all the one way streets and things to remember. We listened with dogged breath. We arrived at our starting place which happened to be a parking lot in a cemetery which I thought was ironic. As we approached the parking lot, a stout middle-aged woman with short hair and hiking boots waited in the parking lot with a clip board.
“Oh, no," our trio groaned in unison.
“What?,“ asked our teacher. “Don’t worry. She looks tough but she’s very fair.”
The young guy had to go first which left me and the woman alone. She chain-smoked and furiously went over the driving rules out loud. She had grey streaked hair.
“I’m 24,“ she said.
“Ohhh,” I said thinking she looked almost 40.
“Yeah, I know. I look a lot younger than I am. People always think I’m 18,“ she said.
“Oh,“ I said again wondering who those people were.
She went next and then it was my turn. I got into the car and felt calm. The woman asked me if I was handicapped in any way.
“No, I’m American,” I said. Boy, that came out wrong. “I’ve been driving an automatic since I was 16 years old,“ I added to clarify things.
“I see. And you don’t want to change your ways?,” she asked giving me a sideways glance.
“I’m just more comfortable with an automatic,“ I said.
“Okay. We’ll let’s do it.”
We left the parking lot. I managed to remember everything necessary to appear as a good driver. As we got onto the round-about, however, I missed my exit. Instead of panicking, braking and trying to get off the round-about, I stayed calm and with the most class a dame could muster I said with poise, “Oops, I missed the exit. I’ll just go around again and do it right.” I couldn’t have been prouder of how I handled the situation.
The exam went on fairly smoothly though I did make some mistakes. I kept my cool and fairly she gave me several second chances to amend my mistakes and I did.
She shook my hand and asked me to get out of the car. I had no idea if I had passed or not, but at least it hadn’t been a horrible time. My comrades and I watched the examiner and our teacher talk for a while and then they shook hands, she went her way and our teacher told us to come get in the car.
He told us we wouldn’t have our results for at least 24 hours. The examiners no longer give the results in person because too many students had over-reacted.(Oh, how I understand this new rule!) But, he said he was certain we all passed. And, I’m happy to report my teacher was right. I passed my driving test!
Cheers all around! I was so happy I sent text messages to the world and because it is so hard, everyone was congratulating me as if I had just been elected mayor of the town hall.
And that, folks, concludes my Driving in France stories.
Driving in France - Part IX
Unfortunately, Boo Boo decided I was not ready to take the driving exam again. He refused to sign me up and said I needed to take lessons awhile longer. This was a very dark moment. I agreed to take five more lessons even though he said he was not sure five would be enough. Each lesson, I felt like I was getting worse. After the fifth class, I demanded he sign me up for another driving exam.
“Okay, but when you don’t pass, I do not want you to hold me responsible. You need to promise me that you are not going to come back and say it’s my fault when you fail because I do not think you are ready.”
“Fine," I said completely deflated. “I won’t blame you if I fail. But I’m not taking any more lessons.”
“That’s a mistake,” he said.
The date was set and the day arrived. As we pulled into the parking lot where the exam begins, we saw a woman examiner waiting for us in a mini-skirt and high heels.
“Oh, no,” said Boo Boo’s fiancé. “It’s her. It’s the bitch.”
All the hope I had drained from me. From the time I got into the car, from the moment she took control of the steering wheel at the end of the exam as we pulled into the parking lot in front of my comrades, was utter anguish. Never in my life have I been belittled more than during those thirty minutes I spent with her.
After every move I made, came a question from her forcing me to painstakingly explain why I made such an asinine decision. For example, I had to explain to her why I made a U-turn when she wanted me to continue driving through a neighborhood.
My answer, “I thought it was a dead end,” only mortified to find the street went through and I had somehow imagined it was an “impasse,” as it is called in French. I looked like I had no idea what was going on and in retrospect, I didn’t.
As I mentioned, she grabbed hold of the wheel so all my classmates could see us returning. This gesture left no doubt I had failed the exam. She wouldn’t even let me park the car. After we parked, she told me I was too “insufficient” to drive. She went over every single wrong thing I did with a deprecating interrogation about it.
She finally told me the exam was over. I opened the door and without looking at her said, “Good bye,“ I made a conscious decision to not thank her. I wanted dearly to say something brutal, the idea of punching her even crossed my mind and my adrenaline would have definitely been to my advantage had I chosen to use violence, but no intelligent words or actions came. I couldn’t face my classmates so I decided to find the nearest bus stop in the village and left without a trace.
As I walked down the street, I buried my head in my hands and sobbed, only glancing up when absolutely necessary to find my way. I boarded the magic bus that took me away from the atrocious place. I made no phone call. I just shuddered every few minutes as one does after a good cry like a child who had just been spanked. That night I couldn’t sleep. The scenario of “the bitch” and me ran through my head incessantly. The only thing that brought me refuge was the decision to give up, fold.
“Okay, but when you don’t pass, I do not want you to hold me responsible. You need to promise me that you are not going to come back and say it’s my fault when you fail because I do not think you are ready.”
“Fine," I said completely deflated. “I won’t blame you if I fail. But I’m not taking any more lessons.”
“That’s a mistake,” he said.
The date was set and the day arrived. As we pulled into the parking lot where the exam begins, we saw a woman examiner waiting for us in a mini-skirt and high heels.
“Oh, no,” said Boo Boo’s fiancé. “It’s her. It’s the bitch.”
All the hope I had drained from me. From the time I got into the car, from the moment she took control of the steering wheel at the end of the exam as we pulled into the parking lot in front of my comrades, was utter anguish. Never in my life have I been belittled more than during those thirty minutes I spent with her.
After every move I made, came a question from her forcing me to painstakingly explain why I made such an asinine decision. For example, I had to explain to her why I made a U-turn when she wanted me to continue driving through a neighborhood.
My answer, “I thought it was a dead end,” only mortified to find the street went through and I had somehow imagined it was an “impasse,” as it is called in French. I looked like I had no idea what was going on and in retrospect, I didn’t.
As I mentioned, she grabbed hold of the wheel so all my classmates could see us returning. This gesture left no doubt I had failed the exam. She wouldn’t even let me park the car. After we parked, she told me I was too “insufficient” to drive. She went over every single wrong thing I did with a deprecating interrogation about it.
She finally told me the exam was over. I opened the door and without looking at her said, “Good bye,“ I made a conscious decision to not thank her. I wanted dearly to say something brutal, the idea of punching her even crossed my mind and my adrenaline would have definitely been to my advantage had I chosen to use violence, but no intelligent words or actions came. I couldn’t face my classmates so I decided to find the nearest bus stop in the village and left without a trace.
As I walked down the street, I buried my head in my hands and sobbed, only glancing up when absolutely necessary to find my way. I boarded the magic bus that took me away from the atrocious place. I made no phone call. I just shuddered every few minutes as one does after a good cry like a child who had just been spanked. That night I couldn’t sleep. The scenario of “the bitch” and me ran through my head incessantly. The only thing that brought me refuge was the decision to give up, fold.
Driving in France - Part VIII
The day of my driving exam finally arrived. Boo Boo sat in the back of his car, the examiner, a middle-aged man with an earring, sat in the passenger seat. He seemed nice and laid back. According to Boo Boo’s fiancé, we were lucky to get this man as there was a woman examiner who was a major ball breaker.
As instructed, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main street. So far, so good. In fact, it was all going just fine until we turned onto a small street so I could maneuver a parallel parking position. I did fine. However, when asked to pull out of the spot, I absentmindedly forgot to push in the clutch and I switched from reverse into drive creating excruciating juddering and noises. I must have given the lot of us minor whiplash.
“Oops,“ I smiled nervously, “I forgot to push in the clutch.”
“She’s used to driving an automatic,“ said Boo Boo to the rescue.
I regained composure even though it felt like we had just been through an awful amusement park ride. I was sure I had blown my chances. As we left the small street, I tried to steady my breath and reclaim some self-confidence. Then, a strange scraping sound started.
“Pull over! Pull over!” the examiner said.
I pulled over. He asked me to get out. He examined the car and then said. “This car has a mechanical problem. We cannot continue the exam,” he looked at Boo Boo. “You’ll need to call someone and get another car out here if you want the other students to take their exam. I”ll let you drive it back to the parking lot.” Then he looked at me, “You’re going to have to take the exam again,“ he said, “but since it was a mechanical error, it won’t count against you.”
Quietly I let Boo Boo take the wheel. I got in the back. We returned to the parking lot. Boo Boo asked me to get out. I got out and the other three students gathered around.
“So? So? What happened?,” everyone anxiously asked me.
“The car broke down. We had to stop the exam,” I was disillusioned. I’d have to do this all over again? Just as I was mulling the idea over, Boo Boo walked towards me quickly and furiously. “You!,“ he pointed an accusing finger at me, “you!” His eyes were bulging out of his head, I think there was frothing at the mouth.
I stood frozen.
