The Passenger Princess to Delayed Driver Pipeline

Foray 012: Refusing to Age & Other Anecdotes

I am guilty. Thankfully, I am not alone. I’ve been aided and abetted by my best friends, my choice of city, my peers. Not everyone, no that would be far too much of a broad stroke, but enough. It’s me and the majority of my friends. We’re the guilty, the accused. We’re the non drivers.

It’s expensive, it’s a hassle, it’s not that useful. Where would I even drive and why would I have a car? There’s no where to park it and it’s slower than using public transport anyways, also… it seems ever so slightly scary.

Everybody has heard the horror stories, from my grandparent’s generation to now. The 16 year old killed on her way home from graduation, the lane wandering and the accidental manoeuvres. These serve their purpose, they drive the message home. “Driving is the most dangerous thing anyone does” My dad reminds me. It’s not a place for mistakes.

The problem is, I make mistakes. I’ve spilt my coffee and liked the wrong photo. I’ve gotten pen on my white shirt and jammed my finger in the door. I can trip up and say the wrong thing. And why, in god’s sake, is the gas pedal so close to the break? Someone should’ve designed it better.

It’s all these things and more that wandered around my head as I drove in the rain for the first time yesterday. First-time drivers are an intrusive thoughts field day. 

Okay, let’s get this straight. I’m 24 and besides some admittedly illegal driving attempts on private property (all sober and during broad daylight), the first time I properly drove was yesterday. On the road, with other cars, armed with only my learner’s permit and a dream. 

It was interesting.

It’s been nearly six years of thinking ‘I’ll do it next summer’, of researching driving schools and never following up, of revving golf carts and calling shotgun. I’ve had an amazing time. In fact so amazing that driving felt less like an option and more like a handicap; why would I sink in the time, money and risk into learning to drive when there are so many other options?

Planes, trains and well.. taxis. That feels to be the name of the game. During the autumn, the winter and the spring the need to drive fades into the background like a long gone hum, with no need to remember the rhythm.

But truly, it isn’t all my fault. If I was pleading my passenger princess case I’d blame it all on my location.

Paris is a city where the need to drive is nil. As is London and so will be New York. Driving is not only unnecessary but a hassle, and I’ve been in enough cars trying to negotiate the Arc de Triomphe to know it’s much more fun to use the crosswalk. Pedestrians, motorcycles, hapless tourists and animals! It’s a wonder no one gets killed. Oh wait…

See? See how good I am at talking myself out of learning how to drive? I’ve really got to stop it, it’s becoming far too strong of a skill. 

The only truly upshot desire I’ve ever had to learn how to drive was watching Jack Cardiff’s “Girl on a Motorcycle” at 19 and seeing vintage Mini cars, the kind with no insulation and very few working seat belts, parked around Paris. While inspiring and certainly fun, neither of these sources represented any real driving need. 

still of Marianne Faithfull in “Girl on a Motorcycle” from 1968

There’s only been a few times in my life when being able to drive really would’ve been useful. Each time that gap has been filled with hour long walks or bikes along the highway which, while good exercise, are not particularly idyllic nor safe. Especially not when it’s a four laner with no sidewalk - more on that later.

The one time when this need was especially visceral was when my three high school friends and I decided to go to the French countryside for a week together. We rented an AirBnB in Bourgogne, got our train tickets and off we went without a second thought to our names.

Nothing gets comical quicker than four city kids in the countryside. We took three trains and, having been in situations like this routinely together, had the wherewithal to run out to a grocery store at one of our train connections and stock up on a bit of food before we got to our final destination. 

The final train station was a singular platform with no roof or shelter which didn’t exactly inspire confidence in our quest to get a taxi. After standing on the side of the road for awhile, we found a sticker on a nearby phone booth advertising the local taxi service. After a call and a quick 45 minutes, we found ourselves in a good old Peugeot trundling off to the AirBnB. This was very good, we felt, and we were quite pleased with ourselves.

the author, partly shoeless, on a route so barrée

The point of the countryside is to be in nature, which we emphatically agreed with, the more remote the better we roundly said. The fact that remoteness often correlates with no public transport and necessary car usage was not a fact that computed very well for us. “Oh,” we shrugged. “We’ll figure it out!”

After arriving at the AirBnb and settling in, we made ourselves a big charcuterie board, drank lots of wine, played cards, popped outside for a few rainy cigarettes and then called it a night. When we all woke up the next morning, we found we had coffee but no milk, cigarettes but no breakfast. This was the beginning.

A quick search on iMaps revealed to us that the nearest town was a 2 hour walk. We put on our jackets (it was a chilly July) stuffed our phones, wallets and cameras into our pockets and started out. Walking in a line along the side of the road, I was talking to Tommaso about my most recent breakup while Luka was telling Helena about his new film project. It was raining a bit, Bob Dylan came warbling out of my phone speaker and Tommaso lit a cigarette. We spoke, then fell silent, picked it up again and fell silent, walking in a line and then rushing suddenly to the side as a car approached. Helena and I were routinely pushed in front of the group to stick out our thumbs in the hope of hitching a ride.

It didn’t work the first few times but an hour into our walk a quasi-tractor slowed down, much to our delight. The farmer was kind and old, he explained to us that there weren’t any backseats in his car but if we wanted to we could climb into the cart latched onto the back of his car. One look at the trailer, filled with branches and other debris, and we gleefully jumped in. It wouldn’t be an overstatement to say we were happier with this than the backseat of any comfy car. We’re suckers for the adventure, what can I say?

