Villa Veltsos: Driving Miss Jennifer

Me: How am I doing?
Hubby: You really need to relax. Just stay in the center of your lane and expect that they will stay in--or move back into--their lane.
Me: I can't! The other cars are driven by French drivers, and by definition that means that they are aggressive and unpredictable!
Hubby: Ok, but I'm pretty sure some of the leaves on that hedge just brushed against my hand.

When we made the decision to move to Pont du Loup, I knew that one of the biggest adjustments I would have to make would be learning how to drive. Hubby and I have visited this area six or seven times over the past two decades, and he has done all the driving. I have driven on the French highways, near Beau Frere's house outside of Geneva, and even reached 100 mph on the German auto route outside of Munich, but the driving and parking habits of the Riviera terrified me.

A Citroen 2V "Deux Cheveaux" automobile.

A Citroen 2V. Public domain image by Pol at French Wikipedia.

Let me remind you that I grew up in South Louisiana, a land so flat that it is literally sinking into the Gulf of Mexico. I live in southern Minnesota in an area known for its prairies where, with the exception of the hills around the Minnesota River, you can see for miles across corn and soybean fields.

And now I live on the side of a mountain. Any trip requires me to drive uphill or downhill and involves several turns and switchbacks on roads that were certainly designed for horses and carts. Today, the roads seem more suitable for the stereotypical small European cars, like the famous Deux Cheveaux or Fiat, than the SUVs, white delivery vans, and full-size tour buses that actually use them.

We are guilty, too, as we drive the Nissan Quashqai that we purchased from Beau Frere when we arrived. There hardly seems to be enough room for one of these vehicles to drive on these narrow roads, much less for two of us to pass side by side. In fact, there is a tunnel nearby that is literally one car wide. A sign at the tunnel entrance indicates which side gets priority, and if you encounter (i.e., meet head on) another vehicle in the tunnel without the priority then you must reverse your way out and find a place to pull over to let the other car pass. This happened to us on Monday, and I screamed before I could stop myself.

And don't even get me started about the parking lots! Our car, like many others, has a button that pulls the side mirrors against the window when the car is parked, which is a necessity if you want to be able to squeeze out of your vehicle. In August, there was an incident in a Grasse parking garage in which Hubby could not open his door at all. He had to enter from the back passenger door, climb over Boy1, and then settle into the driver's seat. From there, he pulled forward out of the parking space so that I could open my own door and enter.

But I digress.

A red and a yellow Ferrari driving through Pont du Loup.

A Ferrari caravan driving through Pont du Loup.
Image by jenveltsos

Knowing how to operate a motor vehicle and knowing how to drive in the south of France are not the same thing.

I know how to drive a five-gear manual transmission, but that doesn't mean that I knew that second and third gears would become my best friends and fourth gear would be a distant memory.
I know how to pass a slower moving car or bicycle, but doing so on an uphill road that curves every 75 feet takes nerves of steel, and mine seem to be only aluminum.
I know how to parallel park on a busy street in only three maneuvers (thanks, Dad!), but that doesn't mean that I am able to squeeze in between a Fiat and a support column in an underground garage without inching forward almost imperceptibly and raising the ire of the French drivers behind me. (And if you have ever been in a French parking lot then you know that the paint they use on the ground causes tires to create a deafening squeak that suggests an imminent disaster, even though you may be simply turning a corner.)

Some other quirks about French driving:

Traditionally, when driving within a village, the road to the right (coming uphill or downhill) gets priority over those driving on a larger road. If you fail to see a car approaching from the right, you may be ticketed for failure to yield. This rule is slowly disappearing, thank goodness.
All drivers are required to keep a neon yellow vest in their car. In case of an accident, you must don the vest and help direct traffic. If you are pulled over by the police and your vest is missing, you can be fined.
When entering a roundabout and turning right immediately, use the right turn signal. Otherwise, use the left turn signal until you approach the exit you want and then switch your turn signal to the right to alert other drivers of your intention to exit. If you fail to signal at the right moment or are blocked by a belligerent French driver who has settled comfortably in your blind spot, circle the intersection until it is clear. (Look, Big Ben! Parliament!)
Stop on the yellow light unless you are already in entering the intersection. Frankly, this is also the rule in the U.S. but no one follows it.

And nothing can prepare you for the sight of a city bus driver casually smoking a cigarette while navigating a bend in a narrow road with traffic on all sides.

