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“J’AI DEUX AMOURS, MON PAYS ET PARIS”.
Many years ago, long before I could understand what Paris meant to the world, before the noisy and useless headlines would have their way, before I learned to pause before a newly blossomed rose, I was trapped in a sea of encircling cars on the Place de la Concorde.
“I have to get to the Gare du Nord train station”, I repeated to myself as I tried to avoid yet another potential collision on that notorious, massive roundabout in the heart of Paris. I was already late to pickup my friend who was getting off the train from Brussels, cautiously trying to maneuver my English car into position to exit the existential crisis that is driving around the Place de la Concorde, as tiny Renault’s and Citroen’s whizzed by, accompanied occasionally by the angry “Allons-y!” of their drivers.
“I am never going to get out of here”, I mumbled to myself, “I am stuck in a play by Sartre, I will definitely die here, either in a crash with an angry Parisian or just going round and round and eventually running out of gas”, with either scenario seeming increasingly likely with every rotation I made trying to get out of that grand circle. Suddenly, I saw my chance. An unlikely opening on my right, a quick turn of the steering wheel, and there I was, at the curb. Not exactly out of the spinning circle, but at least safely stopped on the side, with a moment to pause, wipe my…
