I realised a fascinating thing when my brother graced the City of Lights with his presence. I have subtely, unwittingly become accustomed to the way of the French. Now this may sound all, I-wear-berets, eat-baguettes, and ride-a-velib delicious, enchantingly wrapped up in images of red, white and blue and the sounds of Carla Bruni wafting out, but the reality is, well, not that.
I have become somewhat aware of this over the passing of time. You can't live in a city for 8 months and not get caught up in its web of culture, way of life, and various bemusing functions, but suddenly, having someone new to the environment made me all the more aware.
It happened while he was driving. Paris is not an easy place to drive. I wouldn't want to learn to drive here, in fact I think most of the people on the roads skipped that step too, judging by their daring manoeuvres. But, B was managing pretty successfully to navigate his way through the notorious jungle which makes up Paris' labyrinth of 'rue's'.
Trying to desperately to get out of the city (this was the plan, not a "holy shit I want out" reflex which would be equally understanding), we came to a intersection. And I use this word, "intersection", loosely. It is perhaps telling that the French barely use this word which is the equivalent in English, in fact the other word for intersection, or crossroads "carrefour" has been so left behind that it is only referred to when mentioning the chain of supermarkets with that apt title.
At this particular 'carrefour' there were four different streets all coming from different directions like a normal junction. However, what this intersection lacked was traffic lights, stop signs, give-way signs, in fact it lacked any signage to guide the drivers through. As we approached, B's hands tightened around the steering wheel, his hand whipping back and forth like he was watching a tennis game on fast forward, trying to decipher what to do.
His brow was furrowed in concern and frustration. "But who goes here?" He demanded, at no one in particular. My knowledge of French was not going to help here, with no French to observe.
It was then that I realised I have left behind so many idiosyncracies attached to my place of birth, adapting to, for now, the way of 'les Français'.
Because for me, the real question was: "but who stops here?"
This is a French custom I have woven into my approach to navigating the streets by cycle.
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