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skyring"C'est une belle voiture, votre six zero sept," I observed, drawing down deep into my long-buried store of high school French.
And it was a lovely car. Easily the best taxi I've ever had the pleasure of riding in, I looked with pleasure at its soft tan leather seats, its stylish lines and well-equipped interior as we hustled through Place de la Bastille.
I'd flown in from Hong Kong the previous morning, and spent the next hour or so wrestling my 70 kilos of luggage through the Paris Metro. At morning rush hour. Through four changes of line at cramped stations utterly lacking in elevators or escalators. My lovely LL Bean rolling duffle, so easily wheeled around the smooth floors of airport concourses, turned into an absolute pig up and down the long stircases. I was also lugging a big yellow tote bag crammed cubic with books, a backpack heavy with laptop, camera, dongles, more books and everything I needed to survive for days of flying and transits, plus a small daypack which was more of a nuisance than anything else. Later I learnt the trick of stowing it inside my big duffle, but for now it merely fell off and got tangled up in my legs.
I'd arrived at my hostel a weary puddle of sweat, and on being told I had to drag my luggage down a narrow spiral stone staircase into a musty basement room unchanged since the ancien regime, well, that was it. I resolved that I'd get a taxi for my next transfer.
The hostel staff, in the shape of a young Parisian lady who was so unconsciously chic that she all but removed my power of speech, told me that I could ring for a cab, but suggested politely that I would find it easier to wheel my baggage down to the rank outside "le McDonalds".
So I did, and here was the result, a beautiful, clean, luxury car that was a world away from any other taxi I'd ever jumped into and said, "To the airport, driver!"
"A la gare, s'il vous pait," I ordered.
He looked at me with Gallic eyebrows.
"Ahhh, Gare St Lazaire," I expanded, and we were away.
Lane markings, I quickly discovered, were nothing more than an indication to a French driver. Parisian traffic has a certain style and flow to it, quite apart from being on the wrong side of the road for an Australian, and I admired the driver's flair as he merged seamlessly and lanelessly with the stream.
After my initial observation on his Peugeot 607, I wanted to tell the driver a lot more, such as how I had once owned a Peugeot 505, which had been the grand love of my life until its disappointing habit of breaking down outside Goondiwindi, Beaudesert and Coonabarrabran at inconvenient hours of the day and night had forced me to give it up for something less quirky. But my French was not up to the part. I was able to thank him and pay him off when we arrived at the station, but that was about it.
I was reminded of him on Saturday afternoon, when I dropped off a passenger at the Malaysian High Commission, and was returning through the embassy district of Yarralumla. There outside the gates of the French Embassy were four officer cadets, in full French uniform, complete to red and gold trimmed kepis.
They flagged me down and got in. "Bonjour," I said, resolving to keep as much to French as I could.
"G'day," replied the lad in the passenger seat. Obviously he had been briefed on local customs.
"Royal Military College," he ordered.
"Tres bien," I responded, and off we went.
"Heh, 'tres bien'" came a chuckle from the back seat, but I wasn't listening. I was driving down the boulevardes of Paris, through delightful old apartment blocks, grand museums, and chaotic intersections.
Canberra is a very different capital city to Paris. Or any other city, really. We have vast amounts of open space and parkland, right in the centre of the city. Remnant bushland surrounds Parliament House, and we have empty paddocks beside the High Court. There is only one railway station, the streets are wide, and everyone keeps to their painted lanes on the road.
It was only a short drive, most of it along wide and uncrowded dual carriageways, to our military college where the cadets were spending an exchange term. They chattered away in French behind me, most of it flowing incomprehensibly over my head, though I managed to pick out a bon mot here and there.
As we turned into Staff Cadet Avenue, I was given directions. In French.
"A la gauche," said one. "Les top blocks," said another.
I pulled up outside the cadet accommodation at the top of the hill, the "top blocks", where I had deposited many jolly cadets in the dark hours of the night after the ride from the nightclubs in Civic. It felt strange to see them in daylight, actually.
I was able to keep up my end of the transaction, acknowledging a small tip, "Merci, vous est tres gentil," and bidding them adieu with "A bientot!"
I love being a cabbie in Canberra. Every day is different, every passenger a new delight.
And it was a lovely car. Easily the best taxi I've ever had the pleasure of riding in, I looked with pleasure at its soft tan leather seats, its stylish lines and well-equipped interior as we hustled through Place de la Bastille.
