Driving in Cercles

On our ninth anniversary, and we spent two hours driving in circles trying to find our way back to our apartment from downtown. It was a metaphor for something.

We drove downtown to meet the daughter of a friend and her niece, who we had to pick up from daycare. We brought the kids to the park where they spun the merry go round obsessively. They understood each other, moving (almost) deftly out of each other’s way, laughing at each other’s jokes. Back at the apartment they poured all of the little girl’s toys on the ground and then mashed the pieces around. They rode the trottinette back and forth down the hallway, talking turns scooting in the wagon.

It was a good day, but on the drive back we got lost. And by lost I mean lost, really really lost. Toulouse is not on the grid plan. Not even remotely. It’s more like the curved streets that change names twenty times, and main streets that are one way and no direction signs plan. We had carefully planned our escape on the map, take the third exit on the roundabout and we’ll be on our way. Somehow, we managed to miss the correct exit on the roundabout at least four times. Each time we took the wrong exit we were plunged into the heart of the city, careening down the main boulevard toward a canal or river that seemed impossible not to cross.

We drove past Saint Etienne cathedral several times. We saw statues and stately stone archways, tightly packed cobblestone streets, a large red-stoned city square with pedestrians pouring out in every direction. We bought Mr Baby a bottle of water from a little shop, only to discover that he’d wet his pants and taken off his socks and shoes.

We'd been driving for about an hour and a half, and we finally stopped in front of a stately building, exhausted and out of ideas.

“We should have gotten the GPS,” I said. At the time it seemed like an extravagance, at almost 5 euros a day it would have cost us almost the same as the car itself. We had a map, patience, each other, I thought. We were experienced. After all, we drove through both Cork and Dublin with terrible truncated city maps and relied on the kindness of strangers. This was different. People were kind and friendly, but nobody could tell us how to get home.

Sitting in front of the Place Capitale with the engine idling, we stared at the map, praying for divine intervention.A man rapped at the window. He wore a red toque and big black framed glasses, looking perhaps a little unkempt but maybe he was just artistic.

“Can I help you find something?” he asked once India rolled down the window.

We showed him the map.

“Well, I’m not from Toulouse, but I’m waiting for a friend to pick me up. Maybe he could drive to the place you’re trying to find and you could follow us.”

It seemed like a light at the end of the tunnel. Just then Monsieur Helpful’s phone rang, and he launched into a rapid fire conversation with his friend, explaining our predicament.He ended the call, then turned his attention back to us.

“My friend can’t get in here because zere is too much construction,” he said. “I have un suggestion. I ride with you to the Grand Ronde, then you can follow us.”

Now whenever a strange man offers to get in your car, late at night, in a strange city, you are supposed to say no. But we had been lost for almost two hours. Letting all common sense go, I said “Sure, get in.”

He hopped in. “Okay, so just go straight and we’ll hit the Grand Ronde. Just down this street.”

It didn’t look like the kind of street I should drive down. There were gates and metal ramps and hundreds of pedestrians, and most importantly, no other cars. But I wanted to believe. So I drove, over ramps, dodging bikes and people, all of whom were very polite, none of whom hit my car or yelled profanity.When we reached the end of the road, it was blocked off. A dead end. Just like Monsieur Helpful. I orchestrated a five point turn in about three feet of space, and turned the car around. Just then he decided to strike up a conversation.

“Are you tired?” he asked. What? What kind of question is that?

“No,” I said tersely. “Not at all.”

“Where are you from?”

“Canada,” I said.

Suddenly I caught his smell, an aroma of alcohol, body odor, the possibility of danger. Performing a five point turn, I maneuvered the car out of the torrent of people to a clearing, then I pulled over.

“Merci,” I said, “But I think we’ll just go on our own from here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Oui, merci.”

He got out reluctantly. And then in an last ditch effort to provide masculine guidance, he kept saying “Ok, but I don’t think you are going to find it alone. Do you want my phone number?”

“No, merci.”

“Ok, good luck. Good luck, and go left. Left.”

As it turns out, he was wrong. The Grand Ronde was to the right. We took it very slowly this time, stopping at each intersection to make sure to check the street name with the coordinates on the map. And five minutes later, I saw a familiar sight: the super marche where I’d bought chestnut yogurt and apricot tartines just that morning. We were home.