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?
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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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