We began slowly: When we arrived in Geneva, I drove our new car while Hubby drove the rental. (Our eight full-size suitcases were too much even for the Nissan.) The flat, wide roads gave me an opportunity to become familiar with the car. Then we drove south to our new home. I began learning more about the car's quirks and comforts on that six hour drive on the highway as the Boys and I listened to Mr. Penumbra's 24-Hour Bookstore and munched on Pringles. At Cannes (of film festival fame), we turned northeast and began winding up the mountain to Pont du Loup. Following Hubby was comforting. I did not have to think about anything other than keeping his car in sight and his advice to stay close to the right edge of the road. On a steep hill at the village of Opio, Boy1 and I leaned forward, willing the Nissan and it's load of luggage to continue up the hill without stalling. When we arrived in Pont du Loup, the whole family cheered for our safe arrival.

At first, Hubby drove and narrated his actions. The roads were full of slow tourists (some gawking at the views and others, like me, in fear of the mountain roads) and impatient locals. But near the end of the third week, Hubby insisted that I drive to the grocery with my co-pilot, Boy1. Explaining to the Boys that we all have to do things that make us afraid sometimes (note: preparing them for La Rentrée), I began to volunteer to drive more often.

Me: How was that?
Hubby: Not bad.
Me: I hit only two curbs on the turns today. That's improvement!
Hubby: Sure.

A friend from Minnesota was doing a tour of Italy and planned to spend a couple of nights here before returning to the U.S. We discovered that her arrival at the Nice train station coincided with a community-sponsored hike up to the village of Gourdon, so Hubby would accompany the Boys on that while I would drive to the city solo. We planned a test drive two weeks before so that I could practice. And there was a lot to practice: the seven switchbacks on the canyon road to Nice, driving in city traffic (population 1 million), locating the train station, and driving up and down the "snail's shell" of the parking garage ramp (Boy2's phrase). We celebrated with a walk around Vieux Nice and lunch at La Socrate, an excellent Lebanese restaurant just off the pedestrian/tram street Rue Jean Medecin.

Me: How was that?
Hubby: Much better. You stayed in the center of your lane, you mostly followed the speed limit, and I even saw you cut the corners on a couple of those curves.
Me: Yes. I was feeling very French today.
Hubby: But you really need to start using your turn signal in the roundabouts. You are freaking everyone out.
Me: Well, it's nice to return the favor.

Having driven to and from Nice (population: 1 million), I began feeling more comfortable driving when we ran errands. So when I had to go to La Poste and pick up a few items at the grocery, I told Hubby to stay home and work because I would go on my own. It was a beautiful, cloudless September day, and the coolness of the morning was just beginning to burn off. I drove to the shopping center in Pre du Lac, mailed my letter to the U.S., and bought some items at the grocery. Then I drove to the new boulangerie for a baguette and a café allongé.

Back at the car, I felt like I could finally handle some background noise, so I turned on the radio and found a jazz station. Nina Simone crooned softly as I cruised back to our village, sunlight streaming through the sunroof. As I slowed down for the speed bump in front of l'école, I glimpsed Boy1 playing basketball on the playground. Hey, I thought, I actually took my eyes off the road for a second and everything was OK!

Rounding the bend in the center of the village, I turned into the parking lot of the old hotel and slipped into Hubby's favorite parking spot. It's a small lot with an awkward half circle shape, so every inch is precious. I inched a little closer to the hotel...a little closer...BANG!

I hit La Reserve.

Don't worry, no harm was done to the car or the building. The only casualty was my pride, made worse because P, who owns the tabac next door, was outside and witnessed my blunder. I could almost hear her think, damn tourists. And she would be right, I suppose.

For the first year of a stay in France, I am allowed to use my U.S. driver's license, but if I wish to stay longer or become a citizen, I will be required to get a French driver's license. A few U.S. states* have reciprocal agreements with France so that the driver's licenses are exchangeable, but Minnesota is not one of them. That means I will be required to enroll in an auto école, then 2000 Euros to take the written and driving tests. If I fail, I must pay the fee each time I retake the exam. Once I pass the exam, I will have to paste a sticker on the back of my car--literally a scarlet letter A--to alert the world for two years that I am a "new" driver. The license is valid for 15 years.

Le sigh.

*U.S. states with driver's license reciprocation agreements are Arkansas, Colorado, Connecticut, Delaware, Florida, Illinois, Iowa, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, New Hampshire, Ohio, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, Texas, Virginia, and Wisconsin. Yep, Wisconsin.