Let me start this post by stating that David and I are both smart. We may not be Mensa members (just haven’t been asked yet), but we are college educated and can successfully complete the New York Times Sunday Crossword puzzle with very little help. Just so you know.
This post may be long and terribly dramatic. Also just so you know.
We rented a condo in Aix for a week and it came with a space in the underground parking garage. Number 28. The owner said that 28 was on the second floor down, but we couldn’t find it the first day but we DID find #28 on floor number 1. We assumed the owner was in error. So we parked our rental car—a cute little silver Opal whose only fault is that she has a stick shift—on floor number 1.
After we came back from Arles, we found that someone had closed the garage door. It wasn’t locked, so we shook our heads and opened it, then parked.
This morning, we were prepared to drive to Avignon, but when we got to garage #28, TWO of our tires were flat and a third was going to be there soon. David said we should drive to a service station and fill the tires, which we tried to do. But of course, as we drove, Frenchmen pointed at our tires and we didn’t have a clue where the nearest service station was. Francoise was NO help.
I urged David to pull into a car dealership which we did. It was, of course, a Mercedes Benz dealership. They didn’t speak much English but put air in the tires and were most accommodating. Bless them and Mercedes Benz.
We decided we had to trade the car in for a different one. I called Hertz and complained that we needed a different rental. Upon hearing our plight, the Hertz operator said, Well, you got air in your tires. You should be all right then? So I screamed into the receiver, Listen Lady! You’ve got defective tires and a defective car and I demand a replacement! Then I slammed down the phone. Oh, wait, that was in my imagination!! I actually said, We can’t trust the car. We don’t want to break down. And I added a large sigh, just for the effect.
She was very nice and told us to return the car to the Aix TGV station. So we did. And you know what? They traded us UP to a SWEET convertible Volvo! And it’s automatic! Win!
By this point, it was too late to go to Avignon. I would have preferred to just stay in the condo and pick my toenails and not go anywhere. You know, and drink a few bottles of Rose to get over the stress of the morning. But David insisted we go somewhere—get out and experience France! So I put on my Big Girl Panties and climbed in the car. And we headed to St. Remy and Le Baux.
I’ll post on that trip later. It was fun in a driving along winding mountain roads kind of way.
When we returned back to the condo, the garage was LOCKED. OMG and WTF? We knew enough to knock on a neighbor’s door (the owner had given us her name and apartment number) and she offered to unlock the garage door for us. I almost hugged her.
End of story, right? Oh, I wish.
Here’s where I’d like to remind you of the first sentence in this post. Remember the one where I said we are smart? The neighbor—a cute, thin French woman who was dressed to the nines and wore her blonde hair on top of her head—came back to our door and said, Your garage is already unlocked. Did I not understand?
And then it hit us. There was a #28 on floor 2 as well as on floor 1! We had parked in the wrong garage spot all week. Rut roh.
But the garage owner really should have left a note. Taking air out of the car’s tires was pretty excessive.
Still, we really love the Volvo.
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