“Never Get a French Car”

When I found out that the weekend my friend Christine and I were leaving Paris for Tours was a pont, a long holiday weekend with its attendant crowded trains, I suggested that we rent a car in Paris and drive instead.  Christine thought this a fine idea so I arranged the rental.  Last summer I had picked up a small rental car in Caen and driven around the north of Normandy, enjoying the freedom and savoring the gorgeous countryside. The car was easy to handle and I got used to the manual transmission quickly.   Manuals were what I had driven for years, after all.  Why should this year be any different? My confidence was boundless.  My concerns about driving near Paris were allayed by the brilliant idea, also mine, of getting the car at Orly Airport, thus avoiding the urban traffic.  Everyone thought it made sense.  Plus, it wasn’t all that long a drive to Tours.  Done.

At the rental counter at Orly the agent tried to talk us into getting a better car.  More expensive, of course.  He kept saying the Peugeot model I had requested was big and perhaps we should upgrade to an automatic.  Also more expensive.  We couldn’t get a smaller car at that point, but anything more expensive was no problem.  We stuck with the original Peugeot. He said it was brand new and very nice.  Great.

The agent who showed us to the car agreed to set the GPS for us in English.  I hadn’t wanted that technology, but it came with the car, so who was I to complain.  Besides, it might come in useful, since I hadn’t bought a map.  I watched him do it and told Christine it couldn’t be easier.  It was the last time I ever saw that screen.  He also demonstrated the state-of-the-art, push-button ignition.  Wow!  We were good to go!  He left us, I adjusted the seat, let out the clutch, and the car immediately crapped out.  I knew I’d have to get used to the feel of the clutch.  The high-tech dashboard flashed out instructions: “Declutch and press the Start button.”  Ok  I de-clutched, put the car in neutral, and nothing except red flashing across the dash.  Same message.  I tried several more times and couldn’t get the car started.  Cars were piling up behind us, starting to blow their horns, and I was beginning to panic.  Suddenly the car started.  I didn’t know what I had done differently, but I announced that we were going to pull in to a parking place until I figured this out.  Ok.  Don’t panic  I got the car started again and attempted to put the car in reverse.  It inched forward.  Three more attempts and we were licking the wall.  No reverse.  Christine noticed something about the gear shift and suggested I lift the gear shift up.  Voila!  It went into reverse.  Thank you, dear friend.  I inched into the lane, and the car cut off again.  NOoooooo!!!!  I couldn’t get it started.  Same message on the dashboard about de-clutching, same useless attempts, cars accumulating behind us.  Dear God.  What was I going to do?   A young man in the car directly behind us got out and asked if we needed help.  You could say so.  I explained what the car was telling me and he suggested that I put the clutch in.  When I told him the instructions were to de-clutch (Doesn’t that mean to release the clutch?)  I did what this kindly young man said and the car started.  Holy Hell!  We finally got out of the garage.  Only 200 miles to go.

As we made our way through the traffic I only messed up the gears a few times, stalling once, but very briefly.  After all, I had learned how to start the car hadn’t I?  The GPS had reverted to French and Christine couldn’t find the language settings, but I understood the French directions so wasn’t worried.  As we moved farther from Paris we both relaxed a bit and eventually reached a large truck stop where we were eager to eat and get some drinks.  Somewhere about this point the GPS voice, Fifi, started speaking English!  Maybe Joan of Arc had sent a miracle.  We welcomed her back with open arms.

When we got out of the car I clicked the lock symbol on the electronic key.  The lights blinked but the doors didn’t lock.  I tried again.  No luck.  I examined the key as if it were the Rosetta Stone.  Enlightenment was not forthcoming.  When in doubt, read the manual.  We found the section about the key and how to lock the car.  The magic button still wasn’t responding.  Ok, well, it says right here that you can use an actual, old-fashioned key that pops out when you slide this little button on the electronic key.  We both pushed, pulled, poked, tried to pull the invisible key out of the invisible slot.  Nothing doing.  Was this revenge for Freedom Fries?  On the verge of taking turns guarding the un-lockable car, a young man walked past us to an auto parked in the next space.  Aha!  Youth!  They can figure out all things vaguely related to computers.  This young man also pushed, pulled and poked, but couldn’t release the key-key.  He noticed that the picture in the manual didn’t match the key we had.  Turn page.  There it is!  Still didn’t work.  Back to the plan to take turns guarding the car.  Our young Frenchman then noticed something about re-setting the key.  That sounded far-fetched, but we decided to try it.  Eureka!  Our electronic lock-unlock worked!  The young man got into his car, a Japanese model and said, “Never get a French car.  Never get a French car.”