Paris: To Drive It Is to Love It By Charles Trueheart Washington Post Foreign Service Sunday, March 5, 2000

Europe 2000 Introduction: City Hopping Berlin: Das Boom Krakow: One Hill, Many Stories London: Visit a Pub Paris: To Drive It Is to Love It Rome: Shop Like a Native

My friend Bob from Manassas, who visited here a while ago with his family, has another, and more accurate, image.

Riding away from the Gare de Lyon after I picked them up a couple of summers ago, and occasionally gripping the dashboard, Bob marveled at what had become of the would-be boulevardier. He beheld instead a driven man, surging through a sea of Paris traffic, dodging and weaving, cutting and thrusting, aggressively seeking advantage on the chaotic avenues-and evidently enjoying it.

Time was when I would have hung my head in shame at such a confession. But it's true. I do love to drive in Paris. I like the sensation of speeding along the Seine River quays or rumbling down the Champs Elysees. I like nosing down the narrowest cobbled side streets, two inches of parked-car clearance on either side. I like knowing my way around-the overlooked diagonals that make the crow fly straighter, the perilous one-way streets that lead to hells of no return. I like being able to sit back and take history in stride, listening to Haydn or the Dixie Chicks while cruising across the Place de la Bastille or exploring the Latin Quarter. I like to experience a frisson of fate while powering through the tunnel where Princess Diana had her last encounter with Paris driving.

I know what you may be thinking. You have another image of Paris traffic-savage, untamed, fearsome. But you're confusing the French with the Italians, or Bostonians.

Learning to deal with Paris drivers is no harder than learning to deal with Paris waiters. You just have to earn the respect of your adversary. Don't be intimidated by the lack of lane markings. Don't be spooked by the sheer number and raw proximity of cars around you, or their gnatlike size and disposition. Stay cool. Don't hesitate. Above all, don't let on that you're aware of anything but your hood ornament.

The immutable law of the Paris roadscape – yes, there is one – is priorite à droite. That is, the driver on your right has the right of way. This means that a driver may enter a major thoroughfare, or traffic circle, from a side street without stopping. So even the most minor Paris intersection requires lightning judgments about the likely sense of entitlement of the oncoming driver. How wide is his street compared with yours? How big is his car? How great is its speed, how good its brakes, how alert its driver?

I have come to adore these recurring showdowns, not just for sheer sport but as a metaphor for French society. All drivers operate under an ironclad rule that applies to everybody, democratically, regardless-priorite» a¼ droite. But every driver seeks to get the better of his neighbor, to command a bigger slice of the road, to wriggle or bludgeon his way to victory.

Traffic circles are a slightly more ritualized sport, and the World Cup of Paris circles is the Etoile, the vast traffic whirlpool that encircles the Arc de Triomphe. Driving it is a thrilling experience, like whitewater rafting. You sail from one of the 12 spokes into the Etoile without breaking your pace, watching as the speeding cars already in the circle brake and give way, and then find the optimum route for the quick ride to follow: not too far outside the center to have to cede to entering cars, not too close to the center to be trapped when you need to exit.

Just to complicate the game a little, there is often an obstacle thrown in: a solitary car paralyzed on the cobblestones, its driver panicked or fainted dead away, around which the pitiless traffic must course. At rush hour, or because of the aforesaid bozo, the Etoile can grind to a virtual standstill. Then the game switches to something no less enjoyable but more intellectual-a fluid puzzle of interlocking pieces, each with a mind of its own.

Parking, you say? Yet another idle qualm. Finding a spot actually is not so difficult in all but the oldest and most crowded parts of the city, where frankly only a fool, or sometimes me, would drive. This is because Paris drivers, like Paris dogs, own the sidewalks.

I drive a relative tank, a 1986 Volvo, but most cars here are small enough to fit just about anywhere. Parisians park where they please, and there aren't enough meter maids, certainly at the lunch or dinner hours, to keep up. The city semiofficially seems to understand that some rules need to be broken in the interests of urban harmony.

Even so, I seldom resort to the sidewalk. There's usually a place on the street-I'm not saying a legal place-and if there isn't, nearby you can find an underground garage at much, much better rates than what you might find in Washington.

I hope I'm convincing you that there's an exciting alternative to seeing Paris on foot. But never mind the how, what about the why? The same reason you use a car where you live: to get as close as possible to your destination as quickly as possible. Instead of allowing a half-hour or 45 minutes between appointments to ride the bus or Metro, I can get almost anywhere in central Paris in 15 or 20 minutes. If not, "traffic" is a commonly accepted excuse for tardiness.

For the tourist, using a rental car around town means you can get to places you might find difficult or time-consuming with public transportation-Sacre Coeur on Montmartre, the wonderful Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes at the western and eastern fringes of the city, or the farther flung and virtually untouristed Parc de St. Cloud or Parc de Sceaux, where I like to walk and run my dog. The city is exceptionally well-marked, well-mapped. You can drive and park right under the Louvre, and right under Notre Dame, or on the countless side streets around the Eiffel Tower. Not a bad option if it's raining here, which it usually is.

Yes, I am sometimes sorry to be stuck in my car in traffic, thinking wistfully of the Metro train rumbling swiftly below. Yes, on sunny spring days I wouldn't think of driving anywhere I could walk, and neither should you. But still. Driving makes me feel like I belong.

A few months ago, I arrived late for a function at U.S. Ambassador Felix Rohatyn's residence. Traffic had been horrendous, parking distant. I apologized to the Rohatyns at the door. "Stupidly," I explained, "I drove."

Mrs. Rohatyn wasn't merely forgiving. She paid me a real compliment. "Of course you did," she cheerfully replied. "You're a Parisian."