Paris on wheels

I have a car! After three years of essentially living carless (except for weekends when Denis and I are together in his car), I have joined the ranks of the wheeled in Paris. And it's taking some getting used to.

Back in the States, like most Americans, I practically lived in my car. Because I spent so many of my waking hours on the road, I indulged myself in a very nice one: a Saab convertible in a luscious shade of gold, with a great sound system. Giving up that car was one of the less pleasant parts of moving to Paris.

But I got over it. I quickly discovered the charms of a carless life. And unlike in the U.S., where living without a car is unthinkable--at least in most locales--in Paris, I was part of a multitude. As traffic-choked as this city is, many people make do with the public transportation system and...their feet. And often, those who have cars use them only rarely, which is why you see so many vintage models in pristine condition here.

As I settled into my new home, I learned rather quickly to navigate Paris by Métro. Closer to home, I developed my own personal maze of shortest routes between home and my habitual shopping stops. I made my rounds pulling my shopping "caddy"--that upright, 4-wheeled shopping cart that is ubiquitous in Paris-- behind me. Given the amount of cooking I do, my arm often felt wrenched out of its socket by the weight of my provisions by the time I staggered home. But, everyone around me was schlepping too.

Meanwhile, shortly after I moved to Paris, I started this web site. And eventually, some of you started ordering from the products I offer on the Shop Online pages. Guess who packs and ships those orders?

That's right. And pretty soon, I was at my wits' end without wheels. I tried taking a taxi to the post office with my array of boxes, and that didn't go over well at all. The driver only grudgingly consented to take me, protesting heatedly that he was a taxi and not a delivery service.

When orders increased during the pre-holiday season last year, Denis bought me my first set of wheels--a collapsible dolly. Picture it: Me, wrestling your boxes and a dolly into our tiny irascible elevator, which protested by doggedly slamming its doors shut on my fingers every moment I neglected to block them open. At the local post office, I obviously became an object of commentary and conjecture. All those packages going to the U.S.! An on-line business! Do Americans really buy from the Internet?!

I'd like to think that--barring a few moments of extremely grouchy fatigue--that I bore it all in good humor. But lately, I'd complained that being without a car was simply making my life too inefficient. Two dolly trips to the post office in one day is a bit much for even the most willing soul. Denis and I started a car dialogue.


Our decision was hastened when we were able to secure control of a parking spot in the courtyard of our building. The privilege of off-street parking in Paris is worth many thousand euros per year. This coup clinched the deal; we were ready to buy a second car.

Denis knew that I missed my Saab convertible. At the same time, we both knew that the vehicle we bought had to be practical enough to take packages to the post office, above all, yet small enough not to be an inordinate hassle to drive in Paris.

Last Friday, we took delivery on a new Citroên C3 Pluriel. You see it in the photo above, nestled cozily in its hard-won parking spot. In a country where most cars are small and similar, the Pluriel really stands out. It has a delightful mix of sleek techno and retro lines. From the front, it is all ultra-modern, sleekly French design. From the back, it is wonderfully reminiscent of the beloved old Citroên Deux Chevaux (2 Horse), many well-preserved exemplars of which still tool around France today.

But what I like best about the C3 Pluriel is its Frenchness. While it is astonishingly electronic and simple to drive, it has a number of complex, multi-functions and gizmos that make it oh-so-French. The roof, for example. It opens automatically, pleating at the back, to make a cabriolet. Alternatively, you can lower the pleated roof into a special compartment below the trunk to make it an almost-convertible (a berline, in French). Finally, by simply opening a couple of interior clips, you can entirely remove its 'wings,'--the arched parts over the windows, and turn it into a cunning "Spider pick-up" (or "speedair peekup" in French).

Does anyone out there remember that goofy, crazy Citroên of the 1970's--the one that had a hydraulic system that raised the chassis up when you started the car, and lowered it to within a couple inches of the pavement when you stopped? Well, don't worry, the great Citroên hydraulic tradition has not died out in the 21st century. My little Pluriel will lift its--well, rear-end--to three different height levels to withstand various load levels--all with a simple flick of a switch. Ah, the genius of French automobile engineering!

