Rules of the Road: Stories From the Land of Cheese

I need to take it down a notch. Not that this will be a sad installment of cheese, but we had a bit of mini-drama on the road. Addi and I were traveling home on a perfectly normal Friday morning. In fact, I was just starting to feel independent—really getting my wings, as they say—and thinking that “Hey, I can really do this.” The “this” being the whole living in Europe thing.

Then, it happened. I was rear-ended. I was waiting to turn left into our apartment complex and focusing on on-coming traffic when we were hit. I haven’t been in an accident in a while and I was surprised by the impact. The “thud” and shear force is amazing. I had also forgotten the sounds of an accident. You know that horrible noise that metal on metal makes? It is nothing compared to the shrills coming from your own daughter in the back seat.

So, I’m in a little bit of shock because I just didn’t see the guy coming. Then, BAM! It was surreal. I pulled off to the side and saw a big, white delivery truck do the same. I raced around to Addi’s door, but it was jammed and I couldn’t open it. I could see her and she was not bleeding, just screaming bloody murder. I darted to the other rear door and threw it open. I then grabbed her and hugged her to my chest. She seemed fine, just scared. Then, I tried to get out of the car. I was locked in! Blasted child-safety doors! I was frantically pulling on the door handle, screaming, “I can’t get out!” when I saw my guardian angle. He was a vision in a Boston Red Sox hat.

The driver of the random white delivery truck opened my door and helped me out. He spoke English and had a huge American smile. He introduced himself as “Mickey” and said that he saw the whole accident.

This turned out to be a good thing. The driver of the other vehicle came storming over, shouting in French. Basically, he was trying to blame me for “stopping in the middle of the road.” He claimed that I just stopped in the middle of the road without my blinker on and that is why he hit me. Mickey argued right back (in French) and put the French jerk in his place. I mean, what kind of man yells at a crying woman who is clutching a screaming five-month old? Really!

The police were called and Mickey stayed around to translate.