The kind farmer drove us into town. With a little honk and wave of the hand, he pulled to a stop at the side of the road, telling us it was time to jump out. Pulling sticks out of our hair and jumping past branched, we called out so many ‘merci beaucoup’(s) our voices nearly became hoarse as he drove away. 

We discovered the town of Charolles that day. This little town in Bourgogne is famous for its beautiful white cows and their Charolais beef. So beautiful, in fact, it nearly drove Helena and I to vegetarianism. With a church and a little river, two bakeries, four restaurants and, important to us, one grocery store, Charolles was equivalent to heaven. 

After picking up some croissants and a newspaper, we took an espresso underneath the awning of a nearby cafe, sheltering ourselves as rain began to drizzle. Like I said, it was an off July. Afterwards, we hit all the main tourist stops, hoisting our jackets up above our heads. The church then the post office all in quick order until, finally, we walked towards our last remaining stop, the grocery store. 

Hemmed in by the jackets covering our eyes, it’s a wonder we were even able to notice the little wooden sign with the word ‘vélo’ painted on it. Pointing down a path leading off of the street, we followed it, curious. Leading us behind the old rural French buildings, we found a grassy little courtyard and a shop/shed bordering the bank of the river. Parked in front of it - praise be - was a ton of bikes. Akin to having stumbled upon a gold mine, we rushed into the shop, eager to get our hands on some, or really any, mode of transportation.

The man who owned the shop was equally old and kind. Most of the bikes, he told us, were broken or rusted beyond salvation but, if we could find a few that worked, we were more than welcome to take them. We nodded, hands on our hips, ready to negotiate a price or mention we were students in case there was a pity discount. 

“And how much?” Luka tentatively asked.

“Ten euros.” The guy said.

“Per bike? Ten euros per bike, so 40 for 4 bikes per day?”

“Well, how long are you here for?”

“A week.” Tommaso chipped in.

“Oh,” The guy said. “Then ten euros is fine. Just drop them off in the courtyard when you’re done. I’m on vacation from tomorrow anyways.”

He held out his hand. We gave him a ten euro bill and, turning back to watch the Tour de France on his blocky 80s TV set, we were evidently dismissed. 

Stunned by our unexpected good fortune, we wandered around the courtyard picking through bikes, still shaking our heads in disbelief at the incredibly good deal we had gotten.

Finding four that were in well-working condition was futile, but finding for in well-enough working conditions was possible. Equipped with four bikes, all hailing from 70s and 80s French and Italian bike racing superstardom complete with the eccentricities such as the “lady anatomie”, we rode off, shakily and with no gears, into the sunset. 

Stopping at a local winery on the way, of course, and taping a paper bag full of bottles onto our bike, we found that the bike home was really not much easier than walking. Except this time we couldn’t hitchhike. Huffing and puffing, it was on the fifth hill that I thought my legs were going to give out. 

The following days were a collage of rainy wildflowers and petting cows, a few bike rides and many more walks. Hitch-hiking to other towns and getting caught in the crosshairs of a cycling race, local markets and spoilt-for-choice basket shopping. We had two arguments and one barbecue, though we all agreed both the arguments and the barbecue weren’t proper arguments or barbecue.

When you can’t drive, you end up taking lots of detours. A little hitchhiking and uncertainty is good for you. The asking and hoping and waiting and praying. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. No way. It’s far too much fun. In fact, more people should experience life without a car.

God, there I go again. I told you I was good at talking myself out of it. Really, I’m too powerful for my own good.

I have a new mission, self-imposed of course. I must stop romanticising being license-less. It’s infantilising and unproductive and all the rest of it. Besides, do I want to stay in the backseat forever? No, no of course not! Okay then, I must learn how to drive and learn how to drive well!

So far, driving and sex are very similar. From the outset, one imagines it very easy and innately soundtracked. The reality is like a slap in a face. The fact that it’s real and physical? Insane. Two activities where dissociation is your worst enemy - if a single thought wanders off either you or the pedestrian next to you are done-zo. It calls for a level of focus that’s relatively difficult to cultivate in this attention economy.

Scrolling through my Facebook messenger app, I found our Bourgogne trip group chat. “Die fantastischien vier” it’s called. I wanted to include some of the great photos you see above, all taken by the incredible photographer Luka Perkins.

By the grace of god the 3 year old google drive link was still available and I scrolled through the photos, giggling the whole way through. After my nostalgia fest, I went back to the group chat and stumbled upon the last message I’d sent.

January 8th 2022:

“okay guys, six months out from this summer.

who’s going to take one for the team and learn how to drive?”

it’s me, i took one for the team

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Okay, I think I’ve said enough now. I’m sure someone’s waiting in the wings to lampoon Gen Z over our driving - God forbid I give them any ammo.

If you enjoyed reading this piece, please give it a like or comment down below why you love/hate driving. Only love or hate please, no middle ground. Subscribing & sharing would also be highly highly commendable. Hehe.

All of the photographs featured on this post were taken by my friend & incredible photographer Luka Perkins, check out his stuff here: https://lukaperkinspetit.com/ or on Instagram @stom.k

See you all next week!

Love ya,

xx J

me (from the past) asking you (of the present) to subscribe :)