so I guess his name will be Félipe. — always grace, unlikely graceful.

Jan 14

Jan 14 so I guess his name will be Félipe.

I should preface this with the fact that I’ve had a driver’s license for 12 years already, meaning I should be somewhat confident in my ability to drive. However. That all changed with a manual transmission.

To be clear, I had driven a manual before. Once at the winery with my cousin. He had me doing circles around the winery going 35 mph, sorry Dad. Another time was in Wyoming. And to say that ended in tears would be an understatement. I also tried once in Bordeaux with a friend. A couple other friends were in the car behind me peeing their pants laughing because I probably stalled 7 times before getting the car to inch forward. Okay so that’s the background on my manual driving. Not a stellar record.

I convinced a friend to go with me and to try the cars for me because I was pretty sure the salesmen wouldn’t be happy about me grilling the clutch in the parking lot. After 3 or 4 shops and a variety of cars, I settled on a Fiat Punto. No not the tiny Fiat, but a normal sized car with four doors, etc.

I was to pick up my car on a Friday and then drive 3 hours on Saturday, by myself, to see a former intern. No biggie I told myself. I drove the car off the lot, with my friend following me in her car. I had no problems. No stalling. Perfect. I can do this I thought. I parked by my apartment and then decided I should get closer to the curb. My friend had driven off by this time because she had a dinner. I could not get the car into reverse. Not kidding. Couldn’t do it. Called my friend who sped back, only to be stopped by the gendarme for not using her blinker. This could not get worse, I thought. After some practice, we figured out the reverse situation.

I went home, had a drink, and got a good nights sleep before venturing to Gaillac. The next morning, I gave myself plenty of time to get to Gaillac, only to stall a minimum of 20 times between my apartment and my school. It’s a 15 minute drive. I stalled probably 7 times at one light. I couldn’t do it. I was in tears, shaking. As I am panicking, a woman drives by and tells me something in French. I have no idea what she is saying. Finally, I realize she’s telling me hubcap fell off a ways back. You’ve got to be kidding me, I thought. I made it to campus. Called my friend in tears, and told her she had to come get me. I called our intern and not so calmly told him I woould’t be making it. I left my car and walked back to find my hubcap.

That afternoon, we decided to go to the beach, and my friend told me I should try driving once we were out of the city. I managed. With some stalling. But by the time we got to Porge, I had no hubcaps on my tires, just the one in the trunk that I had picked up by campus. We had no success in finding the other three. To this day, I have one hubcap in the trunk and no hubcaps on my car.

My relationship with my new car was complicated at first. One day, as I was explaining how dumb I was to buy a manual car, my sister asked if I had named my car. I’m sure I rattled off some expletive rattled response that construed no I hadn’t. She suggested the name Félipe. And well, it’s stuck.