My French Ride

There is little that can withstand a man who can conquer himself -- Louis XIV, King of France 1643-1715

1986 Peugeot 505

In 2003, when self-appointed patriotic Americans began calling French Fries Freedom Fries, because France would not join the European coalition that backed our invasion of Iraq, I thought of my Peugeot.

I thought back to the mid-Nineties when I had comforted myself in the lush leather driver's seat of my 1986 silver 5-speed automatic Peugeot 505 while scarfing pastry delights from Kelly's French Bakery, perhaps a chocolate croissant whose buttery, flaky bits of crust tumbled like snowflakes onto my lap protected by a clean, white serviette, amid a hint of lavender emanating from the console.

She was an outlier, my 505, as the French are wont to be, although they are quite herdish among themselves: They rush to the nearest brasserie for lunch at precisely 12-noon, no matter what state of business they might find themselves. Once, on the Med in St.-Maries-de-la-Mer in southern France I was dickering with a shopkeeper over an item -- a black cross replica of those you see on the front of the white huts throughout the Comargue, my wife collects crosses -- intending to make the purchase when of a sudden the clock struck high noon.

"Excuse moi, monsieur. I must close the shop for lunch. I will be back at 2 pm."

You have to respect a culture that prizes palate over profit. I'm confident a glass of light rose complemented his repast.

I was smitten over my 505, named Edith after the famed French song-bird chanteuse Edith Piaff. I purchased her from an artist from San Francisco. I saw her sitting in a parking lot with a for-sale sign, did a double take. What is that? An automobile, of course, but what kind? Make and model, if you please.

I paid $3500 USD. I always buy used.

During that period, yuppies were driving Mercedes and Beemers; safety-conscious families tooled around in Volvo station wagons. A Euro invasion had run American cars off the roads. This girl possessed that je ne sais quoi that only the French can articulate: a swooping front hood that bespoke low-cut and sexy, a voiture decolletage on a four-door sedan.

With the 505, the French had made a statement: no more cars that appeared the same coming and going, like the Renault, or none that could be confused with a toaster on wheels. Recall the Citroen DS (albeit the most comfortable car in the world).

I'll never forget the first time I escorted Edith into one of those quickie oil-change places. The attendant took one peek beneath Edith's chassis and exclaimed:

"Oh no! We don't service French cars!"

You have to wonder.

Cabanes Blanches aux St. Maries-de-le-Mer by Vincent Van Gogh, 1888

I found my own private mechanic. His name was Willard and he was somewhat of a madman. It goes with the territory. I'd rather have an aficionado who drives the same car himself, than a no-nothing kid who freaks out at the first sign of cultural diversity.

A family man with a profound sense of joie de vivre evidenced by at least four or five kiddos invariably romping nearby, Willard had developed a following as a Mercedes mechanic until he converted. He explained: "I drove my Mercedes to LA and when I arrived my back was killing me. I drive my Peugeot to LA and when I arrive I feel refreshed."

In addition to a tune up and oil change, Willard offered conversation and historical perspective. 

"Did you know that the intifada was started in a Peugeot?"

I never drove Edith to Los Angeles. At the time I worked for an LA-based company with a satellite office in Santa Cruz: my garage. Edith and I were never far apart. The company paid for my travel to SoCal. This obviated my ever getting stranded between Santa Cruz and Los Angeles, looking for a French car mechanic.

In the late Eighties, Peugeot made a push to sell the new 505 sedans and station wagons  in America, through dealerships and ads in high-brow magazines like the Atlantic. By the mid-Ninties they had shuttered their efforts in the US, confirming a cultural disconnect between the two nations.

She was comfortable. She was classy. She was unique: one of only three 505s in town: mine, Willard's and one owned by a surfing bodhisattva who hung out at Steamer Lane.

Edith served as my entry into luxury sedans. My daughter Bryna and her friends were beneficiaries when I taxied them around town to games and practices, typically with the sunroof open and a CD blasting the B-52s from the dash.

Our relationship lasted about two years with your usual ups and downs — Willard left town — and ended amicably. I cleaned her up and placed a for-sale sign in the side window, parked her in front of our house. The following day a woman called who had fallen in love, who obviously saw the same romantic lines I had, a French connection. Sold. $2200.

I never quit calling a French Fry a French Fry. Fads come and go. When Barbara, our friends Nancy and Steve and I flew to France in 1999 to celebrate Barb's birthday, we rented a nifty new Peugeot in Nimes to experience the countryside of Provence in style. 

C'est la vie!