Call of France

A Trilogy by Barry A. Whittingham

Month: January 2018

Driving in France: Parking

In England, in both public and private areas, the disabled driver is provided with specific, conveniently-placed parking spaces which he may only occupy when proof of disability in the form of an official pass, complete with photo, is clearly displayed behind the windscreen. Though in France parking is regulated in public places, and policemen or traffic wardens are on constant prowl, this is never the case in private supermarket car parks where the police have little jurisdiction, if any at all, and parking attendants together with wheel clamping are practically unknown. Parking spaces for the disabled do exist (often in pairs or more) but, generally speaking, no proof of disability is required; and understandably , in a country whose citoyens are one of the least public-minded on our planet, the only attempts to dissuade the able-bodied driver from parking in them is to colour the space in blue, paint a stylized wheelchair on it, and accompany the whole by the conscience-pricking appeal: ‘Prenez ma place prenez mon handicap’ – Take my space take my disability. Needless to say, the Englishman in me  (here my Frenchie seems to be totally blind) frequently observes perfectly valid motorists (and sometimes even les flics) not only parking their vehicles in this type of space, but doing so with wheels unashamedly straddling the dividing line between.

Is it that same Marxist syndrome which drives the ‘have nots’ to seek revenge on the ‘haves?’ Do driving schools in France consider this aspect of driving management beneath their notice? Or can we simply put it down to a lack of proper care and attention? Whatever the case, the French driver reserves his most vicious parking conduct for nice, expensive-looking cars in stationary configuration – usually in supermarket car parks, and especially when deposited there in brand-new, unsullied form. It is my personal experience that a parked vehicle answering these criteria has little chance of keeping virginity intact very much beyond half an hour. During the neigh-on 45 years of my residence in France I have been fortunate enough to possess nine brand new cars, all of which, incredible as this may sound, have suffered varying degrees of damage in just a few weeks after purchase.

Now, only a couple of months ago, I became the proud owner of another new car. It was my  Brit who hit on the idea of attempting to extend the duration of its pristine state beyond that of its predecessors by systematically parking as far away from other vehicles as a car park area would allow. This strategy – the effectiveness of which he was beginning to congratulate himself on – worked perfectly for six weeks, until that day when I came out of a supermarket, only to note with much dismay that a dent had appeared in the rear bumper. Mystified (the nearest car was parked some 20 yards away), I  proceeded to closer examination, and could only conclude that the damage was more in line with the trajectory of a hand-pushed shopping trolley than that of the combustion-propelled car bumper. At the suggestion of my Froggie I’ve now decided that since I can’t beat ’em I’ll join ’em; so now, when I go to a supermarket not only do I park as close as possible to new-looking cars but throw my door open with such vigour that a dent will be automatically inflicted. And you know what?  I’m actually getting to enjoy it – especially when it’s a more expensive car than mine!

It goes without saying that this strong Gallic relish for clunking into immobilized vehicles is not just limited to those deposited in parking areas. It is also manifest, albeit in far more lethal form, on the motorway hard shoulder. For here the motorist who has been unlucky enough to be driven to this type of enforced parking through breakdown or puncture, can count on a survival time not greatly exceeding that of a Tommy stepping out of his trench during the Battle of the Somme. Since average life expectancy on this narrow strip of no-man’s land is calculated at no more than 20 minutes, it is vital (and this I cannot emphasize enough) that the English motorist should first switch on his warning lights, invite his passengers to get out (on the opposite side to the flow of traffic), and take immediate shelter behind the safety barriers. He should then don his compulsory fluorescent jacket, place his warning triangle at a suitable distance (though this is not obligatory if, in doing so, his life would be endangered) walk carefully to the nearest emergency phone (they’re at most 2 000 metres apart and signalled by signs every 500 metres). There he must press a button which will put him in contact with the gendarmerie. Give them details of the vehicle – make, colour, direction and position (distance posts are located every 100 metres) as well as the nature of the breakdown. They’ll inform a breakdown service which should arrive in 30 to 45 minutes. Then, he must walk back and join the others behind the safety barriers.  That is, assuming he’s still alive to do so.

 

Driving in France – Never Trust Appearances

Driving in France can be a unique experience.  For one thing  my  English readers may be surprised to learn that a recent report suggests that one in ten French motorists is not in possession of a driving licence. As my English alter so often reminds me, what matters for the French driver is that he knows he can drive, and that whether he can drive or not is nobody’s business but his own. Moreover, driving in France at night soon brings to light of day the fact that a surprising number of vehicles have defective headlights (i.e. badly adjusted, or in need of bulb replacement). It must again be understood that what is important for the Frenchman is that he can see where he’s going, and that where he’s going is nobody’s business but his own. Similar conclusions can also be drawn with regard to traffic indicators. Now in England all cars are fitted with direction indicators, the purpose of which is, of course, to inform other motorists of their drivers’ intention to deviate from a straight line. In France cars also have indicators. These are almost totally superfluous to needs. For what is important to the French driver is that he knows where he’s going, and where he’s going is nobody’s business but his own.

It would, nevertheless, be wrong to assume that the Gallic never uses his traffic indicators. But what is more normal in a land where everybody does the opposite to what is expected that, though he rarely signals his intention to turn right or left, he sometimes does so when he means to go straight on? An indication of this was provided the other morning when I left home, drove down the side street where I live, stopped at the halt sign at the end, and patiently waited for a gap to appear in the traffic. Finally, everything was clear on the right. On looking to the left, my Englishman (it was he who was driving) observed a small van approaching some 50 yards away with right indicator winking. Now, he might have been forgiven for thinking that, when a vehicle is approaching with right winker on, it’s safe to assume its driver is signalling his intention to turn right. So out he pulled. The screech of brakes and prolonged honking of horn which followed proved my Anglo had made a horribly mistake. Though the van driver managed to stop just in time to avoid a collision his fury was great, and was accompanied by the usual screwing action of forefinger applied to temple. My Englishman could only surmise that, shortly before, circumstances had obliged the driver (perhaps there had been a police car behind him) to signal his intention to change directions. But so unaccustomed was he to using his indicator that he was simply unaware it hadn’t automatically cancelled itself. Proof that my experience was not uncommon is provided by the fact that the great majority of French motorists wait until a vehicle actually begins turning before pulling out in front.

 

 

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