EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 22, 1998
Arbonne
Cote Basque
Alfi’s passenger door handle is falling off. Some previous violent
encounter with Alfi’s door has dislodged the handle. The now-sensitive perimetre of
the handle has rusted and finally the handle is falling into the door panel. The only
thing holding the handle in place is the locking mechanism. I can’t get in or out of
the car.
This wouldn’t be such a problem if the driver’s side door
lock wasn’t broken. It’s been out of order since my twin, James drove the car
for a year in 1991 and parked poor Alfi under a streetlight in Barcelona. That night James
lost a handycam and most of his winter clothes. There’s distinct evidence of
screwdriver tampering on Alfi’s driver side keyhole and passengers must now always
lock-up from the inside before exiting.
Rich takes the inside door panel off and discards a few years’
worth of leaves. He’s bought some industrial type blue glue and is spreading it on
the edges of the now fully detached handle and locking mechanism. Rich also investigates
the driver’s side door panel and lock and decides it’s a lost cause for now.
It’s time to let Alfi sit for 24 hours so the blue glue can
vulcanize overnight, only we discover we have 10 minutes of communication remaining on our
Ticket Telephone. This will not do for information download. Rich is checking several
Microsoft Frontpage newsgroups for troubleshooting ideas. Our homepages won’t update
the navigation bar automatically and Rich is editing by hand. Editing by hand is blasphemy
to an Engineer.
I climb into Alfi past the steering wheel and over the gearshift and
across the torn and tattered seats. There’s no door handle and Rich mumbles something
about kicking the door open in case of an emergency.
St. Jean de Luz is teaming with parcel-encrusted pedestrians. These
streets, where we could hear a pin drop last week, and these shops who were once snoozing
in an afternoon doldrum, are crammed and blinking and blocked. Dogs dodge their own
sidewalk samples. A moto slaloms the intersection.
We leave Alfi unlocked at La Plage and walk the congested sidewalk
towards the centre of town. Parked cars flank the street like an angled comb. Fur coated
ladies accessorized with poodles click-clock towards us and pass with a swoosh of fragrant
air. All the ladies in France smell flowery and spicy.
France Telecom revels in its monopoly as customers line up to buy
cellular phones and Minitels. Minitel is a little computer the French hook up to their
phone so they can buy tickets and make restaurant reservations. It is a $2 billion
business for France Telecom, with 15% of all direct purchases being made through Minitel.
The sky is orange and pink. The clouds are a creamy ribbon. We hurry
back to Mendialde, anxious to get off the road before some maniacal French shopper
runs us off the road.
