It is yet one more French
paradox that a people who taught our world the principles of international
diplomacy, and who attach such vital importance to the rules of polite
behaviour and restrained elegance of speech should be given to such gross
excesses of conduct and language once their derrière
comes into contact with a driving seat. And so diametrically opposed is driving
in France to that encountered in England that the English motorist who takes
the plunge to cross the Channel for the very first time, and compares the
speeds at which the French drive with the limits publicly displayed could be
forgiven for thinking that their Minister of Transport, considering the English have enough on their plate keeping right
(which for them is wrong), and in a laudable attempt not to overface them with
too much metric system as a starter, has thoughtfully served up speed limits in
mph, and that 50 is really 80 km/h, 70 is 105 km/h, 90 is 145 km/h and 130
corresponds to 210 km/h.
The English are convinced that a plane
travels considerably faster than a car. The French do their best to prove the
opposite. When an Englishman sets off on a drive of 200 miles, well … he sets
off on a drive of 200 miles. When a Frenchman sets off on a drive of 300
kilometres he launches himself on a desperate race against the clock where
traffic lights, halt signs, roundabouts, pedestrian crossings, the pedestrians
on them, other drivers, les flics are
so many obstacles placed in his way to stop him from reducing his journey time
at a speed more associated with jet propulsion than the combustion engine. And
if you ask an English motorist after his 200 mile drive whether he had a good
trip he’ll most likely reply: ‘Oh yes, it was marvellous. We took the highways
and byways and stopped a couple of times for a cuppa. The scenery was
wonderful.’ Put the same question to a French driver, and he’ll proudly
declare: ‘Ah oui, j’ai mis deux heures seulement. Ca fait
une moyenne de 150 km/h!’ – ‘Oh yes, it only took me two hours! That’s an average journey speed of
150km/h!’
For it’s a measure of the
vital importance he attaches to systematically reducing time between departure
and arrival at a speed normally associated with an inter-continental ballistic missile
that the Frenchman who struggles to divide twelve by three is able to calculate
in less than the blink of an eye, and to three decimal points his ‘moyenne’ -
the result of dividing the distance he has covered by the time he has taken to
do it in.
Proof that motoring in France is not quite the same experience as that
enjoyed in England was quickly brought home that very first time I took myself over to the Continent. As this was well before I grew into the
Frenglishman I now am a 100% Englishman was at the wheel. Driving
his Mini off the ferry at Calais, he set a nice, gentle course for Paris. A
minute later, a configuration of alternating black and white stripes painted on
the road some fifty yards ahead gave him every reason to believe he was about
to have his first encounter with a passage
piéton, a pedestrian crossing. His assumption seemed to be reinforced by the presence of a bent, elderly lady clutching a walking stick
standing on the pavement beside it.
Now, this young Englishman couldn’t have
been faulted for thinking that a passage
piéton in France has much the same function as a pedestrian crossing in
England: namely that of providing the muscle-propelled with a clearly
designated strip by which to reach the opposite side of the road in conditions
offering enough protection against the engine-propelled as to ensure arrival in
very much the same physical and mental state as departure. He could also have
been excused for thinking that, when a bent old lady clutching a stick is seen
standing beside one, not only might it be imagined that she wishes to
cross to the other side, but the rules of elementary courtesy require a
motorist to do his best to help her do so. So he brought his vehicle to a
gentle stop and with a smile beckoned her to cross.
Now, had this scene taken place in
England, the elderly lady’s reaction would have been both predictable and
polite: she would certainly have returned his smile, and with a wave of thanks
slowly made her way across. He would have waited patiently and, once she was
safely over, he would have happily continued his way.
It quickly became
apparent that this was not England. Oddly, the bent old lady refused to budge
one inch. And even more strangely, his friendly smile was met by a hostile
glower. It was as if somewhere she was saying, ‘You don’t think I’m going to
fall for that one at my age, do you?’ And his growing suspicion that all was
not quite right received sonorous confirmation a split second later when a deafening
screech of tyres, followed by an ill-mannered blast of horn, prompted him to
look into his rear-view mirror. Reflected in it was the furious face of a
Frenchman executing a gesture we have now become all too familiar with: a
disagreeable screwing movement of forefinger applied to temple indicating that
the person it was directed at needed to tighten up on a thing or two.
Want to know more about France and the French? Why not visit Barry's website at: www.calloffrance.com
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