That's Paris

by Vicki Lesage et al.

  You might ask, “Why bother? You already know how to drive.”

  Ah! Because in France, you are required to go through auto-école (driving school) to get your license. I started studying for the written exam, which is called simply (and somewhat scarily, as if from a dystopian big brother society) “the Code,” and took a few practical lessons.

  But I didn’t get very far before we moved to La Défense, where I had to sign up for a new driving school. I received a partial reimbursement of my hefty fee, but still had to fork over 1,250 euros to start over at the new school. And this auto-école wouldn’t let you take driving lessons until you had passed the Code.

  So I set myself to studying.

  They warned me it entailed 60 hours of studying (to which I quietly snorted to myself). But they were not wrong. You have to answer 40 questions with no more than five wrong answers. The answer can be A, or B, or C, or D. It can also be ABC or BC or AD or BD or ABD, etc.

  Are you still with me? If it’s ABD and you only put AB, it’s wrong.

  And there’s a picture of the road where, in order to answer the question, you have to examine the image from all sides—the rear view mirror, what’s ahead, the side view mirror. Is a policeman behind you? Is the car behind you too close? Does it look like someone might try to pass you? Will that pedestrian cross the street or wait? I got one answer wrong because I didn’t know the French word for “boar.” I’d never seen a wild pig crossing the streets of Paris, but I suppose the French like to be prepared for all eventualities.

  Not to be deterred, I logged as many study hours at the school as I could, always late thanks to morning sickness (or all-day sickness, honestly) with my third child. All the hard work paid off because I passed the Code on the first try six months later.

  I was ready to start the driving.

  On a recent vacation, I read a book written by a Dutch priest, I Was Brainwashed in Peking. He wrote about his time during the Mao regime when intellectuals and priests, among others, were imprisoned and denied all hope of freedom. The more I read, the more my jaw dropped. I identified with the way his captors had spoken to him. They sounded just like… the driving school.

  “Why, you’re not even close to being ready for the test! You need at least twenty more hours before I can present you!” my instructor raged.

  “But I’m about to give birth, and I need my license before I have my baby,” I said pitifully. I returned home in tears.

  Determined, I demanded another instructor who presented me at 38 weeks pregnant. But I failed the test.

  You see, you can have a stop light in the middle of a street that has no intersection because it’s at the exit of a factory. And you can have an examiner directing your attention to farther up the street, indicating where you need to turn left. And you’re trying to translate it, and decipher it, which you obviously fail to do without stressing so much that you kick-start an early labor. Isn’t the need for multi-tasking supposed to happen after the birth? Not surprisingly, I failed the test. I was screwed.

  I waited a few months before trying again, this time with yet another new teacher. This guy was so bitter about life, I had to coax him into good humor by reassuring him what a great teacher he was.

  Him: “No one ever told you to do that before, did they?”

  Me: “No, it’s really useful for me to know that.”

  Him: “That’s why my style of teaching is so great. You learn things with me. I don’t want to say anything about Cyril, but you won’t learn those kinds of things with him.”

  Me: “Yes, I’m so lucky (stifle a yawn).”

  Thirty lessons later (3,500 euros and counting) and a few weeks before we were set to move house, I convinced him to present me for the license. He said I was not ready (surprise, surprise), but that he would present me because I was leaving.

  This time, the examiner was a real charmer. He grunted for me to go, as I trembled with nerves. We pulled into a huge intersection, where I drove like an American instead of a French person.

  Question: What’s the goal when you enter an intersection?

  Answer: To get out of it as quickly and safely as possible so as not to bother the oncoming traffic or those behind you.

  But that’s not how it works in France. You can have a light that allows you to enter a major intersection, but then… you can also come up against another light or stop sign right in the middle. There’s no escaping the Intersection of Multiple Lights unless you respect each and every one.

  Which left does he mean? He’d told me to turn, but there were three “lefts” on the roundabout. As the car ahead of me started to move, I followed and… ran the stop sign in the middle of the roundabout.

  The rest of the exam was a disaster because I already knew I had failed. When I had to stop and open the hood to point out the transmission (oh yes—you have to know the body of the car inside and out in order to answer two randomly-chosen questions), I couldn’t even open the darn hood I was shaking so much. He made a snide comment about what a loser I was.

  Bon. I put all that behind me to enter the joys of stay-at-home mommyhood for the next year and a half. But soon it was time to think about that license again. I only had six more months before my Code expired and I would have to start from scratch—including the written part—if I didn’t get it now.

  The closest school rejected me. “You already failed the test. We can’t take you. The city only allows us a certain number of spots to present our students for the test, and we give priority to students who have been with us since the beginning.”

  I called four more schools in the area. Same thing.

  I went to bed early that night, “on strike.” My husband was concerned I’d carry out my threat to move back to the States where people are civilized. I decided on a fresh approach the next morning.

  There was the possibility of accompanied driving with my husband as long as I paid for 20 lessons with the school first. The reason we had never done this in the past was that you had to drive accompanied for a whole year after the 20 lessons were over, and that just seemed too long.