“You broke my car! You broke my car!”
“What are you talking about?,” I was flabbergasted.
“Yes! Don’t you remember when you forgot to push in the clutch? You broke my gear box! This is your fault! This is your fault!”
I was speechless. Had I really broken his gear box by just one faulty move? Maybe my bad move had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but I certainly could not have broken his car…could I have? Boo Boo called his brother who also ran a driving school and his brother brought another car. But I was not allowed to re-take the exam that day. Oh, this was a dreadful day.
As instructed, I pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main street. So far, so good. In fact, it was all going just fine until we turned onto a small street so I could maneuver a parallel parking position. I did fine. However, when asked to pull out of the spot, I absentmindedly forgot to push in the clutch and I switched from reverse into drive creating excruciating juddering and noises. I must have given the lot of us minor whiplash.
“Oops,“ I smiled nervously, “I forgot to push in the clutch.”
“She’s used to driving an automatic,“ said Boo Boo to the rescue.
I regained composure even though it felt like we had just been through an awful amusement park ride. I was sure I had blown my chances. As we left the small street, I tried to steady my breath and reclaim some self-confidence. Then, a strange scraping sound started.
“Pull over! Pull over!” the examiner said.
I pulled over. He asked me to get out. He examined the car and then said. “This car has a mechanical problem. We cannot continue the exam,” he looked at Boo Boo. “You’ll need to call someone and get another car out here if you want the other students to take their exam. I”ll let you drive it back to the parking lot.” Then he looked at me, “You’re going to have to take the exam again,“ he said, “but since it was a mechanical error, it won’t count against you.”
Quietly I let Boo Boo take the wheel. I got in the back. We returned to the parking lot. Boo Boo asked me to get out. I got out and the other three students gathered around.
“So? So? What happened?,” everyone anxiously asked me.
“The car broke down. We had to stop the exam,” I was disillusioned. I’d have to do this all over again? Just as I was mulling the idea over, Boo Boo walked towards me quickly and furiously. “You!,“ he pointed an accusing finger at me, “you!” His eyes were bulging out of his head, I think there was frothing at the mouth.
I stood frozen.
“You broke my car! You broke my car!”
“What are you talking about?,” I was flabbergasted.
“Yes! Don’t you remember when you forgot to push in the clutch? You broke my gear box! This is your fault! This is your fault!”
I was speechless. Had I really broken his gear box by just one faulty move? Maybe my bad move had been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but I certainly could not have broken his car…could I have? Boo Boo called his brother who also ran a driving school and his brother brought another car. But I was not allowed to re-take the exam that day. Oh, this was a dreadful day.
Driving in France - Part VII
My lessons with Boo Boo went on and on, as did my studying for the code. I bought the special DVD study aid and went through it ad nausea testing my husband to see if he was “impractical“ enough. He always failed it which made me feel better. At one point, Boo Boo’s fiancé said to me, “You know, you have to take the code at some point. How about in two weeks?”
“What? I don’t know if I’m ready!,” I somehow forgot the point to all this awful studying in a dark cold room would one day lead to the exam.
“You’ll be fine. I’m signing you up,” she said.
The week before the exam, my only focus was to memorize all the rules of the code. I had a stack of index cards with all the important details, parking laws, drinking laws, and even the speeds you could and could not go depending on the situation, one being special speeds for “new drivers.” Yes, you read right. There are different speeds for newbie’s.
Most of you probably read the “The Scarlet Letter” at some point in your lives. Well, when you are a new driver, you receive a scarlet letter “A” that must be put on the back of your car so the police know you have been driving for less than two years. Everyone else in the world knows too. Nothing discrete about it but us newly anointed drivers certainly are more than proud to have proof we made it out of driving school successfully. Believe it or not, when you do have your driving license, it’s something you put on your resumé. It has that much merit. “Wow, Didier, lookie here, she has her driving license, now this is a great candidate for the job! I mean, if she did that, she is up for any task!”
Finally, the day of the exam arrived. Four of us piled into Boo Boo’s car and headed to a community center in the middle of nowhere. We were each given a little remote control with A,B,C,D buttons on it. We took our seats. The lights went out and the video began. We had to choose quickly before the next question came up. My hands were shaking. I wanted to pass the test more than anything in the world. The rate of success is something like 30%.
It is very common to take the exam several times. You could only miss three questions out of 40. The exam ended and we had to turn in our remote controls and then go back to our seats.
After 15 minutes, the man in charge had the results in his little machine.
He called our names followed by “bon” (good) or “trop de fautes” (too many mistakes).
He said this out loud so everyone could hear. People would cheer and pump their fist in the air triumphantly if they heard the word “bon” when their names were called. Or, sadly, they would creep out of the room ashamed or even cry when they heard “trop de fautes.”
He called my name. The pause between my results and he calling my name felt like an eternity. I prayed one last time with all my might and held my breath. “Bon” he said without looking up and he handed me a paper that said I passed the code! As I left the room, Boo Boo’s fiancé was in the hall anxiously awaiting the results from her little ducklings. “So? So?,“ she asked me.
“Bon!,“ I screamed. She slapped me five and then still elated, I looked to my unfortunate colleagues whose faces were as long as the night. We got back in the car, it was hard to be happy when half of us were so depressed. All I knew was this part was over! Next, I’d have to take the driving exam.
“What? I don’t know if I’m ready!,” I somehow forgot the point to all this awful studying in a dark cold room would one day lead to the exam.
“You’ll be fine. I’m signing you up,” she said.
The week before the exam, my only focus was to memorize all the rules of the code. I had a stack of index cards with all the important details, parking laws, drinking laws, and even the speeds you could and could not go depending on the situation, one being special speeds for “new drivers.” Yes, you read right. There are different speeds for newbie’s.
Most of you probably read the “The Scarlet Letter” at some point in your lives. Well, when you are a new driver, you receive a scarlet letter “A” that must be put on the back of your car so the police know you have been driving for less than two years. Everyone else in the world knows too. Nothing discrete about it but us newly anointed drivers certainly are more than proud to have proof we made it out of driving school successfully. Believe it or not, when you do have your driving license, it’s something you put on your resumé. It has that much merit. “Wow, Didier, lookie here, she has her driving license, now this is a great candidate for the job! I mean, if she did that, she is up for any task!”
Finally, the day of the exam arrived. Four of us piled into Boo Boo’s car and headed to a community center in the middle of nowhere. We were each given a little remote control with A,B,C,D buttons on it. We took our seats. The lights went out and the video began. We had to choose quickly before the next question came up. My hands were shaking. I wanted to pass the test more than anything in the world. The rate of success is something like 30%.
It is very common to take the exam several times. You could only miss three questions out of 40. The exam ended and we had to turn in our remote controls and then go back to our seats.
After 15 minutes, the man in charge had the results in his little machine.
He called our names followed by “bon” (good) or “trop de fautes” (too many mistakes).
He said this out loud so everyone could hear. People would cheer and pump their fist in the air triumphantly if they heard the word “bon” when their names were called. Or, sadly, they would creep out of the room ashamed or even cry when they heard “trop de fautes.”
He called my name. The pause between my results and he calling my name felt like an eternity. I prayed one last time with all my might and held my breath. “Bon” he said without looking up and he handed me a paper that said I passed the code! As I left the room, Boo Boo’s fiancé was in the hall anxiously awaiting the results from her little ducklings. “So? So?,“ she asked me.
“Bon!,“ I screamed. She slapped me five and then still elated, I looked to my unfortunate colleagues whose faces were as long as the night. We got back in the car, it was hard to be happy when half of us were so depressed. All I knew was this part was over! Next, I’d have to take the driving exam.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Cirque Passion
While staying in a little Normandy village several summers ago, I had the great idea of taking our little girl, two and a half at the time, to the circus. It was called Cirque Passion.
My childhood memories of the circus were filled with wild animals, different smells, peanuts, popcorn and sitting high in the bleachers under a tent. We arrived at the tent early. It was small inside. It could probably hold no more than 25 people.
The circus family was mainly children under 15 years old with dark smooth olive skin. They were busy selling flashy fiber optic lights and balloons. I was so excited! The circus leader, a small dark man, stood in the spotlight. He told us the performers were all circus school students and this was their opportunity to do a live performance.
The lights went down and everyone gave a welcoming applaud.
Spotlight back on, a young girl of around 12 appeared in a shiny leotard. She moved with the grace and confidence of a seasoned performer.
A trapeze slowly made its way down low enough for her to swing onto. She perched herself gracefully as the trapeze rose back up. The music came on. The song of choice was “All By Myself,” a heart-wrenching, self-annihilating song. Music has always touched me. I cried when Kermit sang “It Ain’t Easy Being Green,” when I was 8 years old. I’m still traumatized by it.
The young trapeze artist did nothing spectacular. No “ooos” or “aaas” circulated the tent. But, I couldn’t handle the sad song, watching her “all by herself” up there somehow made me terribly depressed. Tears filled my eyes and I swallowed the lump in my throat, quickly glancing over at my husband who appeared to be doing just fine. Luckily, he didn’t see me and I pulled it together.
