Open Road

My first driving excursion in France

I’m here in France. No fanfare this time, no dramatic “I’m leaving my comfortable home in the US for the Great Unknown” farewell blog post, no “I have arrived in the land of sweet buttery pastries, my own form of heaven” arrival post. Just… well… here I am.

It’s day 3, and it hasn’t sunk in yet. I feel like I’m in another big American city, where, rather inconveniently, no one understands what I’m saying.

Anyway. Today’s adventure:

Pretty much my sole job while here will be to help drive for a family who, for medical reasons, find themselves driverless. Now, this family seems pretty darn perfect, and the work involved sounds pretty minimal, so I definitely wanted them to like me. That’s how I ended up exaggerating my manual transmission driving skills via email, when said skills were, at the time, nonexistent. See, automatic cars are practically impossible to find in France, much like manual cars are few and far between in the US. I knew the basic theory behind driving a manual car, as in, I knew *cognitively* what it takes, but I’d never had a car to practice on. And since the sole qualification for this job was to drive the car, I set to learning ASAP.

I took two lessons with a guy out in New Jersey who wasn’t exactly the model of professionalism. Basically we’re talking about a guy who happens to have a stick and is willing to give you the most basic hands-off advice on the cheap. You may wonder why I chose him, and I’ll refer you to the previous sentence, where I said: on the cheap. After two lessons I was able to ease into first from a stop and change from 1 to 2 to 3 (but not back down again). That’s it. I wasn’t willing to have another incomplete lesson, and I was only a few days from leaving, so I decided to rent a car in France instead and just throw myself into the fire, so to speak.

Not to spoil the story, but I’ll give you a hint: It was hell.

The thing no one really talks about with the old “sink or swim” adage is that while you are trying not to sink, you are miserably inhaling water and trying desperately to remain in the dear world of the living. It is not pleasant.

So. Let me set the scene for you. I’m in Lyon, the third largest city in France, where I’m spending a pleasant four or five days of vacation before continuing on to this job. The Enterprise car rental agency I chose is the closest one, at the train station. This train station is in the absolute heart of the city, Lyon Part Dieu. It’s the same kind of scene as Union Station in DC or Penn Station in New York. It’s messy.

The car is on the sixth floor of the garage. After checking out the car with the agent, I’m ready to go. Out of nowhere, a large group waiting for their car begin to fan out into the driving area, just as I’m putting the car into first. I’m self conscious about them watching me and also know there’s a high probability I’ll hit them, but I guess my terrified face was apparent enough through the window because they scattered very quickly as I pulled off. Down the tight spiral ramp to the first floor. And bam, we’re in Lyon downtown.

Everything was great from here on out. I have trouble, but the car hasn’t stalled. My biggest issue thus far has been stopping, but my menacing look was enough to stop pedestrians from crossing and I didn’t actually have to really stop the car all the way up to the highway. And then it was all open road. 

I drove two, two and a half hours to Dijon, had a pleasant lunch (unfortunately not featuring mustard) and got back in the car.


Now, my rental car was due back at 8pm. I didn’t want to push it too late, because I absolutely didn’t want to drive at night.


So instead, I ended up in rush hour traffic, getting to the Lyon outskirts around 6:30pm.


Traffic on the highway outside Lyon was bumper to bumper, but I felt pretty good about myself for navigating it. Shift into first; ease off the clutch, add some gas. Foot back on the clutch. Brake to a stop. Do it again. Up into second now. Okay, it’s slowing down. It’s stopping. Put it into neutral. Come to a complete stop. I continued like that until traffic let up and I could ease on into downtown, which was slightly more predictable.

Until.

Within three blocks of the train station, there was one of those underground tunnels that dips down under a street or two and comes back up. They have a ton of them in DC. This one seemed to have a particularly steep uphill at the end, with a traffic light right at the very top. I knew it would be a problem before I even got to it. Traffic slowed, and I had to stop at the base of the hill. The light was remarkably quick, enough for 3-4 cars only, so the pressure was on. Another green light cycle. Now I’m at the middle of the hill. That’s where the trouble started. The next time the light turned green, I was trying to start on the hill and hurry up so that I could make it through the light. I guess I popped off the clutch too quick. The car stalled. I turned it off and back on again. In the rear view mirror I see the driver behind me raise his hands in the air in exasperation, because by the time I’m finally able to get the car on again, the light’s red. I inch up a little higher on the hill.

The light turns green again. I’m the second car to go. Or I should be. But I stall again. The driver behind me starts to swear. I get the car on again and I stall. Yes. A third time. It seems impossible. I’m swearing too. The guy behind me is shouting, because it’s rush hour, and only a few cars get to go at a time, and the light takes forever anyway, and he’s tried to swerve around me but there isn’t enough room. I’m sweating.

Finally, the light turns green again, and finally, I successfully manage to make it into first and up the rest of the hill. I see the car rental parking garage, but it’s on the other side of the street. Around the block in tight traffic I go. I cut into an alley which has the shortest traffic light cycle of them all, and… another round of stalling. Twice. Another upset French man is swearing behind me. I just need to get into this impossibly tight garage and dump the car there so I can go home and feel sorry for myself. I get the car going in first and beyond, round the block, get into the garage, up the six stories, and pull into the first space I see.

Hastily, I rub the sweat off my brow, gather my things, and step out the car.

Tout s’est bien passé? The car rental guy asks me. Or whatever the proper phrase is in French.

Oui, I said. Parfait. Merci. Voici les clés.

And I stumbled my way home.