France is obsessed with roundabouts.
I happen to think the roundabout is a pretty nifty bit of road furniture as well, but not when you tackle it an anti-clockwise direction like your average Frenchie. It's even weirder when you are obliged to reach for the gear-stick on your right hand side mid-roundabout, and then signal to exit the roundabout using an indicator lever to the left of the steering wheel rather than your right.
Therefore I firmly believe it was through some benign Act of God that, over the last 10 days, Kel or I did not wind up stalled in the middle of a French roundabout, peering at a stream of oncoming traffic through a frenzy of windscreen wiper blades.
On Saturday the 18th, about 10.30pm at Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris), a foolish Budget Rental Car employee gave me the keys of Opel hatchback. I reckon it took me 30 minutes to muster enough courage just to start the engine. On the centre console lay a hand-written list of directions to Troyes, a city 2 hours away and host to our Formula 1 hotel for the night. The list suddenly looked more complex than a quadratic equation. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. Nervous sweat flooded my t-shirt. Why was I making such a big deal of this?
Out on the road, anxiety was replaced by a growing confidence. Indeed, we made it to the hotel almost on time. Motorway directions were ignored and intuition trusted. I clambered into our bed that night feeling exhausted from an overload of nervous energy, but also secretly proud of myself.
Without doubt though, my crowing moment on French roads came the next morning after Kellie and I left the hotel carpark. Rounding a corner, Kel spotted a Gendarme by the side of road. The Gendarme had just finished speaking to another motorist, and glanced at our vehicle as he stood up. Kel was sure he wanted us to pull over. I wasn't completely convinced, but visions of a high-speed police pursuit followed by 24 hours in a cell with a smelly man called Jean-Pierre encouraged me to follow Kellie's urgings.
Therefore I firmly believe it was through some benign Act of God that, over the last 10 days, Kel or I did not wind up stalled in the middle of a French roundabout, peering at a stream of oncoming traffic through a frenzy of windscreen wiper blades.
On Saturday the 18th, about 10.30pm at Charles De Gaulle Airport (Paris), a foolish Budget Rental Car employee gave me the keys of Opel hatchback. I reckon it took me 30 minutes to muster enough courage just to start the engine. On the centre console lay a hand-written list of directions to Troyes, a city 2 hours away and host to our Formula 1 hotel for the night. The list suddenly looked more complex than a quadratic equation. I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. Nervous sweat flooded my t-shirt. Why was I making such a big deal of this?
Out on the road, anxiety was replaced by a growing confidence. Indeed, we made it to the hotel almost on time. Motorway directions were ignored and intuition trusted. I clambered into our bed that night feeling exhausted from an overload of nervous energy, but also secretly proud of myself.
Without doubt though, my crowing moment on French roads came the next morning after Kellie and I left the hotel carpark. Rounding a corner, Kel spotted a Gendarme by the side of road. The Gendarme had just finished speaking to another motorist, and glanced at our vehicle as he stood up. Kel was sure he wanted us to pull over. I wasn't completely convinced, but visions of a high-speed police pursuit followed by 24 hours in a cell with a smelly man called Jean-Pierre encouraged me to follow Kellie's urgings.
I stopped the car and wound down my window. For the next 2 minutes, Mr Gendarme and I went on a wonderful verbal mystery tour together.
He started by looking down at me in a bemused fashion, blurting out several indecipheral French phrases, and waiting expectantly. Not one to be outdone, I tried to wow him with my best Austro-French, stating confidently that I was from Australia and was going to Annecy. I was genuinely surprised when these two facts failed to impress him. He shot me the sort of look a father might give to a son who has wet himself in public.
With some expansive hand flourishes, Mr Gendarme tried again to communicate to me, rattling through a host of French words that sounded like friendly questions, but to my ears they could have been the rantings of the Swedish chef from The Muppets. I put on my best confused frown and stared at the dashboard. It was apparent that neither of us had any chance of understanding each other, and a small, awkward period of silence followed. Mr Gendarme and I pretended to looked off into the distance, searching for any distraction that might excuse ourselves from an increasingly bizarre situation.
I faked a cough, he smiled thinly, Kellie let out an nervous chuckle. Taking my cue, I fired up the engine and drove off, almost stalling the car in the rush to disappear. What's more, I'm pretty sure the Gendarme didn't even bother to turn and watch us go.
