Sunday, August 15, 2004


She drove a tiny car -- a faded blue Renault, or something like that. It was Amboise, so it was a Renault or a Peugeot or a Citroen, not a Ford or Chrysler or Toyota. And it was faded blue.

As she crept into the cobblestone intersection and stopped to look both ways (all ways, for there were streets coming from many directions), her car stalled.

From a distance it appeared as if she was yelling -- sitting behind the steering wheel of that stalled, faded blue Renault yelling. She flailed her arms and pounded on the steering wheel. Then she stopped. Then she started again, her head bouncing and her mouth wide open and her hands again flailing and pounding.

After a moment of this, she looked to her left and a man with a broken arm walked up and spoke to her. He pointed to something inside her car with his one good hand, and then he went around to the back and with that same good arm began to push.

The car didn't budge.

Then another man walked up to the back of the car. He had grey hair and wore an old, grey vest, but he had two good arms. Together the two of them pushed the woman in her faded blue Renault out of the intersection and down one of the narrow side streets.

They disappeared behind a corner with the two men pushing and the blue Renault rolling silently. A few moments later, from down that street, the echoing sound of the first man could be heard, telling her to pop the clutch and get going.

Vas-y! Vas-y!

Trip to France - Day 910

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