I was sitting on a bench in Montmartre, enjoying two of my favourite Parisian things: a Nutella crepe fresh from a street vendor and watching the European world go by. Stylish men, and even more stylish women, hustling or strolling, chatting or silent, filled the streets leading to the Sacré Coeur. Some clicked their heels purposefully, others met acquaintances on the street - greeting each other with kisses. Two kisses: cheek-to-cheek. I love that too. It's Paris; it's okay to touch.
A car stopped in the street in front of me and distracted me from my chocolate-hazelnut treat. I love the cars in Paris too. Not that I'm a car person, but here they're all so small and cute; they should be all be painted in pastel colours. The darling little car that diverted my attention started backing up; to my alarm, he seemed ready to parallel park in a tiny gap between two parked cars. From my vantage point, I could clearly see that the distance between the two cars was the size of his car plus my hand-rolled Nutella crepe - at most.
At that moment, I remembered once hearing from a rigid engineer that the minimum space required to safely and correctly parallel park is 1.5 times the size of your car - plus or minus a small margin for driver skill. Either this Frenchman had a poor understanding of space, or he wasn't privy to this rule. As he came frightfully close to the car parked behind, he slowed down - but didn't stop. He hit the car.
Mon d ieu! What to do? I wondered: Should I call the police? No - too drastic. Besides, my French couldn't handle that. I rubbernecked back and forth to see if there were any other witnesses. But nobody was paying any attention. They carried on with their Parisian lives, their chic scarves catching the wind, their sweet scent lingering momentarily in the air. Then he pulled forward, not to flee, but to continue his ludicrous parking attempt. Then he hit the car in front of him. Mon d ieu! I reflected that I'd have to leave a note on each car: " Je regarde un accident avec ta voiture."
But the man was shameless; he continued bumper-carring his way into the spot - bam, bam, bam. When he finally stopped, he was flush with the car in front of him, and as I predicted, the space behind him would have been barely enough to squish in my crepe. He got out of his car, looked at my gaping jaw and threw me a look that made me feel like my outfit was unco-ordinated. He was gone before I could react.
Well, I may not be the greatest under pressure, but I know how to do the right thing. I started digging through my (unchic) backpack for a pen, paper and my French/English dictionary. While I was forming my Good Samaritan letter, I noticed the car across the street preparing to pull out. The driver also had only a crepe's worth of leeway. She pulled forward until - bam, kiss. Reverse - bam. Forward - bam. At no time did a car alarm trigger to badger anyone into paying even some fleeting attention. In fact, nobody on the sidewalk was even giving her a second look. Finally she was free and off to her next appointment.
Bewildered, I examined the street more closely; it was lined with cute little cars, parked literally bumper-to-bumper.
I put away my letter and went back to my crepe. It's Paris: It's okay to touch.
Special to The Globe and Mail