  However, given how long it had ended up taking me already (I’d brought two children into the world during that time, for crying out loud)—why not go for it now? Even if I lost my Code and had to re-take the test, I’d eventually get my license.

  I called the first school and asked if that would be an option. Nope, for the same reason she’d told me last time.

  “What? I can’t have my license ever? For the rest of my life? I can’t take lessons anywhere just because I failed the test?”

  Finally, I saw a glimpse of humanity behind the French Bureaucratic Robot. She said I could come in to demonstrate my level, but she promised NOTHING. And, despite the baby-faced instructor saying I drove like an 80-year-old, I did pretty well for not having driven in a year and a half.

  They agreed to train me and present me for the license for the third time before my Code expired. For a mere 1,250 euros. But in the end, I got it.

  Now, three years down the road, I was finally allowed to remove the Scarlet Letter from my car: the large, red A that tells the world you’re an apprentice. It’s been three years that I look for stop signs in the middle of a roundabout, turn serenely onto cobblestone streets that look like pedestrian walkways and stop suddenly to allow other people to take their priority from the right. Driving here is starting to feel normal.

  Having a French driving license is worth it if you’re going to live here permanently. But the road to get there is long.

  And it can drive you completely crazy.

  Oh Canada

  Michael Attard

  An interesting relationship has always existed between Canada and France. The French see Canada as an untamed wilderness where everyone has a backyard looking out on the Rocky Mountains, owns a pet grizzly bear and speaks an eighteenth-century version of their language. Canadians see France in various lights: as a country of class and sophistication, yet a place w
here people eat snails and frogs, and hate everything English. As a Canadian living in France, I had the opportunity to experience the reality of this odd relationship firsthand.

  Immediate impression upon arriving in Paris was that I wasn’t in Paris at all. My hotel was located near my new job in Gif-sur-Yvette, a suburb of the city. The long flight from Canada had allowed me ample time to fill my head with iconic images of the French capital: the Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, the Seine, the Louvre. Instead, farm animals and the hilly landscape of the Saclay plateau greeted me.

  Eventually, I found an apartment in the sleepy town of Palaiseau, some 25 kilometers from the center of Paris. It would be another two and a half years before I would say adieu. And oh what I learned during that short yet seemingly long time.

  I had endured the six years of French required in Ontario schools and hated almost every minute of it. Growing up in a community where Italian or Punjabi were the most common alternatives to English, learning French seemed completely useless.

  Fast-forward 16 years, and I was just able to grapple my way through basic conversations. One bizarre thing I learned—assuming my French was correct—is that French people are oddly fascinated by Canada. They talk of the Great White North as being a kind of Promised Land. But the truth is that many of the French don’t know what they’re talking about when it comes to my native country.

  Here’s a quick primer to bring these self-proclaimed Canada-lovers into the know:

  1. We don’t all speak French. You’ll find pockets of francophones from New Brunswick to Manitoba, but outside of Québec, they are few and far between.

  2. Canada isn’t a land of milk and honey. Unless you’re aiming to work in the tar sands of northern Alberta (can you say, “rural back-water sausage fest?”), or are into finance and are willing to live in Toronto (the city where fun goes to die), you’ll have a hard time finding a job. Most employers won’t recognize your education unless it’s from an elitist top-tier institution. You may have 5+ years of experience in your native country, but if you don’t have “Canadian experience” (one of the most obnoxious and pompous employment requirements I’ve encountered) then you’re automatically disqualified.

  3. Canada is much more similar to the US than it is to Europe. Two-week vacations, work-till-you-drop corporate mentality, bland cities and a consumption culture. Slight variance if you find yourself in Québec.

  4. Canadians are polite, but not friendly. The difference is important. Most Canadians find Europeans rude simply because they speak their minds. In Canada, people don’t operate like that. They’ll be courteous on the surface even if deep down they hate your guts and wish you’d burst into flames on the spot. Forming close, lasting friendships is not easy unless you’re still in high school.

  5. It’s damn cold. Bitterly cold. But you’ve never seen a more impressive landscape.

  On the flip side, being Canadian in France carries certain advantages. Jobs are easier to find, assuming you speak French, possess a technical education and don’t mind the lower pay.

  But French office life still has its peculiarities. In the morning, you have to go through the ritual of la bise with your female colleagues. This involves a motion where you kiss the cheeks of the other person, only you don’t kiss the actual cheek—just the air beside it. You do this once for each cheek, so you can do the math for how many kisses are required for a department with a few dozen people. Woe be the unlucky lady who arrives at the office late and has to spend the first 10 minutes of the day going around “bis-ing” everyone in sight. It’s a far cry from Canada, where you’re expected to greet a lady with a stern professional handshake that would have met with Mother Teresa’s approval.

  Then there’s the hierarchy. For a Republic that prides itself on its rebellious history, the French certainly hold onto a strict social hierarchy. It’s as though the boss is just a little closer to the divine than the rest of us. Coming from the right family and going to the “right” schools is surprisingly important.

