After all, what do you expect from a nation whose favourite spectator sport is the Tour de France, a three-week traffic jam?
Walk on the Wild Side
As a Parisian pedestrian, I often get the feeling that I am flying in a pheasant costume in front of a line of men with shotguns. And the bad news is that, like pheasants on a shooting estate, I can be mown down quite legally. Because Parisian pedestrian crossings are not like those in other countries. In Paris, you’re not actually supposed to cross, even when the little man is green.
Here’s how it works: imagine a crossroads with traffic lights. The lights go red on the east and west sides, and the little men go green for the pedestrians there. At exactly the same time, the lights go green for cars on the north and south sides. Consequently, the pedestrians are fair game for drivers turning right or left. There is nothing to force these drivers to stop for the pedestrians, except the flailing arms of those attempting to cross, pointing vainly at the tiny green man as cars screech round the corner towards them. When you add to this all the cars that run the red light, or who were (illegally) stuck halfway across the junction and drive through after the lights change, you realize why some junctions are only safe to cross on foot if you’re a pole vaulter.
And that’s with the supposed protection of the little green man. The black and white stripes painted on to road surfaces where there are no lights are regarded by most drivers as nothing more than horizontal graffiti. No Parisian driver ever stops at these. I was once sitting at a café terrace opposite one of these fake pedestrian crossings. A pregnant lady was waiting hopefully on the pavement, wondering whether she’d be able to get across the road before her baby arrived, when suddenly a car stopped spontaneously. A wave of surprise rippled across the terrace, and a woman at the table next to me murmured, ‘un provincial’. And sure enough, when the driver pulled away, the car had a 44 registration number – Brittany.
Outside Paris, drivers do stop for pedestrians without being forced to by traffic lights, a roadblock or a gun pointed at their windscreen. In summer, when the Parisians are on holiday, you can see them crossing the road, staring at the courteous local drivers with a mixture of surprise, gratitude and scorn: ‘Why is this provincial stopping for me? Doesn’t he have anywhere to go?’
This is the key to dangerous driving in France. Again, it’s all about lifestyle. I, French driver, am in my car to go somewhere incredibly important. I have to hurry to my workplace so that I can get to the coffee machine at the same time as my cute new colleague, arrive at my holiday home in time for dinner, or get to the supermarket before it closes. You, other driver, pedestrian, traffic light, are in the way of my lifestyle. Watch out, here I come.
A Walk on the Merde Side
It’s a similar story with dog poo. Why should I, dog owner, waste my precious time cleaning up after my dog or taking it to poo in a place where no one will be likely to tread in it? I don’t want it to poo in my living room or outside my front door, so I’ll walk it a few doors away, let it dump there and then go back home and get on with my life.
Some considerate Parisian dog owners do make an effort. They take their chiens to pretty pedestrian streets, where the dog won’t have its digestive system traumatized by the noise and vibrations of passing cars. The fact that the street cleaners don’t clean up as often in the pedestrian streets isn’t the dog owner’s problem. On the contrary, the dog will feel more at ease and will poo quicker if there is a bit of prior doggy décor lying about.
But many dog owners prefer to go out just after the street cleaners have been through. There are dogs who need a nice clean canvas for their artwork.
These days, some dog owners do clean up after their pets, but even in posh areas, the pavements can be filthy, despite the fact that the street cleaners come by every day. Walking along the narrow pavement can be like one of those video dance games where you have to step on the panels that light up, except that in this case you try to avoid the brown panels.
When I first came to live in Paris, I used to get my shoes mired up every day. I spent my whole life with my eyes on my feet, looking like a chronically shy shoe fetishist.
I also used to take out my anger on the dog owners. I worked in a chic part of the city near the Champs-Elysées, and found it satisfying, although completely ineffectual, to tell ladies in their fur coats who were letting their poodles poop in mid-pavement, ‘Il ne faut pas chier sur le trottoir, Madame’ – ‘You mustn’t shit on the pavement, Madame.’ It was fun to see them recoil in shock, but of course I hadn’t taken account of the French attitude to the niceties of politeness, so instead of changing their ways, my victims simply went into a huff about my rudeness. ‘Franchement,’ they would gasp as little Fido dropped his muck outside a food shop. ‘You Anglo-Saxons are so 31 uncivilized.’
Things got better when I learned the essential survival tactic. Or rather when I realized that my feet had evolved into Parisians. Rosie, an