The next act came on. He wasn’t what I consider a real clown. He had no big red nose or white painted face. He was pretty basic. He wore a hat, baggy pants and big shoes. He also carried a horn. He began some mime act of a guy getting into a car. He ran around the ring waving and honking his horn. Then he parked his “car” and got out. He waited for us to clap.
He started scanning the audience. Oh, no! Suddenly I became terrified. What if he picks me? I don’t feel like acting like a retard clown in front of a bunch of people! Not me! He chose a man and then, he chose me. Yes, shy and introverted at times, me! Me, whose head shakes when I play a musical instrument. Me, who notoriously got kicked out of the audience for inconsolable anxious laughter every time my sister sang in the choir. How in the world would I be able to play with a clown in the circus? My husband seemed thrilled. My daughter looked like she was panicking. Oh, no! I would have to pretend I was happy! I would have to pretend I was enjoying myself for my little girl.
The clown made the man stand at one side of the ring, me at the other. The audience watched without a sound. The clown reenacted his mime car scene, honking and waving. Then, he came over and “picked me up.” I had to pretend to get into his car and then he made me hold him around his waist. It was intimate. I could feel his love handles and it was emotionally uncomfortable. Then he took off and I could barely keep up with him, my little legs flying through the air. I held onto his hips for dear life and then we picked up the other man! He got on, and we became a trio of imbeciles, running, waving and honking at the audience. As you can imagine, it was very disconcerting. A couple more laps around the ring and he set us free.
Relieved, I went back to my seat.
“You looked like you were having a good time!," my husband beamed.
“What? That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. That was awful!”
My little girl stared at me; she had no words for what she had seen.
A couple other acts came onto the ring, nothing momentous.
The last act was the circus leader and a mountain goat. In the spotlight we saw a pyramid of wooden stools piled high. The goat would climb up one stool, then he’d pause and lift his little trembling paw and do a 360° turn slowly. He was balancing on his three skinny little legs, pot belly bulging at the seams. The audience clapped each time.
I could feel my husbands’ shoulders trembling and I looked over to see him laughing hysterically without making a sound.
“Stop! Stop! It’s not funny!,” I said. I felt sorry for the goat. I felt sorry for the man doing the act. I felt sorry in all senses of the word.
“Oh, my god!,” he grabbed his shaking stomach and kept laughing.
The goat posed trembling as he reached the last and highest stool. All four legs had to dangerously fit onto this highly perched stool. He lifted his little paw, and then began his full circle, his body barely fitting onto the stool. It was like watching a 90 year old man forced to climb a 30-foot pole and then stand on a Frisbee-sized disc at the top of it.
“Oh, god,” my husband gasped for air, some high pitched wheezing began to escape from the depths of his being.
The audience applauded and my husband just let himself go. “That’s excellent! That’s excellent!” he bellowed between fits of laughter. “Oh, my God! Excellent!”
My daughter and I just sat and stared together. The lights came on and the circus was over. I don’t think my daughter understood the whole deal. Who did?
My childhood memories of the circus were filled with wild animals, different smells, peanuts, popcorn and sitting high in the bleachers under a tent. We arrived at the tent early. It was small inside. It could probably hold no more than 25 people.
The circus family was mainly children under 15 years old with dark smooth olive skin. They were busy selling flashy fiber optic lights and balloons. I was so excited! The circus leader, a small dark man, stood in the spotlight. He told us the performers were all circus school students and this was their opportunity to do a live performance.
The lights went down and everyone gave a welcoming applaud.
Spotlight back on, a young girl of around 12 appeared in a shiny leotard. She moved with the grace and confidence of a seasoned performer.
A trapeze slowly made its way down low enough for her to swing onto. She perched herself gracefully as the trapeze rose back up. The music came on. The song of choice was “All By Myself,” a heart-wrenching, self-annihilating song. Music has always touched me. I cried when Kermit sang “It Ain’t Easy Being Green,” when I was 8 years old. I’m still traumatized by it.
The young trapeze artist did nothing spectacular. No “ooos” or “aaas” circulated the tent. But, I couldn’t handle the sad song, watching her “all by herself” up there somehow made me terribly depressed. Tears filled my eyes and I swallowed the lump in my throat, quickly glancing over at my husband who appeared to be doing just fine. Luckily, he didn’t see me and I pulled it together.
The next act came on. He wasn’t what I consider a real clown. He had no big red nose or white painted face. He was pretty basic. He wore a hat, baggy pants and big shoes. He also carried a horn. He began some mime act of a guy getting into a car. He ran around the ring waving and honking his horn. Then he parked his “car” and got out. He waited for us to clap.
He started scanning the audience. Oh, no! Suddenly I became terrified. What if he picks me? I don’t feel like acting like a retard clown in front of a bunch of people! Not me! He chose a man and then, he chose me. Yes, shy and introverted at times, me! Me, whose head shakes when I play a musical instrument. Me, who notoriously got kicked out of the audience for inconsolable anxious laughter every time my sister sang in the choir. How in the world would I be able to play with a clown in the circus? My husband seemed thrilled. My daughter looked like she was panicking. Oh, no! I would have to pretend I was happy! I would have to pretend I was enjoying myself for my little girl.
The clown made the man stand at one side of the ring, me at the other. The audience watched without a sound. The clown reenacted his mime car scene, honking and waving. Then, he came over and “picked me up.” I had to pretend to get into his car and then he made me hold him around his waist. It was intimate. I could feel his love handles and it was emotionally uncomfortable. Then he took off and I could barely keep up with him, my little legs flying through the air. I held onto his hips for dear life and then we picked up the other man! He got on, and we became a trio of imbeciles, running, waving and honking at the audience. As you can imagine, it was very disconcerting. A couple more laps around the ring and he set us free.
Relieved, I went back to my seat.
“You looked like you were having a good time!," my husband beamed.
“What? That was the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done. That was awful!”
My little girl stared at me; she had no words for what she had seen.
A couple other acts came onto the ring, nothing momentous.
The last act was the circus leader and a mountain goat. In the spotlight we saw a pyramid of wooden stools piled high. The goat would climb up one stool, then he’d pause and lift his little trembling paw and do a 360° turn slowly. He was balancing on his three skinny little legs, pot belly bulging at the seams. The audience clapped each time.
I could feel my husbands’ shoulders trembling and I looked over to see him laughing hysterically without making a sound.
“Stop! Stop! It’s not funny!,” I said. I felt sorry for the goat. I felt sorry for the man doing the act. I felt sorry in all senses of the word.
“Oh, my god!,” he grabbed his shaking stomach and kept laughing.
The goat posed trembling as he reached the last and highest stool. All four legs had to dangerously fit onto this highly perched stool. He lifted his little paw, and then began his full circle, his body barely fitting onto the stool. It was like watching a 90 year old man forced to climb a 30-foot pole and then stand on a Frisbee-sized disc at the top of it.
“Oh, god,” my husband gasped for air, some high pitched wheezing began to escape from the depths of his being.
The audience applauded and my husband just let himself go. “That’s excellent! That’s excellent!” he bellowed between fits of laughter. “Oh, my God! Excellent!”
My daughter and I just sat and stared together. The lights came on and the circus was over. I don’t think my daughter understood the whole deal. Who did?
The 40-Minute Dump
Nothing makes the differences between men and women stand out more than a baby’s arrival. Things you didn’t notice before, things that didn’t have an impact on your livelihood, now come into the picture.
There are some things a father will do that are innate in a man. As women, we need to learn to work with this because we can get some great benefits from it. Having a baby has profound life-changing effects on a woman. The hardest part being she comes last, she automatically puts her baby first. A baby has profound changes on a man too, but, he still pees when the baby is crying. He still looks through the mail when he gets home before saying hello to his cute little family.
And worst of all, he still takes his 40-minute colossal dump every morning. This is fine pre-baby, pre-fatherhood. Why should anyone care if he closes himself into the WC with or without a magazine for unbelievably long periods of time?
(Out of curiosity, are there any women who do this? Speak up if you are out there.)
You either have to poop or you don’t. And if you have to go, it certainly does not take long enough to read anything, does it? In fact, a woman must have made up the infamous catch-phrase, “Shit or get off the pot.” (Or is it “piss” or get off the pot?)
If you do not partake in this 40-minute retreat, you are missing out on “you” time which is indispensable once you are a mother. If I can teach you anything, please let it be this: If you and your husband are home together and baby is crying or child is whining or driving you crazy, go lock yourself in the bathroom and pretend you are doing your daily doo. Men will accept this and not a 40 minute shower! (And is it just me, or do all men hate how women take long showers? Why?)
The part that makes me so mad is the myriad activities you accomplish solo while your partner is crapping! A sample of what women do while men in isolation: prepare a meal, put the baby down for a nap, clear the table, clean-up, build a dog house, wash the car and paint the living room.