I'd flown in from Hong Kong the previous morning, and spent the next hour or so wrestling my 70 kilos of luggage through the Paris Metro. At morning rush hour. Through four changes of line at cramped stations utterly lacking in elevators or escalators. My lovely LL Bean rolling duffle, so easily wheeled around the smooth floors of airport concourses, turned into an absolute pig up and down the long stircases. I was also lugging a big yellow tote bag crammed cubic with books, a backpack heavy with laptop, camera, dongles, more books and everything I needed to survive for days of flying and transits, plus a small daypack which was more of a nuisance than anything else. Later I learnt the trick of stowing it inside my big duffle, but for now it merely fell off and got tangled up in my legs.
I'd arrived at my hostel a weary puddle of sweat, and on being told I had to drag my luggage down a narrow spiral stone staircase into a musty basement room unchanged since the ancien regime, well, that was it. I resolved that I'd get a taxi for my next transfer.
The hostel staff, in the shape of a young Parisian lady who was so unconsciously chic that she all but removed my power of speech, told me that I could ring for a cab, but suggested politely that I would find it easier to wheel my baggage down to the rank outside "le McDonalds".
So I did, and here was the result, a beautiful, clean, luxury car that was a world away from any other taxi I'd ever jumped into and said, "To the airport, driver!"
"A la gare, s'il vous pait," I ordered.
He looked at me with Gallic eyebrows.
"Ahhh, Gare St Lazaire," I expanded, and we were away.
Lane markings, I quickly discovered, were nothing more than an indication to a French driver. Parisian traffic has a certain style and flow to it, quite apart from being on the wrong side of the road for an Australian, and I admired the driver's flair as he merged seamlessly and lanelessly with the stream.
After my initial observation on his Peugeot 607, I wanted to tell the driver a lot more, such as how I had once owned a Peugeot 505, which had been the grand love of my life until its disappointing habit of breaking down outside Goondiwindi, Beaudesert and Coonabarrabran at inconvenient hours of the day and night had forced me to give it up for something less quirky. But my French was not up to the part. I was able to thank him and pay him off when we arrived at the station, but that was about it.
I was reminded of him on Saturday afternoon, when I dropped off a passenger at the Malaysian High Commission, and was returning through the embassy district of Yarralumla. There outside the gates of the French Embassy were four officer cadets, in full French uniform, complete to red and gold trimmed kepis.
They flagged me down and got in. "Bonjour," I said, resolving to keep as much to French as I could.
"G'day," replied the lad in the passenger seat. Obviously he had been briefed on local customs.
"Royal Military College," he ordered.
"Tres bien," I responded, and off we went.
"Heh, 'tres bien'" came a chuckle from the back seat, but I wasn't listening. I was driving down the boulevardes of Paris, through delightful old apartment blocks, grand museums, and chaotic intersections.
Canberra is a very different capital city to Paris. Or any other city, really. We have vast amounts of open space and parkland, right in the centre of the city. Remnant bushland surrounds Parliament House, and we have empty paddocks beside the High Court. There is only one railway station, the streets are wide, and everyone keeps to their painted lanes on the road.
It was only a short drive, most of it along wide and uncrowded dual carriageways, to our military college where the cadets were spending an exchange term. They chattered away in French behind me, most of it flowing incomprehensibly over my head, though I managed to pick out a bon mot here and there.
As we turned into Staff Cadet Avenue, I was given directions. In French.
"A la gauche," said one. "Les top blocks," said another.
I pulled up outside the cadet accommodation at the top of the hill, the "top blocks", where I had deposited many jolly cadets in the dark hours of the night after the ride from the nightclubs in Civic. It felt strange to see them in daylight, actually.
I was able to keep up my end of the transaction, acknowledging a small tip, "Merci, vous est tres gentil," and bidding them adieu with "A bientot!"
I love being a cabbie in Canberra. Every day is different, every passenger a new delight.
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Beau !
Date: 2006-12-12 03:21 am (UTC)Re: Beau !
Date: 2006-12-12 05:17 pm (UTC)Skyring, you are right about the traffic in France - driving with our Parisienne daughter-in-law is quite frightening and with her 90 year old father on the Peripherique totally terrifying!
Re: Beau !
Date: 2006-12-13 07:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-12-12 07:43 am (UTC)I guess you are busy.
I'll see you in Wellington. :o)
no subject
Date: 2006-12-16 03:59 am (UTC):D
I love your cab stories....it's so nice that you seem to be enjoying it so much!
Off-topic, a holiday-type question....
Could I have your address?
You could PM me through BookCrossing or email me at brianar76 at gmail dot com
Thanks!
(if you don't want to share it, that's OK too -- and I don't care one whit if you are doing anything special for the holidays!)