The Interminable Drive to France

The next morning we are in a terrible rush. Scott is concerned about our reservations for dinner in France. Although after we have gotten going I learn that there aren’t reservations the way Americans think of them, i.e. for a specific time. With few exceptions, French restaurants assume that each table will be used once per evening. Whoever reserves the table can arrive when they like, which generally means afer 6:00 and before 8:30. The economics of this are baffling, since in restaurants in the US, turning over tables is generally viewed as a key to profitability. From a diner’s perspective, however, it is great. We have reserved the table for the evening and we can get there when we like, but Scott thought it would be a good idea to get there around 7:30. I sleep most of the drive with fitful dreams. I awoke at the Swiss border, where I was trying, with a huge, thick tongue that didn’t seem to fit in my mouth, to explain that we needed to buy a toll sticker to drive on the Swiss roads. Erin and Scott didn’t know what I meant, and we were too far through the border to get the sticker, so we just drove on, and I went back to sleep (figuring if we got pulled over we would just have to play ignorant Americans). During my sleep I intermittently woke up to hear Erin reading French phrases and Scott attempting to translate. Finally, just after we crossed the border into France, it was my turn to drive as Scott had to edit a document or give an interview or something, and, of course, I immediately hit traffic. The traffic is moving at a fairly good clip but the road is clogged with trucks, and unlike the beautiful autobahn, the trucks are apparently not limited in their lane choice. It’s like some crazy video game where everyone wants to reach the finish line as quickly as possible and is willing to risk their life passing a monster truck on the right, in their blind spot, if it is going to get them there three seconds ahead of their nearest competitor. Some woman recently wrote a book about why French women don’t get fat, I think her premise was that they basically just look at their food or some such nonsense. I think it is because of the constant fear and adrenalin coursing through their bodies while they drive over-crowded French roads; that special chemical mixture of always feeling like you are about to die has to take pounds off at a rapid pace.