  And let’s not forget the national pride the French are so (in)famous for. This sense of cultural heritage is amplified in a place like Paris where the monuments and landmarks telegraph, “We’re a big deal.” My native Toronto could not be further from this: a socially cold, barren place lacking any sense of itself, and about as exciting as your typical office cubicle. Decades ago, Torontonians decided to spice things up with multiculturalism and inject life into the otherwise puritanical fabric of the city. We now have an urban center composed of various communities largely separated along ethnic lines, each of which barely tolerates each other’s existence. Even second-generation Torontonians identify more with their parents’ country than with Canada. While many aspects of life in France aren’t perfect by a long shot (les grèves and the accordion—Satan’s air-bags—immediately come to mind), here they are spot on. A common sense of identity makes the difference between a community of citizens taking part in the story of their city and an atomized population of taxpayers and corporate drones doing their nine-to-five jobs to get by.

  The expat experience is life-altering in a way that profoundly benefits the brave soul who embarks on it. You can reinvent yourself, far away from the influence of family and friends who otherwise hold you to who you are now, not what you could become. For anyone daring to take the plunge and move abroad, I say go. You might be met with sheep, or you might be met with amazing, welcoming people.

  Either way, it will be an experience you won’t regret.

  French Office Workers vs. Zombies

  Vicki Lesage

  If the Zombie Apocalypse ever happens, I hope it magically eludes Paris. Otherwise my coworkers are screwed.

  There is a slight chance they’d survive. But more likely than not, they’d get bitten and turn into zombies themselves before you could finish saying “apocalypse.” In all fairness, it is a long word.

  Much as I want them to make it out alive (I’m only saying that in case they’re reading this), I just don’t think they will.

  First, these people know how to panic like nobody’s business. “Red alert! Red alert! Someone updated the website and put the square products in the rectangle category! Quick! Everyone freak out! Our customers will never understand, we will lose sales, everyone will starve and now my kids can’t go to college! Why oh why is this happening to me?”

  “Um, if I may interject,” I interject, “it was me. I clicked the wrong button, but I’m about to fix…”

  “Someone needs to fix this right away!”

  “Yes, as I was saying,” I say, “I’m about to fix the problem.” My inner nerd refrains from pointing out that technically a square is a rectangle. We’ve already got enough confusion on our hands.

  “If you made the mistake, you clearly won’t know how to fix it. Just let me do it. Ugh, this is going to take all day! Oh wait, is it noon already? A tout à l’heure!” See ya. Previously panicked colleague takes off for a three-hour lunch.

  And that’s the second reason these people won’t make it. Nothing, and I mean literally nothing—not even zombies munching on their faces—will get in the way of their breaks. They’ll stop mid-meeting for a smoke, and they are skilled at stretching a coffee break until lunch. If they could apply such singular focus to tasks that are actually useful, imagine what they could achieve. They could cross items off their to-do lists, climb the corporate ladder and maybe even end world hunger.

  Instead, they’re destined to be zombie chow as soon as lunch time rolls around. They’ll be so insistent on relaxing over a leisurely meal that they won’t see members of the undead approaching for their own tasty snack.

  Those who don’t panic uncontrollably and who make it past noon will likely be taken out by the deadliest of Parisian office vices: debate. French people have never met an argument they didn’t engage in, even if you’re on their side.

  I experienced this bang-your-head-on-the-desk conversation with Josephine, a normally quiet coworker who has an opini
on at the most annoying times:

  Josephine: “I really don’t see why the boss asked us to do this. It’s a total waste of time and only applies in a few cases.”

  Me: “I know! I can’t even think of when we would use that.”

  Josephine: “You can’t? I can think of tons of instances when it would be useful.”

  Me: “But, you just said…”

  Josephine: “In fact, I can’t believe we’re not doing it already. What a shame.”

  Me: “Then I guess it’s good the boss said it’s a priority!”

  Josephine: “Oh, it’s not a priority. We’ll only use it a few times a year.”

  They’ll be so busy arguing themselves in circles they won’t even realize I’ve left the conversation and been replaced by a brain-hungry zombie. What’s your priority NOW, Josephine?

  One aspect of the Zombie Apocalypse that’s almost certain is you’ll have to kiss your creature comforts goodbye. No more climate-controlled rooms. In fact, you’ll be lucky to even have a room—four secure walls will be an extreme luxury. And if you do have the privilege of safe shelter, the clawing and snarling of zombies will provide constant white noise, making it impossible to relax and let your guard down.

  The other day, my coworker Gabriel was running his own personal space heater because the building’s antiquated radiators weren’t emitting enough heat for him. When he finally warmed his cubicle to the perfect temperature, he turned off the heater. The whirring of the device stopped, and a silence fell over the office. Nothing could be heard except Josephine’s contented sigh, followed by, “The best part of my day is when you turn that stupid heater off.”

  Gabriel wouldn’t last five minutes outdoors, especially considering Paris is a cool 55 degrees Fahrenheit year-round except for three days in August when it’s a sweaty 100-degree inferno. He’d better hope he’s on a high floor of a building with a generous stash of canned goods so he can put off experiencing climate without control as long as possible.