I am seriously writing this while wearing my helmet proudly, a badge announcing the adventure from which I just returned. I can’t help but to dance to the awful, child-like music of my own voice. I’m really happy, and really proud.
I have my own French bank account – complete with ATM card and euros and everything. And now I have my own scooter, too – complete with two helmets and a lock and a basket for keeping my stuff!
It’s so fun. I love my little scooter, and yet, I’m terrified of it. When I first mounted it’s giant, gleaming, metallic body at Angela’s, I found a new respect for machinery. You are riding this powerful, mechanic beast without any seatbelt or metal surrounding to protect you from the elements, let alone a terrible crash. Everyone told me driving a scooter was easy – don’t be fooled. It’s not. It’s like learning how to drive a car (not even a stick shift, just any old automatic) – it’s frightening and impossible at first… but once you know how to, it’s so simple. Scooters are big and heavy. You can feel the motor screaming angrily from beneath your seat. Managing tight corners and revving up hills, you can feel the delicate balanced required not to fall over. And learning to drive with your hands – left hand break, right hand gas – is like teaching someone how to rub their belly and pat their head at the same time. Your body just doesn’t want to listen to your brain.
As I carefully navigate the winding, hilly driveway in Cannes, I suddenly feared for my life. I needed to drive this bag boy home? Come on now. I can’t even turn a corner at a speed greater than 5kmh and I’m supposed to drive – with traffic – on N7? The cars are going to pass me constantly, beeping furiously at my slow speed and probably running right into me, for who knows if I can even drive in a straight line.
But by the time we had lunch and got the paperwork straightened out, I felt better. I can do this. I had Angela drive it to the beachside route, the slower road home, full of stop and go traffic and winding streets but boasting an average speed limit of 30 – 50 kmph. With B behind me to stop traffic in the event that I toppled over or slipped on sand or otherwise put my life in danger, I figured I could make it home. It may take four hours, but I can do it.
I was right. It did take forever – a long, aching two hours for my father who patiently followed my scooter as it puttered along. I had to pull over often to let the train of cars pass. But as I navigated the treacherous turns and eventually felt comfortable cruising at a wild 80kmph, I became full of excitement. The engine’s rumbling were no longer a fearful, crying roar, but instead a soothing, exhilarating purr. Turns became easier. Rotaries stopped reminding me of death. I could start and stop with ease. I even filled my own gas tank and only spilled a little! At every single stop I’d turn around bright eyed and sporting a toothy grin, giving my father a goofy look from buried under my ridiculous helmet. How appreciative I was for his patience, help, and support. And every time I turned back around I had to dance to “Shake your booty” with the words transformed from “shake shake shake” to “scoot scoot scoot” in my head.
When we finally pulled into the gravely driveway of Chez Michel I was beaming with triumphant joy. I love returning to the house feeling so successful, as I did when I first arrived in the taxi June 2nd and realized I was actually going to live my dream, as we did when we arrived after finally finding the big rock, as I did today when I somehow conquered my fear of machinery and drove my scooter – my first big French investment – all the way home.
Other scooterific adventures? We passed through the thick, orange haze of forest-fire smoke along the way home. Scooting through it, the ashes burnt my eyes as bugs, leaves and other airborne objects left welts on my skin. It was tragic to think of all the life (mostly trees) lost to the awesome power of fire, combined with dry woods (from over two weeks without any moisture) and strong winds. Probably the most fascinating part of it all was the planes, dipping down into the sea, scooping up water, dropping bucketsful on the flickering tongues of fire below. The planes were interesting. Big and yellow, masters in battling nature yet still helpless against the blazing flames.
As we set the table for another night of pizza, I can’t help but to pay silent respects to the incredible fire whose smoke now hangs in a thick, orange haze over the bay below… I have stories of fires, but they will be told another day.
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