If he berates you for taking so long to get ready, remind him the 40-minute dump does count for “getting ready” time! Why do they omit that? Do we ever say our shower doesn’t count? We as women actually take less time than men to get ready if you count their dumping!
Do you think men would let us take long dumps or would they come see if we’re okay every five minutes? Do any of you want to test the “40 minute dump acceptance theory?”
My theory? No one will be visiting you and because it is so sacred to the male species to poop in peace, if anyone tries to bang on the door, I assure you daddy will come as if baby is interrupting your religious prayer. “Shhhhh, come here. Mommy needs her privacy.”
Do not try the 40-minute shower when daddy is home. You will indeed undergo the most unsatisfying, interrupted shower ever that makes you say things under your breath like this, “God damnit! Not one second to myself! Sick of it! Sick of it! I’m going to kill someone. I’m going to runaway, I swear. I’m going to go to a hotel and stand under the shower for five fucking days, I swear!” That kind of talk makes you break out in hives and make crazy plans. No wonder we lose our hair after giving birth!
Maybe it comes down to this: Pooping is a necessity, taking a shower is pure pleasure. A bath? Don’t even go there! Blasphemy! Plus, you can hear your baby crying/children shrieking when you take a bath and your husband will most likely bring baby/children in to visit you as if you haven’t seen them for years. ”Look, sweetie, there’s Mommy! See?” Try not to scream when this happens.
For any male readers out there, please tell me what the 40-minute dump means to you. Is it an escape from a bitchy wife? Is it a way to connect with god? And, why don’t you consider it “getting ready” time assuming you poop in the morning before taking your shower. I do want to know. Would you let your partner take a 40-minute dump? Why is it blasphemous to take a 40-minute shower?
Women? Do you take 40-minute dumps? Is your partner okay with this? Are you allowed to do this after you have a baby? Do you recommend this isolation from the world to other women?
Lines are now open. Please write! Let’s uncover the mystery together.
There are some things a father will do that are innate in a man. As women, we need to learn to work with this because we can get some great benefits from it. Having a baby has profound life-changing effects on a woman. The hardest part being she comes last, she automatically puts her baby first. A baby has profound changes on a man too, but, he still pees when the baby is crying. He still looks through the mail when he gets home before saying hello to his cute little family.
And worst of all, he still takes his 40-minute colossal dump every morning. This is fine pre-baby, pre-fatherhood. Why should anyone care if he closes himself into the WC with or without a magazine for unbelievably long periods of time?
(Out of curiosity, are there any women who do this? Speak up if you are out there.)
You either have to poop or you don’t. And if you have to go, it certainly does not take long enough to read anything, does it? In fact, a woman must have made up the infamous catch-phrase, “Shit or get off the pot.” (Or is it “piss” or get off the pot?)
If you do not partake in this 40-minute retreat, you are missing out on “you” time which is indispensable once you are a mother. If I can teach you anything, please let it be this: If you and your husband are home together and baby is crying or child is whining or driving you crazy, go lock yourself in the bathroom and pretend you are doing your daily doo. Men will accept this and not a 40 minute shower! (And is it just me, or do all men hate how women take long showers? Why?)
The part that makes me so mad is the myriad activities you accomplish solo while your partner is crapping! A sample of what women do while men in isolation: prepare a meal, put the baby down for a nap, clear the table, clean-up, build a dog house, wash the car and paint the living room.
If he berates you for taking so long to get ready, remind him the 40-minute dump does count for “getting ready” time! Why do they omit that? Do we ever say our shower doesn’t count? We as women actually take less time than men to get ready if you count their dumping!
Do you think men would let us take long dumps or would they come see if we’re okay every five minutes? Do any of you want to test the “40 minute dump acceptance theory?”
My theory? No one will be visiting you and because it is so sacred to the male species to poop in peace, if anyone tries to bang on the door, I assure you daddy will come as if baby is interrupting your religious prayer. “Shhhhh, come here. Mommy needs her privacy.”
Do not try the 40-minute shower when daddy is home. You will indeed undergo the most unsatisfying, interrupted shower ever that makes you say things under your breath like this, “God damnit! Not one second to myself! Sick of it! Sick of it! I’m going to kill someone. I’m going to runaway, I swear. I’m going to go to a hotel and stand under the shower for five fucking days, I swear!” That kind of talk makes you break out in hives and make crazy plans. No wonder we lose our hair after giving birth!
Maybe it comes down to this: Pooping is a necessity, taking a shower is pure pleasure. A bath? Don’t even go there! Blasphemy! Plus, you can hear your baby crying/children shrieking when you take a bath and your husband will most likely bring baby/children in to visit you as if you haven’t seen them for years. ”Look, sweetie, there’s Mommy! See?” Try not to scream when this happens.
For any male readers out there, please tell me what the 40-minute dump means to you. Is it an escape from a bitchy wife? Is it a way to connect with god? And, why don’t you consider it “getting ready” time assuming you poop in the morning before taking your shower. I do want to know. Would you let your partner take a 40-minute dump? Why is it blasphemous to take a 40-minute shower?
Women? Do you take 40-minute dumps? Is your partner okay with this? Are you allowed to do this after you have a baby? Do you recommend this isolation from the world to other women?
Lines are now open. Please write! Let’s uncover the mystery together.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
The French Pooper Scooper
At some point when you live in France, you begin to accept the dog shit situation.
Though I haven’t embraced it with unconditional love just yet, I have already changed my strut to avoid it with ease. Step, step, big step, side step, hop hop.
Now, I’m surprised if I don’t come across any dog shit after several steps and my rhythm feels off. I’m almost disappointed and disoriented. “Where’s all the dog shit? Where am I?”
Living in the city means there are few grassy knolls where your dog can crap. In fact, if you see any patch of green it is probably seaming with “land mines,” as one of my friend calls them. Avoid the grass, no matter how tantalizing it may look!
Sometimes I imagine myself hiding behind a bush. As soon as someone’s dog takes a dump, I pop out and say, “Ah-hah! Do you know what it feels like to walk through your dog’s shit?,” And then I force the person to walk through the dog shit over and over. “That’ll teach ya,” I say triumphantly after I’ve marched the dog owner in and out of it at least three times.
Or, I jump out with a camera; take a picture of the owner and her dog. Then, I make a big poster of it with the caption, “This lady’s dog shits here.” And I post it right there to shame her. Probably not as effective as the iron maiden but maybe we could have a modernized version. Instead of an incredibly heavy iron chamber on top of you, it would be some kind of big iron hat with a huge poop sculpture on top and you and your dog would have to wear it for at least 15 days. Maybe go to rehab “Clockwork Orange” style and watch videos of people picking up dog droppings.
Another idea I had was to spray paint in fluorescent yellow each dropping I come across in the entire city, no matter how old and crusty. Then I’d rent a special plane and take an aerial photo shoot of the city. Call it “Project Dog Shit,” print it out, blow it up and send it to the mayor and all the newspapers. “Congratulations for having one of the most dog shit-covered cities in the world!”
Did you know France employs pooper scoopers just like India? The poor fellows. Some of them even have little motorized contraptions on which they sit. They’re like scooters with water spraying out the back, brushes, and then a vacuum that sucks everything all up.
Imagine some guy, some French engineer sitting at his drafting table so he could design a dog shit sucking machine that the city has agreed to finance and even hire guys to operate it once built? What brilliance!
This engineer actually created more employment for France not to mention his government paid job as the shit machine designer. Did it go through trials?
“Here, man! See if this machine works better than your broom and shovel.”
Two hours later, the pooper scooper comes back all wet and covered with shit and says, “I think there are still a few kinks…”
Two days later the engineer says, ”Here, try again!”
The poor pooper scooper returns and says, “I think you should add a vacuum to suck up all the splattered shit the brushes and water have ground into the streets and sidewalks.”
“Good idea!”
And then, the city produces this great shit cart that sprays, brushes and whips the poop into a frothy brown smelly mousse and then this nasty vacuum tube sucks it up. And by the way, I really like the fact that these carts are fitted with a transparent shit storage unit so we can see the collections! You know, have an idea when it’s full.
“Look at my shit compartment, Pierre! It’s full! Look at yours, you slacker!”
This is for real. I’ve seen this contraption with my own eyes. So, why worry about dog owners cleaning up their dog shit when it literally creates employment?
Though I haven’t embraced it with unconditional love just yet, I have already changed my strut to avoid it with ease. Step, step, big step, side step, hop hop.
Now, I’m surprised if I don’t come across any dog shit after several steps and my rhythm feels off. I’m almost disappointed and disoriented. “Where’s all the dog shit? Where am I?”
Living in the city means there are few grassy knolls where your dog can crap. In fact, if you see any patch of green it is probably seaming with “land mines,” as one of my friend calls them. Avoid the grass, no matter how tantalizing it may look!
