What the hell is that thing? It’s written plain as day on the side of that piddly yellow eyesore: “drive without a license.” What, you mean on the same roads as licensed drivers? Yup.
Double standards is the WTF chapter of French License. Glorified golf carts on busy thoroughfares are just the beginning. There’s an underworld of loopholes, exceptions, outright lack of oversight, and authorised cheats for the game of life. Welcome to the murky world where the rules don’t apply.
Of course, to live in that world, you must show your face in a toy car like this:
Happy Fructidor, revolutionaries! It’s the fruitiest month of the year. That’s September to you and me. For fifteen years following the French Revolution, they established a new calendar in France. The months were very related to the seasons, what grew, what was ripe to eat, ready to be celebrated. I love the idea, but it didn’t last because the math didn’t work out, and it confounded international trade. You can follow the Wikipedia link to dive deeper into the revolutionary calendar, if you want to. There, I learned something I’d never noticed before.
Look at this and tell me what you see: sept, oct, nov, dec. Don’t think months, think latin, or ‘romance languages’ derived from latin. Do you see the pattern? It’s 7, 8, 9, 10. Possibly one of the reasons I never remarked it is those aren’t the 7th through 10th months. After years of starting the year with Spring, in March, the Romans added January and February, pushing everything else back two months. Months one through eight are named for gods or emperors. In other words, the last four months of the year don’t mean anything.
No wonder Oktoberfest is held in September. The month names which stand for something are over, and the rest of the year runs off the rails. Might as well drink and sing Jon Denver’s ‘Country Roads.’
Oktoberfest reminds me of the subject of an upcoming post! Look out for it.
Right is wrong. That’s not a political statement. It’s the reality of driving in France: they look one way before crossing the road.
A 1910 law is still on the books, striking fear behind the steering wheel. Chapter 11 of French License details this bankrupt (get it? Ch. 11?) and archaic rule of the road.
There are many forms of transportation, and I seem to get in trouble with all of them. Bike follies II is the second chapter of French License exposing my foibles with la petite reine.
Meanwhile, Paris is attempting to become more bike-friendly. Where currently, bicyclists must jockey for position with busses, taxis, parked cars and motorists driving selfishly, soon they’ll have their own dedicated and protected bike lanes. A very long one is going up on the rue de Rivoli (parallel to the Louvre), and another along the Seine for several kilometres of the voie Georges-Pompidou. While this is fantastic for two-wheelers, practically everybody else is incensed at the mayor.
Hidalgo has arbitrarily done a land grab without consulting citizens, businesses that need to have goods delivered, commuters, or even the police who worry about being slowed down, or completely cutoff from coming to the aid of people. Her way of doing things has rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. A book will be released this week detailing her actions and reactions: Notre-Drame de Paris, by Airy Routier and Nadia Le Brun. No wonder Airy Routier is against her. Hidalgo is anti-car, and ‘routier’ means ‘truck driver.’
Commuter train chapter of French License. A window into the routine of a working stiff. Many workers. Strangers huddled together. When something out-of-the-ordinary happens: nothing. How long will they accept purgatory?
People live a long time nowadays. Especially French folks. Lifer is the name of this French License chapter, revealing an unbelievable aspect of the pink permit. It’s longer than a grandfather clause. More like a great-great-grandfather clause.
Cultural differences are explored here in the perception of the driving document on both sides of the Atlantic. One side sees a driver’s license as a necessity. The other side sees a hunting permit.
Prospective readers ask “It’s not all about getting a driver’s license, is it?” No, Virginie, the book French License is about my adventures in France, with bureaucracy as a backdrop. Proof: here we are at chapter 17, Driver’s Ed signup, and I’ve only just begun.
A lot happened before I bit the bullet. What led me to the straight and narrow? The ‘i’ word. Most Americans detest it, and the French love it most of all.
My hope is that all the ludicrousness before, during and after shines through, making for an entertaining read. There are figures to surprise you, characters to chuckle at, and a quest to complete. Won’t you join me?
The story of our Dodge is a Greek tragedy in three acts. This is Dwayne I of French License. He’s like me, an American, far from home, bumbling about, hoping to avoid falling into traps. This picture was taken on a drive to Brittany. Vacation. Better days. You can see his California plates on the roads of France. What an advantage that was! That brief window allowed us carefree cruising, a fleeting chance to look at the world outside our windshield. After the window closed, we became like all the other drivers here- head down, eyes riveted on the speedometer, and fearful of oppression. This chapter explains why.
One last pause now, at that picture of Dwayne, when he was younger, and symbolised the promise of pleasure.
It’s the hokey-pokey with the administrationé. I put the paper in, they throw the paper out. I put another paper in, and they shuffle it all about. It’s called the Driver’s Ed paperwork shuffle in this episode of French License. I liken it to the voyages of this little guy:
Who knew JP had it in him? I certainly never expected needing the services of a stuntman. We were just moving house, after all. Well, we did move, and this chapter of French License is called Moving with McQueen. Some slick manoeuvres were necessary to get us out of a jam, and into our new pad.