Which is all wonderful, but buying a car in Paris is one thing; driving is quite another! Not only had I not driven in 3 years (except on vacations, when Denis and I practice role reversal), but the French drive by a whole other set of rules than we Americans.

Driving in Paris requires an entirely different set of reflexes. First of all, this is a city that evolved before cars. With the exception of the grand boulevards, which were slammed through the city by the Napoleonic architect and planner Haussman, laying waste to ancient neighborhoods, streets in Paris run every which way and only rarely at right angles to each other.

Many intersections consist of 3 or more streets. Countless multiple intersections exist where many streets cross each other, each with its own light. To the inexperienced person, this looks like one complex intersection. You (the unwitting American) figure you enter it, turn and keep going. But no, you enter, turn, and stop immediately after you turn at another light.

And the lights are almost never placed up high in the middle of the intersection where you can see them, as in the U.S. They are always at the right side of the road, down more or less at car level. Invariably, your view of the light is blocked by a part of your car's anatomy. Why are the lights placed that way? Why, ask any Frenchman! He'll tell you, as Denis incredulously told me: Because French people stop at the light! If you placed said light in the middle of the intersection, they'd stop right there in the middle! Isn't it obvious?

To me the most incredible thing about Parisian driving is the priority to the right rule. Now, in theory, the same rule applies in the U.S., except we don't leave things up to chance--that is, the chance that motorists are going to apply the rule correctly. When was the last time you were at an intersection in the U.S. where there wasn't either a yield or stop sign or a traffic light in at least one direction?

Well, in Paris, about 90% of the intersections have no indication. This means that you constantly have to look to the right at intersections for oncoming traffic, to which you yield right-of-way. Translated, the right-of-way at most Paris intersections is left up to the good judgment and courtesy (cough! splutter! choke!) of Parisian drivers. In reality, it means hesitate a microsecond and someone is either shooting around you, in front of you, honking, making rude gestures, or all of the above.

Then there's the French paradox of the Etoile, the huge star-shaped, rotary intersection at the Arc de Triomphe. What's the exception to the priority-to-the-right rule here? Well, it's that essentially, at the Etoile, there are no rules, to the extent that he who is most aggressive, wins. The sight of the traffic at the Etoile at rush hour is enough to make a foreigner blanch. It resembles nothing so much as a giant bumper car rink, with cars going every which way and motorcycles going at cross currents with everyone else. It's such a free-for-all that in the case of an accident, the fault is automatically shared 50-50 for insurance purposes.

Needless to say, I was traumatized about driving my darling new car home from the dealership two arrondissements away on the first day. While I could negotiate the Métro with my eyes closed, I was clueless about how to get from there to here in a car. The night before, I peered anxiously at maps. I plotted out several alternative routes, in the probable case that I would be foiled by one-way streets.

After the technician spent half an hour explaining to me all the electronic marvels of my Pluriel, I gassed it up, took a last trembling look at the map, and edged out into traffic. I quickly realized that all my map study was useless; from the viewpoint of a car, the street names--placed on the walls of buildings at corners--were almost never visible.

I ultimately felt my way to the Rive Gauche quay that runs along the Seine. I was straining to find a bridge that would lead me across into familiar territory when I blinked hard. Was that policeman standing at the side of the street motioning me to pull over? Yes, there could be no mistaking his exaggerated gestures as he swept his arms dramatically to indicate just where I should stop.

Oh-oh, what could I possibly have done wrong? I hadn't even gone through any intersections in the last 100 meters or so, had I? I was driving slowly, wasn't I...Oui, monsieur? "Your papers please, Madame."

Luckily for me, the all-seeing Denis had prepared me for this moment. I knew just what to present. He looked them over for about one second and handed them back to me, smiling. "Just what is this car, anyway, Madame?" he enquired. "The new C3 Pluriel," I quavered. "I just left the dealership with it. Is there a problem?"

"No," he answered cheerily, gesturing at two fellow officers behind him. "We just wanted to see your car."

How do you say "whew!" in French? I'll let you know when I brave the Etoile.

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