Sometimes I imagine myself hiding behind a bush. As soon as someone’s dog takes a dump, I pop out and say, “Ah-hah! Do you know what it feels like to walk through your dog’s shit?,” And then I force the person to walk through the dog shit over and over. “That’ll teach ya,” I say triumphantly after I’ve marched the dog owner in and out of it at least three times.
Or, I jump out with a camera; take a picture of the owner and her dog. Then, I make a big poster of it with the caption, “This lady’s dog shits here.” And I post it right there to shame her. Probably not as effective as the iron maiden but maybe we could have a modernized version. Instead of an incredibly heavy iron chamber on top of you, it would be some kind of big iron hat with a huge poop sculpture on top and you and your dog would have to wear it for at least 15 days. Maybe go to rehab “Clockwork Orange” style and watch videos of people picking up dog droppings.
Another idea I had was to spray paint in fluorescent yellow each dropping I come across in the entire city, no matter how old and crusty. Then I’d rent a special plane and take an aerial photo shoot of the city. Call it “Project Dog Shit,” print it out, blow it up and send it to the mayor and all the newspapers. “Congratulations for having one of the most dog shit-covered cities in the world!”
Did you know France employs pooper scoopers just like India? The poor fellows. Some of them even have little motorized contraptions on which they sit. They’re like scooters with water spraying out the back, brushes, and then a vacuum that sucks everything all up.
Imagine some guy, some French engineer sitting at his drafting table so he could design a dog shit sucking machine that the city has agreed to finance and even hire guys to operate it once built? What brilliance!
This engineer actually created more employment for France not to mention his government paid job as the shit machine designer. Did it go through trials?
“Here, man! See if this machine works better than your broom and shovel.”
Two hours later, the pooper scooper comes back all wet and covered with shit and says, “I think there are still a few kinks…”
Two days later the engineer says, ”Here, try again!”
The poor pooper scooper returns and says, “I think you should add a vacuum to suck up all the splattered shit the brushes and water have ground into the streets and sidewalks.”
“Good idea!”
And then, the city produces this great shit cart that sprays, brushes and whips the poop into a frothy brown smelly mousse and then this nasty vacuum tube sucks it up. And by the way, I really like the fact that these carts are fitted with a transparent shit storage unit so we can see the collections! You know, have an idea when it’s full.
“Look at my shit compartment, Pierre! It’s full! Look at yours, you slacker!”
This is for real. I’ve seen this contraption with my own eyes. So, why worry about dog owners cleaning up their dog shit when it literally creates employment?
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Driving in France - Part VI
During driving school, I picked up the habit to over-zealously slow down to every street approaching my right. This is not a natural rhythm for us Americans. Not at all. Slowing down every time you see a street to your right is due to the rule of "priority to the right."
Ah, priority to the right. It has to be the most asinine driving rule ever created. This means you can be driving on a street, any street, and a car coming from a tiny road off to the right can cut you off even if you are going mind-blowing and legally obliterating speeds. You have to anticipate this street to the right and anticipate this car and let them cut you off or you are in the wrong.
The same goes for you if you want to turn right. If you don’t have a yield or stop sign, you can pretty much blindly turn right onto a major street with cars swooshing by and if they hit you, it’s their fault. Many times we’d come to a major street and I’d have “the right of way” and I would cautiously yield and get yelled at.
Boo Boo exasperated would scream,“What are you doing? Do you see a yield sign? No! You have right of way! Go, go, go!”
“But that guy is driving fast. He’s going to hit me!,” I’d plead.
“Let him hit you. Right of way! It’ll be his fault!,” Boo Boo would respond in an outrage.
To make things more complicated, there are millions of ways to express whether or not the priority to the right is in effect. There is the subtle “yield” sign or the white dashed line that you may or may not spy way off to the right that isn’t even meant for you. It’s meant to tell the cars on the little street that they have to yield. Interpretation: you on the big street have the right of way.
To see these signs, you need to strain your eyes and react appropriately before you pass the street. Do you slow down? Do you keep going? First, you need to see what the hell the car on the street to the right can or cannot do. And it’s very distracting to constantly be worrying about the guy on the fucking little street off to the right. Give him a stop sign and be done with it all.
Would you like to know more? Because there is more…There is the sign with the yellow square that means you have the right of way. Then just to mix things up, there is the gray square with a bar through it that means you no longer have the right of way. Clever, eh?
In the US, we’d be simple about it. We’d have a huge sign that says, “You have right of way” and another goddamn sign that says, “You no longer have right of way.” Right?
And, there is also the big black X that means for this specific upcoming street, you no longer have right of way, but at the intersection after this one, you might have the right of way again. Mind boggling, just mind boggling and oh, so French.
Ah, priority to the right. It has to be the most asinine driving rule ever created. This means you can be driving on a street, any street, and a car coming from a tiny road off to the right can cut you off even if you are going mind-blowing and legally obliterating speeds. You have to anticipate this street to the right and anticipate this car and let them cut you off or you are in the wrong.
The same goes for you if you want to turn right. If you don’t have a yield or stop sign, you can pretty much blindly turn right onto a major street with cars swooshing by and if they hit you, it’s their fault. Many times we’d come to a major street and I’d have “the right of way” and I would cautiously yield and get yelled at.
Boo Boo exasperated would scream,“What are you doing? Do you see a yield sign? No! You have right of way! Go, go, go!”
“But that guy is driving fast. He’s going to hit me!,” I’d plead.
“Let him hit you. Right of way! It’ll be his fault!,” Boo Boo would respond in an outrage.
To make things more complicated, there are millions of ways to express whether or not the priority to the right is in effect. There is the subtle “yield” sign or the white dashed line that you may or may not spy way off to the right that isn’t even meant for you. It’s meant to tell the cars on the little street that they have to yield. Interpretation: you on the big street have the right of way.
To see these signs, you need to strain your eyes and react appropriately before you pass the street. Do you slow down? Do you keep going? First, you need to see what the hell the car on the street to the right can or cannot do. And it’s very distracting to constantly be worrying about the guy on the fucking little street off to the right. Give him a stop sign and be done with it all.
Would you like to know more? Because there is more…There is the sign with the yellow square that means you have the right of way. Then just to mix things up, there is the gray square with a bar through it that means you no longer have the right of way. Clever, eh?
In the US, we’d be simple about it. We’d have a huge sign that says, “You have right of way” and another goddamn sign that says, “You no longer have right of way.” Right?
And, there is also the big black X that means for this specific upcoming street, you no longer have right of way, but at the intersection after this one, you might have the right of way again. Mind boggling, just mind boggling and oh, so French.
Big Balls, French Driving
The other day while driving with my husband, a bus driver whose bus was empty, stopped her bus in mid-street and put on her hazard lights while she went into the bakery to buy a fucking baguette. Traffic behind her couldn’t get around and traffic in front of her couldn’t get around. Note: It’s okay to park wherever and whenever you want as long as cars can get around you.
In this scenario, it wasn’t just the average “I don’t give a shit” car parked in the middle of the street. The bus was blocking the street from all angles possible. The cars behind us were pouring into the intersection blocking streets all the way down to who knows where. People were honking.
My husband, who happens to have big French balls, got out of the car and went into the bakery and started yelling at the bus driver. When he got back into the car, I asked, “Well, is she going to move her bus?”
“No!,” he said with wide hand gestures, his adrenaline pumping. “I asked her to at least move her bus two meters so people could go around her and she told me it was impossible! God! French! French and their attitudes! Fucking French! Sick of it!” (My husband is French.)
He got back in the car and we were just sitting there. My husband was so mad, but I was laughing. There was something beautiful about this scene. I can’t explain it, but the bus driver felt absolutely guilt-free. Amongst all these angry waiting people, all the horns that were honking, she did not care. She must have truly felt A-Okay with herself.
“God! I would love to be so goddamn unaware that I just didn’t give a shit about anyone,“ I said. “It must feel so liberating!”
Finally she got into her bus. She moved it forward two meters so people could maneuver around her (still not easy for drivers but at least she was offering them an option to get moving).
I don’t know if this is going to sound like a compliment, but the French have the biggest balls in the world. They have absolutely no self-awareness. Their dog shits in the street and you walk through it, not them. They do not care if they are inconveniencing someone. In fact, they don’t even know they are inconveniencing another person because they are that unaware! And if you tell them, they do not care! Maybe this is true happiness? To remain unchanged no matter who is yelling in your face.
In this scenario, it wasn’t just the average “I don’t give a shit” car parked in the middle of the street. The bus was blocking the street from all angles possible. The cars behind us were pouring into the intersection blocking streets all the way down to who knows where. People were honking.
My husband, who happens to have big French balls, got out of the car and went into the bakery and started yelling at the bus driver. When he got back into the car, I asked, “Well, is she going to move her bus?”
“No!,” he said with wide hand gestures, his adrenaline pumping. “I asked her to at least move her bus two meters so people could go around her and she told me it was impossible! God! French! French and their attitudes! Fucking French! Sick of it!” (My husband is French.)
