THE WIFE, THE MADEMOISELLE & ME
July 2014, and to celebrate my 60th birthday my wife and I were going to follow the Tour de France. On previous visits, we had made use of public transport. This time we would hire a car, placing total reliance on a small electronic device called Garmin, but later “Mademoiselle”, amongst other not so complimentary names. We collected the car at Lyon Airport and, after giving our fellow motorists the scare of their lives while we mastered driving on the wrong side, and dealing with traffic circles — France is littered with them — we were off. Roles were allocated: I would drive, my wife would navigate, and Mademoiselle would assist.
As with a few French women, Mademoiselle had some idiosyncrasies, with a penchant for warning of a turn only at the very last minute, sometimes even later. If we disagreed with her choice of direction she would go quiet and sulk.
As we followed the tour, our first destinations were achieved reasonably successfully, although we missed a few turns, mostly by being in the wrong lane when the command suddenly came.
On to Avignon, the city of the Popes. Our hotel was inside the old walled city. Mademoiselle was kind enough to remind us of this after we’d passed the entrance. She did this three times. On our third tour of the walls I’m sure I heard her giggle.
Eventually we entered the old city. Mademoiselle was adamant, “Go straight for 400m, turn left, you will reach your destination after four hundred metres on the right”. The problem was the Free Palestine demonstration coming towards us, shepherded by three motorcycle-mounted gendarmes. This demonstration had men, women and children peacefully waving placards, picking up any litter along the way.
Not wanting to raise the ire of this group by nudging our way through, we elected to turn right, outflank them, and approach our hotel from the back. Mademoiselle insisted we continue straight. We ignored her. She went huffy.
After five minutes of blissful silence, she began giving quick-fire directions. This was her revenge. It soon became apparent that the planners of the old city had never considered the advent of the motor car. The streets became narrower and narrower. Pavement cafés moved tables and chairs out the way to let us pass, while we yelled “Sorry, tourist,” as if that explained everything.
We were so close we could have participated in a hearty lunch from a variety of tables. French waiters gave us that look only they have mastered. Pedestrians leapt into doorways to allow us to pass.
Eventually we came across three bollards blocking our path. In the rear-view mirror, I saw patrons nervously clutching their lunch while moving tables and chairs in anticipation of me reversing. Fortunately a kind local recognised our predicament, pressed a button, the bollards descended and we were through.
“Turn left,” demanded Mademoiselle, which we gladly did, only to be confronted by the Free Palestine demonstration coming back in the other direction.
Just when we thought that, like the Flying Dutchman, we were doomed to travel the narrow streets of Avignon forever, one of the gendarmes, resplendent in aviator sunglasses, put up his hand in one of those grand Gallic gestures, halted the march, and waved us through with a friendly “enjoy your stay in France!”
Mademoiselle said nothing.
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