You will find short stories on this site. Most are autobiographical. Some are fiction.

A VW FROM PARIS

I asked traveling friends who had traveled in Europe how they moved around. Most of them had bought Eurail passes and used taxis and buses to get around in towns. Some had rented cars. I asked if anyone had bought a car, and sold it at the end of the Summer. I was told that it would be too difficult to purchase, register, and insure a car in a foreign country, only to have to sell it at the end of the summer. And there is always the possibility of mechanical problems and accidents I was told. I pondered my options. I would have purchased a Eurail pass but I wanted to see remote architectural sites which would have been inaccessible without a car. So I decided to go to Paris and buy a car in June and sell it before I returned to the US in August.

Icelandic Airlines was the cheapest fare from New York to Paris. Icelandic flew old turboprop planes which were slower than jets. Saving minutes was less important to me than saving dollars so I purchased an Icelandic ticket. The safety of the flight had not entered into the equation. The flight I took from New York landed in Iceland for refueling. After a brief stop in Reykjavik, the flight continued on the second leg to Paris. I had a window seat and was watching the frozen landscape below when I became aware of a strange phenomenon. The low sun seemed to be rotating around the plane as if we were flying past it. I tried to understand how this could be happening. Did it have something to do with flying so close to the north pole? About then the pilot’s voice came over the cabin speakers. He was speaking in Icelandic. As he spoke there gasp from those who understood Icelandic. They turned to look out the windows on the opposite side of the plane from where I sat. Those of us who did not speak Icelandic were left, briefly, to wonder what was going on. Then the pilot spoke in English saying “Those of you with right side windows may have noticed that both of the engines have stopped. “Don’t worry.” He said “These turboprop planes can fly with half their engines. However, if we loose another, we are in trouble. We are turning back to Reykjavik.” The plane labored on for an hour before safely landing in Iceland for the second time. We waited through a twilight midnight for repairs to be made. Seven hours later, at what would have been dawn’s first light anywhere else in the world, we boarded the same old plane to see if, this time, it would carry us over the frozen North Atlantic to the airport in Paris. It held together and landed at Charles de Gaulle airport.

I had all day to find a cheap hotel. I took buses to the Sorbonne district on the left bank of the Seine. There, I found an inexpensive hotel and took a small room. It was barely large enough for the narrow steel frame bed and stained wooden dresser. There was also a tiny bedside table with a lamp between the bed and the slender double-hung window. The window overlooked a brick-paved courtyard with two emaciated trees. The courtyard which was wedged between ancient brick buildings extended out to the Ru du Petit Pont. A shared toilet and shower were down the hall. Even though it was meager, I was delighted to be there. I stretched out on the sagging bed and slept until evening. I woke up hungry and left the hotel for a stroll and a meal. The avenue was bustling with pedestrians. I walked by diners at tables along the sidewalk. As I walked I noticed that there were large gaps in the cobblestone paving of the avenue. At dinner, I asked my waiter about this. He told me that the cobbles had been pried out of the street to throw at police during student riots a month earlier. After dinner I found a newsstand which had a paper dedicated to automobiles. Back in my room, under the 40 watt bed side lamp, I Examined the automobile paper looking for older cars that would be likely to survive my summer travels. I noticed that Volkswagens were cheaper than other makes of comparable age and size. I surmised that this was because the French so hated the Germans that German cars were valued less than others. I decided that in the morning I would try to buy a VW bug.

The used car paper advertised a used car agency that was a few blocks from my hotel, so I started there. As I entered I saw that the only agent was engaged in a conversation with two young men of my age. He interrupted their conversation to ask what I wanted. I answered that I wanted to purchase an older used car. He told me to go up ramp to the second floor where older cars were parked. I went up and as I waited I perused the selection. None were to my liking. I could hear the conversation at the bottom of the ramp. I couldn’t understand the French but could tell that they were hagling over a price. I walked down the ramp, intending to leave. One of the young men had moved back from the heated haggling between his friend and the salesman. I approached him and asked if he spoke English. He did. Then I asked what was the problem. He explained that the salesman was trying to rob them. “We want to sell this perfectly good VW and the salesman would not agree to a fair price.” “How much do you want?” I asked. He answered. It was within my price range. I told him “Forget this place and meet me at the corner of the block away from the agency. I will buy your car at that price. As I left I glanced back and saw the young man whispering to his friend. Soon they joined me at the corner. We all got into the bug and I drove it around a block. OK, I said “I will buy it.” They told me that getting a car registered in France is very difficult. “We will meet you in the morning at the government offices in central Paris.” One of them said, “We will take you through the title process.” They gave me the address of the government office and we parted. I felt victorious as I walked back through the streets of Paris to my hotel. The following morning they were there at the appointed time. They shepherded me through the high hallways of this old stone building, into a large space with many counters and desks each of which had a line of people waiting for the clerk to act on their petition. We found the right counter and waited until the clerk methodically went through the ritual of papers, signatures, and stamps, all required for one to transfer the title of a car in France. There is no way I could have found my way through the process by myself. When done we celebrated our success with coffee at a nearby sidewalk cafe. After a brief conversation and salutations, they said adieu and walked away disappearing into the crowded streets, leaving me with the certificate of ownership and the keys to the VW Bug which would faithfully take me around Southern Europe that Summer.

At the end of the Summer, I returned to Paris with a week in which to sell the car before my flight back to New York. I placed an ad in the same auto sales weekly which I had used to find the car. I received an offer and drove out of Paris to sell the car. Like anywhere else this guy figured that if I were willing to drive that far, I would be desperate to sell the car before my flight. He made a ridiculously low offer. I drove back to Paris to the used car company where I had found the young men haggling. I figured that I would accept the offer of the salesman from whom I had snatched the car two months earlier. It worked. He didn’t even remember me or the event and made a low but not ridiculous offer. I accepted on the condition that I could retain use of the car until the day of my flight. A day later while merging into the traffic circle at the Arc Du Triumph, I found my car wedged between a bus and a cab. The result was a dented fender. When the day came for me to take the car to used car office. I parked in the street outside of the salesman’s office. The business of signing a sales agreement in exchange for cash took place in his office where he looked out of his window and saw the undamaged side of the car.