He got back in the car and we were just sitting there. My husband was so mad, but I was laughing. There was something beautiful about this scene. I can’t explain it, but the bus driver felt absolutely guilt-free. Amongst all these angry waiting people, all the horns that were honking, she did not care. She must have truly felt A-Okay with herself.
“God! I would love to be so goddamn unaware that I just didn’t give a shit about anyone,“ I said. “It must feel so liberating!”
Finally she got into her bus. She moved it forward two meters so people could maneuver around her (still not easy for drivers but at least she was offering them an option to get moving).
I don’t know if this is going to sound like a compliment, but the French have the biggest balls in the world. They have absolutely no self-awareness. Their dog shits in the street and you walk through it, not them. They do not care if they are inconveniencing someone. In fact, they don’t even know they are inconveniencing another person because they are that unaware! And if you tell them, they do not care! Maybe this is true happiness? To remain unchanged no matter who is yelling in your face.
Driving in France - Part V
In tandem to my driving lessons, I was also studying for the infamous “code.”
There was a cold and dark room in the back of the driving school (I think it was actually a garage) with folding chairs and a TV that played non-stop driving videos with quizzes.
I have an overly keen sense of smell which is not easy in France and I agree we shouldn’t stereo-type but rather have our own experiences, etc. Well, my personal experience is this: the French reek. Not all of them, but you know the saying, “One bad apple ruins the whole barrel.” You get one stinker and it’s all over. Pepe the skunk from Bugs Bunny was French for a reason after all.And to get back to the room, it did not smell great, definitely not like us overly anal, hygienic, squeaky clean Americans who leave a trail of cologne, soap, and deodorant that lingers for hours after one of us walk by, Tic-Tacs in our pocket so our breath smells great at all times. Definitely not that kind of smell going on here.
Wasn’t there a deodorant commercial that played on our fears, “Never let ‘em see you sweat?” They need to bring this commercial to France. What about the fear of smelling like beef stew, cumin, and stale tobacco all mixed together, so strong it brings up tastes and images too? Since when were smells a full-blown five sensory experience? (By the way, stay off all French metros during the summer unless you already hate yourself or are conducting tolerance level experiments.)
Back to the driving video room: Scenario after scenario would play out and we, the students, would have to answer multiple choice questions. No one would really talk. However, at the end of each video we’d get all the answers with the idiotic explanations and we would all groan, moan and bitch out loud to the TV.
Boo Boo’s fiancé became the administrative assistant and specialist. She would go to the back once in a while and explain why we made our errors. It was all plain and simple to her, so easy! She would try to ease our pain but it just didn’t work.
For example, when you are driving and you see a pedestrian waiting to cross, it is wrong to stop for him unless he is “engaged” which means he is already moving across the pedestrian pathway.
The video could trick you by showing a guy talking to his friend standing by the pedestrian path, maybe even gesturing with his hand to his friend during his conversation.
“He’s not crossing. He’s just talking,” one student would say.
“Look! Look at his arm. He’s moving. He’s walking towards the path! He’s engaged,” another would say.
“No! No!”
Then the answer would come and everyone would be pissed!
“I told you! I told you! He wasn’t crossing! He’s just standing by the pedestrian crossing. He’s just talking. He’s not moving!”
“Whatever! This is bullshit,” another student would say and abruptly leave the room, a light stench wafting across the room as he slams the door.
As a pedestrian, you don’t wait for the car to stop, you dangerously start crossing and then the car will stop for you. This is the way it goes.
My walk home I’d go over all the questions I missed feeling deflated of hope. My conversations with my husband over dinner would start like this, “Did you know that in France…”
And he would typically respond, “You need to start thinking like a French person. This isn’t the US. You guys don’t know how to drive!”
“What do you mean,” I’d ask feeling angrier and angrier.
“You don’t drive in the US. You guys are like fucking zombies there! You can drive while asleep and be fine.”
“Shut up,” I’d say. And that would be our on-going conversation after my driving school.
“I can’t wait till you get your fucking license and this is all over,” he’d say.
“No, shit! I can’t wait!” And I’d be up with insomnia replaying all my scenarios with Boo Boo, and all the answers on the videos trying to re-set my brain to “illogical and dangerous” mode.
There was a cold and dark room in the back of the driving school (I think it was actually a garage) with folding chairs and a TV that played non-stop driving videos with quizzes.
I have an overly keen sense of smell which is not easy in France and I agree we shouldn’t stereo-type but rather have our own experiences, etc. Well, my personal experience is this: the French reek. Not all of them, but you know the saying, “One bad apple ruins the whole barrel.” You get one stinker and it’s all over. Pepe the skunk from Bugs Bunny was French for a reason after all.And to get back to the room, it did not smell great, definitely not like us overly anal, hygienic, squeaky clean Americans who leave a trail of cologne, soap, and deodorant that lingers for hours after one of us walk by, Tic-Tacs in our pocket so our breath smells great at all times. Definitely not that kind of smell going on here.
Wasn’t there a deodorant commercial that played on our fears, “Never let ‘em see you sweat?” They need to bring this commercial to France. What about the fear of smelling like beef stew, cumin, and stale tobacco all mixed together, so strong it brings up tastes and images too? Since when were smells a full-blown five sensory experience? (By the way, stay off all French metros during the summer unless you already hate yourself or are conducting tolerance level experiments.)
Back to the driving video room: Scenario after scenario would play out and we, the students, would have to answer multiple choice questions. No one would really talk. However, at the end of each video we’d get all the answers with the idiotic explanations and we would all groan, moan and bitch out loud to the TV.
Boo Boo’s fiancé became the administrative assistant and specialist. She would go to the back once in a while and explain why we made our errors. It was all plain and simple to her, so easy! She would try to ease our pain but it just didn’t work.
For example, when you are driving and you see a pedestrian waiting to cross, it is wrong to stop for him unless he is “engaged” which means he is already moving across the pedestrian pathway.
The video could trick you by showing a guy talking to his friend standing by the pedestrian path, maybe even gesturing with his hand to his friend during his conversation.
“He’s not crossing. He’s just talking,” one student would say.
“Look! Look at his arm. He’s moving. He’s walking towards the path! He’s engaged,” another would say.
“No! No!”
Then the answer would come and everyone would be pissed!
“I told you! I told you! He wasn’t crossing! He’s just standing by the pedestrian crossing. He’s just talking. He’s not moving!”
“Whatever! This is bullshit,” another student would say and abruptly leave the room, a light stench wafting across the room as he slams the door.
As a pedestrian, you don’t wait for the car to stop, you dangerously start crossing and then the car will stop for you. This is the way it goes.
My walk home I’d go over all the questions I missed feeling deflated of hope. My conversations with my husband over dinner would start like this, “Did you know that in France…”
And he would typically respond, “You need to start thinking like a French person. This isn’t the US. You guys don’t know how to drive!”
“What do you mean,” I’d ask feeling angrier and angrier.
“You don’t drive in the US. You guys are like fucking zombies there! You can drive while asleep and be fine.”
“Shut up,” I’d say. And that would be our on-going conversation after my driving school.
“I can’t wait till you get your fucking license and this is all over,” he’d say.
“No, shit! I can’t wait!” And I’d be up with insomnia replaying all my scenarios with Boo Boo, and all the answers on the videos trying to re-set my brain to “illogical and dangerous” mode.
Driving in France - Part IV
My driving lessons continued. Boo Boo yelled at me all the time. We became brother and sister, siblings who did not get along, ever! I could barely stand it but that's how he functioned with everyone.
A common phrase he would say to me was, "Arrêtez le cinéma!," Or in English, "Enough with the drama!"
And so it went like this for many lessons. We'd pick up random students on the side of the road, or his girlfriend or we'd go to administrative buildings where he would turn in paper work. He was great at combining a driving lesson with all the other business aspects he had going on.
Once while we were driving around, I had the pleasure of listening to the radio sexogolist accept male callers. Today's special topic was sex after child birth.
However, the women were not calling in for advice. No, it was the men. They were complaining about their wives not wanting to have sex. The poor deprived creatures.
"She says it hurts," one man complained on the radio.
"Yes, yes," the female sexologist sympathized. "Sex can be very painful after a woman has given birth. The vagina has not healed properly, it's still very tender and the birth canal has gone through a lot. It takes time for it to heal."
"Yes, but I need to have sex," replied the husband who must have been a selfish bastard schmuck fuck face to worry about his own needs while his wife's fragile vagina wasn't even in remission and she probably had a baby stuck to her breast 24/7 as well.
"You need to be gentle with her," recommended the sexologist. "You'll be able to have sex with her soon. For now, see if there are other ways you can release your sexual energy with her," she advised.
"Well, she doesn't even seem to be in the mood lately...," he continued.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Warning!!!!!
