Facing Facts

Sunday, June 28, 2015

     I have a garage, one big enough for my compact car to fit inside.  I have refrained from using it because the garage is entered from the back of the house on a strip of land given as an easement by elderly neighbors just down the hill.  Parking in the garage involves reversing in the very small space between the doors of the garage, backing into the garage ever so gently.

     The terrace is immediately above the exterior of the garage.  Last year I put up clothes lines in the space under the terrace.  It seemed the practical thing to do: since the weather is dry and hot here in the summers: clothes dry in the midday sun in an hour or two.

      I wlll have to figure out a way to string clothesline and take it down whenever I have to park the car from here on in.  Another incident this morning persuaded me that it was best not to create an opportunity for further vandalism of my car.

     This morning Beau and I joined Pipasa and Bija, two Japanese women friends, for a jaunt to the brocante/vide grenier on the outskirts of Carcassonne.  We agreed to meet at 7:45 a.m. so as to have our choice of the pickings.  Pipasa and Bija got in the car first, to give me time to give Beau a quick walk.

     While I was walking Beau in the vicinity, a young man of about twenty, dressed in a pink Lacoste shirt and summer jeans, approached the car.  Seeing that Bija and Pipasa were not French, he tried to speak to them in English.  I approached, and asked the young man what he wanted.

     He was obviously either drugged or intoxicated.  He jumped a bit, in the way drug addicts and hard core alcoholics always do when someone steps back from further contact, as I did.

     "You don't have to fear anything from me", he whined.

     "Can I help you?"  I said in French.

     "I need five liters of gas", he continued, then mumbled something unintelligible.

     "I'm sorry", I said in French and walked away.  He stalked off towards the village talking to himself.

      Last night I could hear lots of noise coming from the direction of the open air bar, La Cantine du Cure.  Their license allows them to stay open until 2:00 a.m., and after yesterday's incident, I was more sensitive than usual to sounds.  I spent a pretty miserable night thinking about whether I was doing anything to invite reprisals from anyone in the village, then decided that since I have a garage, I'm going to use it.

       I parked the car in the garage late this morning, after Bija, Pipasa, Beau and I returned from the brocante.  I asked Pipasa what she thought of the incident.

       "It's nasty", she offered.  "This never used to happen."

        Pipasa helped me park today, and I'll just keep practicing this difficult parking maneuver.  Knowing I won't let myself be victimized by drunken, drugged, or just malicious teenagers will make all the effort worth it.

        --And I'm lucky to have a garage.  An Englishwoman with a red license plate like mine had her car vandalized in the parking lot of the Place d'Europe last week, ostensibly as part of an effort to siphon out gas.  She has to park outside, her house in the village having no space for a garage.