French Bred - Chapter 1 (continued)

I felt a bit better knowing that my fiancee was nervous. We could have a contest; the most nervous one gets a prize. I was soon to discover that I would win hands down. Unbeknownst to me, Josy had also brought her brother and sister-in-law to the airport. Oh goody. Let me describe them for a moment, not giving too many details, as that would upset my wife.

My brother-in-law is of strong Sicilian stock, built lower to the ground but looking as though he could stare down a diesel truck that was threatening to run him over. But he is also one of the silliest guys you will ever meet, who has the incredible knack of turning into a child alongside his nephew and getting the boy to laugh himself into exhaustion. My sister-in-law is French through-and-through. She is a lovely lady who can be silly herself, but mostly rolls her eyes and laughs at the antics of her husband. She is also a Nutella addict, but that's a story for another day.

There, standing before me, was a good chunk of my new family-to-be. My fiancee, my future stepson, my future brother- and sister-in-law. A handsome group, to say the least. And here I was, a geeky looking American daring to join the famiglia. At that point I was also informed that we would be going to have dinner with the matriarch of the family, my mama-in-law to be. No worries, right?

We headed out to the airport parking lot and loaded my suitcases into my sister-in-law's car. Josy had also brought her car, because SUVs are not common in France. The cars are tiny, so if you have five people plus luggage, you generally need two cars. The in-laws were in the lead vehicle, and Josy, her son, and I were in a little Fiat Uno following behind. As we drove down the highway, I was amazed at the sheer mass of graffiti that appeared on every sound wall and seemingly on every building we passed. I thought that this idiotic societal plague was only to be found in the good old U.S. of A. I was wrong. It was everywhere, and even the French knew some American vulgarities. It's pitiful to see this waste of paint all over the place. It's bad enough that people are stupid enough to join gangs, but do they have to spread their waste all over?

As we moved towards Paris itself, I was mesmerized by the architecture of some of the buildings. However, I was a bit dismayed by the fact that there were so many boxy, uninteresting buildings as well. I guess I had the image in my mind that all of the architecture was going to be like the stuff you see in the travel programs. In reality, Paris is a big city like any other big city. People go to work in office buildings, in shops, and in factories. And, like most big cities, some people don't have work, and you find them begging on the streets and in the Metro stations. More on that later, as well.

When driving in Paris, one finds an interesting mix of old and new. There are some very new streets that are straight and relatively wide. But you also find many streets that were obviously built long after the buildings came to be. They may be narrow, or one-way streets, that weave between the buildings as though they were designed by a drunken planner who had one too many at lunchtime. It's clear that they were originally for pedestrians or horses, and that traffic signals and signs weren't necessary during the era when the buildings were erected. These small streets certainly make for some interesting parking maneuvers. You see double- and triple-parking, as well as cars that are parallel parked with no space in between. One can only imagine a driver trapped in this manner coming out to his car, getting in, and ever so gently shoving the cars in front and behind him with whatever meager horsepower his little Peugeot can muster. It's no wonder that so many cars are scratched and dented. Personally, if I opened a business in Paris, I think I would open an express side mirror replacement shop. Seriously. The streets are so narrow that if you don't remember to fold your mirror in when you park, you will come back and have only a stump remaining where your mirror used to be. Imagine keeping a stock of mirrors on hand for a variety of cars and models. "Repairs done while you wait! Mirrors replaced in 30 minutes or less, guaranteed!"

I also discovered that honking your horn is not allowed in Paris unless you have good cause to do so. You cannot just honk for the sake of it. It has to be an emergency, although to Parisians a traffic jam, or bouchon as the French call them, is considered an emergency. What I found out is that my sister-in-law's horn was broken. How did I discover this? You may well ask! Our little two car caravan arrived at a stop light behind another vehicle. The light turned green, and the car in front didn't move. A few seconds passed, and he still didn't move. Was he enjoying a glass of wine or a nice baguette? It didn't matter to my brother-in-law, nor was the lack of a horn a hindrance. I saw Joseph (That's his real name by the way - Joseph - and his sister is Josephine. Imaginative naming, no?) lean out of the window, his entire torso hanging out, and whistle loud enough to shatter windows in the nearby shops! No horn? No problem! Just brace your windshield so it doesn't explode. The guy in the car in front clearly got the message, perhaps when his wine glass broke into a million pieces in his lap. Nonetheless, he moved along and we managed to get through the light before it turned red again. That wouldn't have been a tragedy unless, of course, Joseph got out of the car, ran after the guy, and pulled him out of his vehicle through the exhaust pipe.

So, to set the stage again, I haven't slept in over 24 hours, I'm inching through Paris among some of the most dangerous drivers that have ever stepped on an accelerator and forgotten they had brakes, and am on my way to visit La Mama. A nervous breakdown in waiting if I've ever heard of one.