The following paragraph is vulgar with graphic and sexual descriptions. Skip to last paragraph of story if you are a hyper-sensitive person.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Duh? Hello? For any of you male readers out there, please tell me you are aware that childbirth can be painful (and tiring) and everything doesn't just magically go back to normal over night. I mean, really! If you shat a fucking volleyball out of your ass, would you really be thinking about anal beads or whatever you fancy the next week or two with a gung ho attitude? No, I highly doubt it. (Not that you male readers like things up your ass, just an example, but if you do like things up your ass, that's okay too.) Or, if you don't like the ass analogy and find it really annoying that I am comparing a vagina to your ass, you could always imagine popping a lemon out of your urethra hole and then wanting a major blow job afterward. So, yes, I'm annoyed that a man whose wife just gave birth is bitching about his wife's low sex-drive.
Anyway, sorry to get off track...
I couldn't believe I had to sit next to Boo Boo while driving AND listen to this!
Was this some sort of perverted test? Was this normal in France? I don't know. I just kept driving.
A common phrase he would say to me was, "Arrêtez le cinéma!," Or in English, "Enough with the drama!"
And so it went like this for many lessons. We'd pick up random students on the side of the road, or his girlfriend or we'd go to administrative buildings where he would turn in paper work. He was great at combining a driving lesson with all the other business aspects he had going on.
Once while we were driving around, I had the pleasure of listening to the radio sexogolist accept male callers. Today's special topic was sex after child birth.
However, the women were not calling in for advice. No, it was the men. They were complaining about their wives not wanting to have sex. The poor deprived creatures.
"She says it hurts," one man complained on the radio.
"Yes, yes," the female sexologist sympathized. "Sex can be very painful after a woman has given birth. The vagina has not healed properly, it's still very tender and the birth canal has gone through a lot. It takes time for it to heal."
"Yes, but I need to have sex," replied the husband who must have been a selfish bastard schmuck fuck face to worry about his own needs while his wife's fragile vagina wasn't even in remission and she probably had a baby stuck to her breast 24/7 as well.
"You need to be gentle with her," recommended the sexologist. "You'll be able to have sex with her soon. For now, see if there are other ways you can release your sexual energy with her," she advised.
"Well, she doesn't even seem to be in the mood lately...," he continued.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Warning!!!!!
The following paragraph is vulgar with graphic and sexual descriptions. Skip to last paragraph of story if you are a hyper-sensitive person.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Duh? Hello? For any of you male readers out there, please tell me you are aware that childbirth can be painful (and tiring) and everything doesn't just magically go back to normal over night. I mean, really! If you shat a fucking volleyball out of your ass, would you really be thinking about anal beads or whatever you fancy the next week or two with a gung ho attitude? No, I highly doubt it. (Not that you male readers like things up your ass, just an example, but if you do like things up your ass, that's okay too.) Or, if you don't like the ass analogy and find it really annoying that I am comparing a vagina to your ass, you could always imagine popping a lemon out of your urethra hole and then wanting a major blow job afterward. So, yes, I'm annoyed that a man whose wife just gave birth is bitching about his wife's low sex-drive.
Anyway, sorry to get off track...
I couldn't believe I had to sit next to Boo Boo while driving AND listen to this!
Was this some sort of perverted test? Was this normal in France? I don't know. I just kept driving.
Driving in France - Part III
My third lesson began a little like this...I walked to the driving school with about ten different conversations going on in my head. As you might remember, I was going to have to somehow work with this ugly-dumb-ass-teacher-guy which meant I needed to apologize or work something out so we could begin afresh. Well, he was waiting for me in the car at 10am on the dot which was a good sign. He motioned for me to get in the car. He shook my hand as he does with each student when class begins.
"Look," I said forcing a smile and trying not to pass out from lack of oxygen to my brain as I was so nervous I could barely breath, "Let's just forget about last lesson. I said some things, you said some things. Let's just put it all behind us. I am ready to do that."
"No," he said staring at me blankly, "I cannot forget what you said to me. I cannot put it all behind us."
I probably exhaled loudly. Maybe I held my breath. Maybe my eyes popped out of my head. I can't remember my reaction. I must have blocked it out since the situation sucked so bad. I obviously made it into the car at some point.
We began driving, he instructing me to turn right, turn left. We left the town center and were driving through what appeared to be an industrial zone, empty with large tilt-up buildings everywhere. I saw a big large gate.
"Go in there and park," he instructed me.
We went in through the gates and parked.
"Leave the engine on," he said.
Soon, two girls in their twenties got into the back of the car carrying books. One had dark brown eyes and very bad skin like Boo Boo. The other girl was petite and blond. Turns out we were picking up some chics at their professional business school, the equal to DeVry Institute I would say.
"Okay, let's go," Boo Boo said.
We pulled out and he began talking to the brown-eyed girl.
"So, how did your classes go?"
"Ohh, Boo Boo. I am having a hard time in math and English. They are just so hard!"
"Did you get your report cards? Show me, show me."
The girl passed a sheet of paper over to him.
I kept my eyes on the road while he chatted with this girl. He still gave me instructions now and then. The fact he wasn't concentrating too much on me anymore actually made me relax a little.
"You got a C in Math? Why? Why? You know better than that!" he said.
"Boo Boo, please! Don't give me any shit, okay?"
"Do I need to turn here?" I interrupted.
"No, no! Straight, go straight!"
"Oh, you have an accent. Where are you from?," the brown eyed girl asked me.
"The US," I said glancing at her in my rear view mirror.
"Oh, you're so lucky! You speak English and French! I want to go to the US so badly!," she said.
"Well, you should go. That's the best way to learn English," I said.
"I will one day, but first I'm getting married," she said smiling.
"Oh, really! You're getting married?"
"Yes. I'm marrying Boo Boo!"
I almost choked when she said that! I looked at Boo Boo. Boo Boo looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Yep, someone loves me..."
At that point, Boo Boo and I both started laughing. I don't know, but somehow the fact that we hated each other (although hate is a strong word) and he was marrying this young chic, well, it almost brought us together in an inexplicable way.
"Wow!," I said and the girl had no idea how full-packed with meaning my "wow" really was as I eyed Boo Boo and he glanced at me sideways.
We made it back to the school. We had at last done one full hour. I felt my driving was going rather smoothly but maybe Boo Boo was just too distracted that day to notice. And that concluded our third lesson.
"Look," I said forcing a smile and trying not to pass out from lack of oxygen to my brain as I was so nervous I could barely breath, "Let's just forget about last lesson. I said some things, you said some things. Let's just put it all behind us. I am ready to do that."
"No," he said staring at me blankly, "I cannot forget what you said to me. I cannot put it all behind us."
I probably exhaled loudly. Maybe I held my breath. Maybe my eyes popped out of my head. I can't remember my reaction. I must have blocked it out since the situation sucked so bad. I obviously made it into the car at some point.
We began driving, he instructing me to turn right, turn left. We left the town center and were driving through what appeared to be an industrial zone, empty with large tilt-up buildings everywhere. I saw a big large gate.
"Go in there and park," he instructed me.
We went in through the gates and parked.
"Leave the engine on," he said.
Soon, two girls in their twenties got into the back of the car carrying books. One had dark brown eyes and very bad skin like Boo Boo. The other girl was petite and blond. Turns out we were picking up some chics at their professional business school, the equal to DeVry Institute I would say.
"Okay, let's go," Boo Boo said.
We pulled out and he began talking to the brown-eyed girl.
"So, how did your classes go?"
"Ohh, Boo Boo. I am having a hard time in math and English. They are just so hard!"
"Did you get your report cards? Show me, show me."
The girl passed a sheet of paper over to him.
I kept my eyes on the road while he chatted with this girl. He still gave me instructions now and then. The fact he wasn't concentrating too much on me anymore actually made me relax a little.
"You got a C in Math? Why? Why? You know better than that!" he said.
"Boo Boo, please! Don't give me any shit, okay?"
"Do I need to turn here?" I interrupted.
"No, no! Straight, go straight!"
"Oh, you have an accent. Where are you from?," the brown eyed girl asked me.
"The US," I said glancing at her in my rear view mirror.
"Oh, you're so lucky! You speak English and French! I want to go to the US so badly!," she said.
"Well, you should go. That's the best way to learn English," I said.
"I will one day, but first I'm getting married," she said smiling.
"Oh, really! You're getting married?"
"Yes. I'm marrying Boo Boo!"
I almost choked when she said that! I looked at Boo Boo. Boo Boo looked at me and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, "Yep, someone loves me..."
At that point, Boo Boo and I both started laughing. I don't know, but somehow the fact that we hated each other (although hate is a strong word) and he was marrying this young chic, well, it almost brought us together in an inexplicable way.
"Wow!," I said and the girl had no idea how full-packed with meaning my "wow" really was as I eyed Boo Boo and he glanced at me sideways.
