The French Cactus. {Photograph} by Holly Connolly.
“Okay, high quality,” I mentioned, after we noticed the worth of prepare tickets from Paris to the marriage we have been attending deep within the South of France. “I’ll drive. However we’re getting a Citroën Cactus.” I had not pushed in Continental Europe earlier than, and had, by quirk greater than anything, solely ever pushed a succession of Cactuses; first my mum’s, then a distinct rental, then, lastly, my very own.
The Cactus is actually a four-door, five-seat automobile, however certainly one of deeply muscular proportions—once I despatched a photograph of my grey mannequin to a pal who may barely imagine that I drive, not to mention personal, a automobile, he replied, “It’s, like, a 4×4?” Then there may be my favourite characteristic—distinctive, so far as I do know, to the Cactus—a strip of “Airbumps” lining all sides. Stated to behave as a buffer on collision-prone Parisian streets, they make the automobile look somewhat prefer it’s kitted out in a North Face jacket. Cactuses aren’t flashy, nor are they identified for his or her reliability. Say the phrase Citroën to any man who’s invested in vehicles and he’ll shake his head and begin speaking about “these French vehicles and their electrics.” However I’ve by no means cherished something as a result of it’s useful.
So if I used to be going to drive for hours on the incorrect aspect of the motorway, I needed a Cactus. Europcar, nonetheless, had different concepts.
“What is that this automobile?” I mentioned, once I noticed the phrase Renault on the rental kinds in Europcar’s Charles de Gaulle workplace. “We chosen the Citroën Cactus.”
“Sure,” mentioned the stiff-haired lady behind the counter. “However we now have upgraded you. You’ll see: this can be a a lot better automobile.”
“The important thing.” She handed me an odd, glossy object that would have come from an Apple Retailer. There was no steel key hooked up to it. It was far too gentle in my hand. “And bear in mind to {photograph} any scratches that we haven’t marked up.”
Courageous face. “It’s the long run!” I mentioned, brandishing the keyless key as I returned to Zsófia, who stood with our suitcases outdoors the workplace. “We’re searching for row F28.”
“Oh! My mum had this automobile,” Zsófia mentioned as we arrived at a nondescript white automobile. “She cherished it. It’s an excellent automobile.” It seemed small—a lot smaller than the Cactus. Inside, it was worse. We have been seated so low down that we’d be wanting up at each different automobile, crammed in tight collectively; Zsófia’s knee was touching the gear stick.
There was no ignition. After all there wasn’t, as a result of there was no key. So then what.
There have been many buttons. One, other than the others, learn “Engine Begin Cease.” Was that it? Begin the automobile by urgent a button? Slowly, very slowly, I pressed it. Nothing. It was like sitting in a type of coin-operated rides for kids they’ve in procuring facilities, however you’ve run out of cash.
“I’ll name my mum and ask how hers labored,” mentioned Zsófia. The cellphone began ringing, she was placed on speaker—the connection was horrible. “The clutch?” Zsófia was saying. “The button and what with the clutch?” I felt actually sizzling. I began making an attempt to get the home windows down. “How the fuck do you even transfer the mirrors on this factor?”
I do know now that each one I needed to do was maintain down the clutch, then press the on button and the automobile would begin. However this felt too illogical to even hassle to strive: How wouldn’t it know I used to be urgent the clutch earlier than it was even turned on?
“No,” I mentioned. “It’s an excessive amount of. That is all an excessive amount of. This isn’t an actual automobile.”
As soon as, driving again to the airport on the finish of a household vacation, my dad pulled over onto the arduous shoulder of the Spanish motorway and, screaming all of the whereas, threw a suitcase stuffed with John Grisham novels right into a discipline. I felt like that. “Zsófia,” I mentioned. I used to be making an attempt to not catch sight of myself within the rearview mirror. “Let’s take the suitcases out of the boot.”
I marched again to the workplace, straight to the entrance of the queue—“It’s pressing”—and slammed the faux key down on the counter. “I noticed a Cactus within the parking zone,” I mentioned. “Give it to me.” The lady seemed up. We had been awake since 4 A.M. I didn’t look good. “After all,” she mentioned. “One second.” Ten minutes later, driving out of the parking zone excessive up behind the wheel of my Cactus, I used to be Thelma and Louise. I used to be prepared. I used to be dwelling.
Driving, as anybody will inform you, is about muscle reminiscence. It is usually about overriding your personal concern of the automobile’s capability to kill, till being on the wheel turns into one thing possibly like the fun of holding a loaded gun. Or it’s for me, not less than. I used to be taught to drive twice. First at nineteen, then once more at twenty-seven, each occasions by a sturdy County Tyrone man referred to as Jim. I felt youthful the second time. Timid and unlawful within the driver’s seat and horribly conscious that it was I and solely I who was working hundreds of kilos of metal and aluminum—that I used to be liable for every little thing that occurred.
When it clicked, and I can’t clarify it any higher than that—it was a factor that occurred in a single day—there was nothing just like the sheer feeling of management. The meditative gravity. Only a few issues that I do in my life have any actual stakes; driving is one. However for me, for the magic to work, there must be a sure symbiosis together with your automobile: you must belief it. And so I obtained in my Cactus.
Later, after we had gotten a flat tire and the one mechanic inside an hour’s drive nonetheless open in rural France at 6 P.M. on a Friday had taken pity on us and supplied to alter it free of charge, I texted my brother a photograph of the Cactus being repaired. He wrote again: “Do you’ve gotten some sponsorship take care of citroen cactus haha.”
Holly Connolly is a author based mostly in London and Belfast.
