Old and Lost in France: A Senior Missionary Story (Part 1)

Despite their international reputation for aloof coldness, especially toward tourists of the ugly American variety, the French are a very polite people who place great value on common decency and consideration. While the famous motto of the French Republique, “Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité,” posted throughout the country may have an ideological influence on proper behavior and speech,

I think their politeness stems from more pragmatic concerns. Driving in France, for example, requires everyone’s cooperation because of traffic on narrow streets with unusual right-of-way rules,

alternating side-of-street parking, non-intuitive international signage (with the exception of STOP), 

and roundabouts of wide-ranging size from the multi-lane étoile [star]

that goes round and round the Arc de Triomphe to residential streets circling elevated cobblestones the size and shape of a old-fashioned trash can lid. Even the major autoroutes, with their extremely short entrance and exit lanes, are problematic, especially with frequent traffic jams and motorcycles that are allowed by law to ride helter-skelter between traffic lanes. 

It’s no wonder that without Delys (my intrepid navigator) riding shotgun, I would be absolutely lost on the road. I have all I can do to keep track of the traffic swirling all around me to avoid accidents or being photographed by traffic cameras while driving over the speed limit. Without the benefit of Google Maps, Apple Maps, 

Rick Steves’s books, and Delys’s innate sense of direction and adventure, I might have become a reclusive missionary shut-in with a persistent eye twitch rather than the carefree missionary-about-town and the insouciant explorer of France that I’ve become.

While it is true that French drivers make liberal use of their horns, as well as a variety of facial expressions and hand gestures, to communicate their frustration with other drivers, pedestrians, road workers, trucks, bike and moto riders, and an occasional stray sheep or cow in the country, they are certainly the most courteous drivers I’ve ever encountered.  The French seem to know intuitively that, without wide-spread courtesy on the road, the République Française would experience an outbreak of chaos and violence that could surpass that of the French Revolution. So French drivers yield willingly, defer politely, merge in proper order, and stop anywhere at any time to run an errand without fear of reproach as long their hazard lights are blinking to warn fellow drivers. 

I still haven’t completely mastered French automobile etiquette—and I already irritate Delys plenty with my tendency toward hyper politeness behind the wheel—but I’m gradually growing in confidence. My grandson Miles once commented when I was driving him to school in Hermosa Beach, “Grandpa, you’re the politest driver I’ve ever seen.” Delys, on the other hand, reminds me from time to time that my gallantry behind the wheel can sometimes impede, rather than encourage, good traffic flow. She’s undoubtedly correct about that.