Picking Up Croissants

In California, as many companies did, we used to buy bagels and donuts every Friday. They were delivered by a service. Sometimes, as a manager in the group, I would buy donuts spontaneously during the week - usually everyone's favorite gutbusters, Krispy Kreme. Once I bought 40 dozen Krispy Kreme donuts for a partner in Provo, Utah, after they pulled an all-nighter to help get a joint project done.

In Paris, there are no donuts. You can go into a patisserie and get a beignet, which also has fried dough, usually with sugar and sometimes even a filling. But it's not the same. Not even close. Beignets are not worth the effort, and besides, at 2 euros a pop, it's not exactly cost effective.

What Paris has instead are croissants au beurre. Everyone loves a croissant, and once you've found a boulangerie with croissants the way you like them, you stick with it. Now, being a good manager here in Paris, I also want to supply my team regularly with healthy morning food. So I've found my favorite boulangerie, right on the way to work - Le Moulin de la Vierge. The croissants are buttery, perfectly cooked, and the shop exudes that ambiance of 19th century charm that makes life in Paris special.

The croissants cost 0.85 euros each, which means that I can get 11 for 9.35 - but 12 cost 10.20. So if I don't have change I buy 11. I once suggested to the cashier that they could have a great promotion of 12 croissants for 10 euros and probably get some more volume, but she looked at me like I was nuts and suggested I come back Monday to talk with the manager, hinting that the manager would probably throw me out on my ear. Maybe it was my American accent; maybe she was just a cashier and didn't care; or - most likely - maybe the idea of having a sale on croissants is just too weird for a traditional boulangerie. So I still buy 11 at a shot.

Now as I go to work in my car, there is always an issue of parking if I want to get croissants. Unlike Krispy Kreme and even some Starbucks in the US there is no drive through at the boulangerie. And of course there is no parking lot. Fortunately on that corner, at 8:45 in the morning, I can often finagle a parking spot on the side of the streets. I acquired my first car scratch in Paris though an unfortunate parallel parking job into a poorly sized parking spot. But parking a car to buy a near-dozen croissants on the way to work is a distinctly un-Parisian activity. I get the feeling I'm trying to shoehorn my American ways into a culture that is not adapted for them. Kind of like watching rugby to replace American football. (You can't just say "football" over here; that refers to the dull and confusing sport involving a lot of running, kicking, and head-butting.) Personally, I'll take my Raiders any day over the English Roses, their fans incongruously singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" as the team members try to knock the snot out of their opponents.

Dropping Off The Kids

Back in California dropping off the kids at school was a well-orchestrated nearly military drill. Parking was limited so the cars passed in front of the gates one by one, attendants opening the doors and accompanying the kids to the sanctuary of the courtyard. At no time was a car to stop or, God forbid, was the driver ever to leave the car. In no case was the Post Office across the street to be used to park the car no matter how many empty stalls were left in its parking lot. The Postmaster had complained to the school about unauthorized use of parking spots.

Here, there are no attendants. There are no parking spots at the school. There is, instead, chaos. The street itself has a couple of paid parking spots, always taken. In front of the school is a crosswalk to the park, long enough for three or four cars to completely block the pedestrians walking through the park from the metro. The street is barely wide enough for two cars; rear-view mirrors collide regularly. When these spots are taken, cars stop in the middle of street or block the entrances to underground parking lots of the local apartment buildings. Nobody cares. Indeed there is a kind of solidarity among the driving parents engdendered by the difficulty of finding a spot, rushing the kids out of the car, doing a hurried goodbye hug and kiss, and rushing back to the car before traffic has backed up around the street and into the rest of the neighborhood.

One red-letter day a moving truck blocked the street entirely for a good thirty minutes. Naturally all the parents abandoned their cars and walked the kids to school. This was the kind of event that can create a true sense of community among otherwise harried and unsmiling Parisians. The nightmare of being stuck in the street with the other drivers for 30 minutes! The pointless honking! The absolute joy of having an unbeatable excuse for being late to work! My five year old daughter talks about it to this day - whenever we see a big truck she asks if we'll be stuck in the street and if we'll just leave the car behind as we did that day. She is excited about the prospect. Sometimes I am too.

Traffic in Paris

I've been driving in Paris for about 6 months now. I have brand-spanking-new Peugeot 307SW, China blue, with leather seats, GPS, a gas engine, and an automatic transmission. The last two points are significant. In France, gas costs a good 20 eurocents per liter more than diesel, and the fuel efficiency is up to 25% less. This means gas engines are considerably pricier than diesel. But they pollute less, make less noise, and generally perform better. In my case, however, I didn't really have the choice, and I almost certainly would have chosen my wallet over the environment if I could have. My constraint was that Peugeot does not make a diesel engine for its automatic transmission - and I simply HAD TO HAVE an automatic transmission. Oh, I can drive a stick shift. Way back in 1987 I owned an Acura Integra standard transmission and there is something viscerally and vitally virile about wrapping your fist around the stick, feeling the gear changes, riding the clutch against all advice. But not in Paris, where a combination of full-time 24/7 stop-and-go traffic and steep and narrow parking garage ramps makes a standard transmission a test of dexterity beyond my capacities. So I wanted automatic.

The French think automatic transmissions are for wusses. They also have odd myths about automatic transmissions being less fuel efficient, unreliable, and generally bogus. But it all comes down to the manliness of fully controlling one's vehicle - and especially the ability to accelerate rapidly over short distances. The brake and transmission business in France is thriving; the Midas shop near our apartment is always crowded.

-- Harley