Stephen explains the benefits of going incognito when driving around France.
I admit it, I’m Parisian. You might think that sounds out of character. Why confess instead of bragging? Aren’t we Parisians all aware of our inherent superiority? Well, yes, most of us sincerely believe that we are the most sophisticated inhabitants of planet Earth (and maybe the other planets, unless there is one with better restaurants). But we are also a little ashamed.
I must emphasize that this shame only applies when we are outside of Paris, in some rural corner of the country like Lyon, Rouen, or one of those other French cities that are considered civilized. When we move away from our hometown, sometimes it’s best to hide our sophistication.
In France, it is now possible to choose whether your car registration should reveal your approximate address. In the past, the cars of Parisians wore the number 75, Marseilles drove cars with 13, Lyonnais 69 and Strasbourg 67.
More than a number
The numbers, as many of you know, correspond to the departments, which (France being so bureaucratic) are numbered more or less alphabetically. There are, of course, exceptions to this alphabetic rule (France is so gloriously revolutionary).
As a student I found this very convenient when hitchhiking. I spent a year in Perpignan, in the Eastern Pyrenees (department 66). So if, on my way home, I stopped at a roundabout in, say, Carcassonne (in Aude, department 11) and saw a car with a registration that ended in 66, I usually gave a thumbs up with extra glee.
Most people still register their cars according to their address, but as soon as the rules were relaxed, many Parisians decided to ditch the telltale number 75. Some apparently opted for 2A and 2B, the numbers for northern and southern Corsica. The island has a reputation for a lack of peace of mind behind the wheel, so the idea is that by registering your car there, you’ll discourage drivers from cutting you off on the highway.
I went the other way, choosing a registration that suggested I was from a quiet rural area. This has the disadvantage of provoking Parisian drivers to harass me at every intersection, but since I only use the car to leave Paris, my suffering is short-lived. My strategy, you see, is aimed at non-Parisians. The worst thing you can be when driving around the rest of France is a Parisian: other drivers will instinctively hate you. Want to take a side road? No one will back down. Double parked for two minutes while you bought a sandwich? Any passing policeman will give you a ticket. In Marseille, Paris’s bitter southern rival, they’ll probably just push your car into the port.
Telltale signs
On the other hand, while I’m hanging around France with my regular license plate, I’m treated with unfailing courtesy. No one yells at me if I get lost and hold up traffic. I wave apologetically, and they think I’m a poor, confused peasant. Likewise, in any service context outside of Paris, I hide my identity. My French isn’t perfect, but being Parisian isn’t just about language. Instinctively, if one of us is made to wait a microsecond by a receptionist or waiter, we will cringe, cringe, tap our feet, and then complain—thus, of course, ensuring that the service will even worse (see above for France as a glorious revolutionary).
So outside of Paris I always remind myself to tone it down a bit. Life should not be rushed, receptionists should not respond instantly. Of course, when my number goes through and I get great service thanks to my duplicity, I congratulate myself for having poked the eyes out of these naive provincials. Second confession: that shame I mentioned about being Parisian was sheer hypocrisy. He had fooled you after all, hadn’t he?
Stephen Clarke’s new novel Paul West, Merde at the Paris Olympicsis already out.
From France Today magazine
Lead Photo Credit: © MARIE LISS
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