We made it back to the school. We had at last done one full hour. I felt my driving was going rather smoothly but maybe Boo Boo was just too distracted that day to notice. And that concluded our third lesson.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Driving in France - Part II
The second lesson, my teacher was very late. During our entire drive, he had the radio on. I love music especially when driving, but he had it on a talk show. The talk show was a sexologist giving advice to callers. Not only was this distracting but also a little uncomfortable and it was ear-piercing loud. Nothing incredibly educational occurred during our second lesson.
I was driving happily with him on the highway in the middle of nowhere when he began screaming, "Pull over, pull over!" I didn't know where or why and he jerked the steering wheel and made me slow down. At the side of the street was a boy waiting.
"Stop, stop!," Cried Boo Boo.
I stopped the car and the boy got in the back. Boo Boo reached over the back of his seat and shook the boy's hand. From their conversation, I gathered he was the student driving after my lesson was over.
"Why didn't you stop when I asked you?," Boo Boo said staring at me.
"Because we were on the high way and I didn't understand why we were stopping," I protested.
"When I tell you to stop, you don't need to question why. Are you going to question me every time I ask you to do something? Hmm?"
"I don't know," I mumbled feeling annoyed.
We ended back in front of the driving school a little less than 40 minutes later. I was not enjoying his teaching methods and considering how much I was paying, I felt upset that he wasn't giving me a full hour. Should I say something? Our conversation went a little like this. I said, "Are we going to make up the time for the last lessons we've had at some point?"
Wide eyed he asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, our lessons are supposed to be an hour but we've barely done more than 40 minutes the last couple times."
Shaking his head he said, "Look, I work 12 hour days. I don't even get time to eat lunch. If one of my students is late or we get stuck in traffic, I can't help that.
I am the teacher. You are the student. If you aren't happy with how I run my school then you could go somewhere else."
My heart was pounding. I always had a hard time staying calm during these types of debates where the French know the perfect thing to say to get me shocked and tongue-tied so I repeated something my French husband would've said. "Listen, the way you manage your time is not my problem. I am your client. I am paying you for one hour classes. If you cannot give me a one hour lesson, it is your problem, not mine!"
This comment, as you probably have already guessed, did not smooth things out.
He got so mad, he threw his folders onto the desk. Other students waiting were watching us. "You cannot talk to me this way. I am the teacher," he said.
"If you cannot give me a one hour lesson, then I don't think we can do these classes together anymore. I want a refund."
"Refund? Look, you can stop lessons with me. Fine, go! But, you will not get any refunds!"
I left the place furious and shouted about it all to my husband who fled back to the school and came back an hour later. What had I done? Would my husband be able to get our money back? What was I going to do?
My husband came into our apartment shaking his head.
"What happened? What happened?" I desperately needed to know.
"Oh, God! He is impossible to talk to", my husband laughed. "He's dumb, he's just dumb, that's all."
"I know, but what happened? Did he reimburse us?," I asked.
"Huh? No, I scheduled you another class for tomorrow. You're going to have to apologize to him and make it work."
"What? What? I can't learn with him! He's awful! I can't go back!"
"That's the best I can do. He's not going to refund us."
I was driving happily with him on the highway in the middle of nowhere when he began screaming, "Pull over, pull over!" I didn't know where or why and he jerked the steering wheel and made me slow down. At the side of the street was a boy waiting.
"Stop, stop!," Cried Boo Boo.
I stopped the car and the boy got in the back. Boo Boo reached over the back of his seat and shook the boy's hand. From their conversation, I gathered he was the student driving after my lesson was over.
"Why didn't you stop when I asked you?," Boo Boo said staring at me.
"Because we were on the high way and I didn't understand why we were stopping," I protested.
"When I tell you to stop, you don't need to question why. Are you going to question me every time I ask you to do something? Hmm?"
"I don't know," I mumbled feeling annoyed.
We ended back in front of the driving school a little less than 40 minutes later. I was not enjoying his teaching methods and considering how much I was paying, I felt upset that he wasn't giving me a full hour. Should I say something? Our conversation went a little like this. I said, "Are we going to make up the time for the last lessons we've had at some point?"
Wide eyed he asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, our lessons are supposed to be an hour but we've barely done more than 40 minutes the last couple times."
Shaking his head he said, "Look, I work 12 hour days. I don't even get time to eat lunch. If one of my students is late or we get stuck in traffic, I can't help that.
I am the teacher. You are the student. If you aren't happy with how I run my school then you could go somewhere else."
My heart was pounding. I always had a hard time staying calm during these types of debates where the French know the perfect thing to say to get me shocked and tongue-tied so I repeated something my French husband would've said. "Listen, the way you manage your time is not my problem. I am your client. I am paying you for one hour classes. If you cannot give me a one hour lesson, it is your problem, not mine!"
This comment, as you probably have already guessed, did not smooth things out.
He got so mad, he threw his folders onto the desk. Other students waiting were watching us. "You cannot talk to me this way. I am the teacher," he said.
"If you cannot give me a one hour lesson, then I don't think we can do these classes together anymore. I want a refund."
"Refund? Look, you can stop lessons with me. Fine, go! But, you will not get any refunds!"
I left the place furious and shouted about it all to my husband who fled back to the school and came back an hour later. What had I done? Would my husband be able to get our money back? What was I going to do?
My husband came into our apartment shaking his head.
"What happened? What happened?" I desperately needed to know.
"Oh, God! He is impossible to talk to", my husband laughed. "He's dumb, he's just dumb, that's all."
"I know, but what happened? Did he reimburse us?," I asked.
"Huh? No, I scheduled you another class for tomorrow. You're going to have to apologize to him and make it work."
"What? What? I can't learn with him! He's awful! I can't go back!"
"That's the best I can do. He's not going to refund us."
Driving in France - Part I
Ah, the joys of driving in France. After over 15 years of driving in the US, I miss our wonderful American streets laid out perfectly like grids. Signs that say exactly what you can do. Parking lots! Intersections that are two perfect streets happily crossing into a little "t". Maybe this isn't the case in New York or Chicago, but in cities where things are master-planned, you can practically drive without thinking. To drive in France you must be alert at all times, like a soldier prepared for an attack! And legally, you must take driving lessons and learn their rules called "le code." Unlike our written driving test, the French test needs lots of preparation. In fact, you will need several months worth of intense studying and re-setting your mind from practical to impractical, from common sense, to dangerous. And passing the practical driving test successfully is in another league all together.
If you are lucky enough to come from what is called a "reciprocating" state, you have a full year to exchange your US license for a French one. Unfortunately, I did not come from one of these states. Not only did I need to enroll for the driving "code", but I needed to learn how to drive a stick shift car as automatic cars in France are made for the handicapped. And, I am not joking in the least. I found a school nearby my apartment and was extremely motivated because not only would I be getting my license, I would also be able to drive a stick. The driving school was tiny, it had enough room in the front for two chairs where you sit when you sign all the paper work.
My teacher, nicknamed "Boo Boo," was a Moroccan man by origin. He had long yellow beaver-like teeth, pocked skin and was balding though he was under 40 years old. For my first lesson, I waited in one of the two chairs for almost 15 minutes. Then, he told me to get into his car. We did one loop around the neighborhood, then he had me park on the side of the street while he went into his office to make phone calls. My task was to memorize the placement of first, second, third and fourth gear while idiotically pumping the clutch in and out smoothly. I remind you, this was in a parked car on the side of the road, the engine was off. My class which should have been one hour, was barely 40 minutes. After 15 minutes of gear shifting by myself, he got back into the car and made me demonstrate to him how much I had learned. Then, he let me drive a little. I was so nervous but feeling courageous and excited too. I drove for about 10 minutes and then he asked me to park in front of the school and that concluded our first lesson.
If you are lucky enough to come from what is called a "reciprocating" state, you have a full year to exchange your US license for a French one. Unfortunately, I did not come from one of these states. Not only did I need to enroll for the driving "code", but I needed to learn how to drive a stick shift car as automatic cars in France are made for the handicapped. And, I am not joking in the least. I found a school nearby my apartment and was extremely motivated because not only would I be getting my license, I would also be able to drive a stick. The driving school was tiny, it had enough room in the front for two chairs where you sit when you sign all the paper work.
My teacher, nicknamed "Boo Boo," was a Moroccan man by origin. He had long yellow beaver-like teeth, pocked skin and was balding though he was under 40 years old. For my first lesson, I waited in one of the two chairs for almost 15 minutes. Then, he told me to get into his car. We did one loop around the neighborhood, then he had me park on the side of the street while he went into his office to make phone calls. My task was to memorize the placement of first, second, third and fourth gear while idiotically pumping the clutch in and out smoothly. I remind you, this was in a parked car on the side of the road, the engine was off. My class which should have been one hour, was barely 40 minutes. After 15 minutes of gear shifting by myself, he got back into the car and made me demonstrate to him how much I had learned. Then, he let me drive a little. I was so nervous but feeling courageous and excited too. I drove for about 10 minutes and then he asked me to park in front of the school and that concluded our first lesson.
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