Ou est la reverse dans mon Alpha-Romeo?

Oui. Je suis un americain

The day we pick up our car and leave the city is always the tensest. We had downloaded a map from Mappy, programmed the GPS, and arranged to pick up our car from an agency outside the Periphique. It was a Saturday so traffic shouldn’t be too bad.
We stood in line for about half an hour at the Europcar booth but, when it was our turn everything seemed to go smoothly. I had asked for a diesel powered car but am prepared for the Rolling Stones warning that, “You don’t always get what you want.”
The young lady smiled and handed me a key chain with a thin black rectangle, about 1” by 2” attached. It had the usual buttons for lock, unlock and trunk. I flipped it over. I knew that insignia with the snake and the cross - Alpha-Romeo. I couldn’t believe my luck and, in case she had made a mistake, I quickly grabbed my paperwork and made my way to the parking garage.
There it was, grey and sleek and shiny; pointing toward the ramp and raring to go. I unpocketed the black rectangle, figuring it housed my key and tried to open it. There were a couple of recessed dents and I prised at them. Nothing opened. I pushed the unlock button and heard the click of the door. There was no key slot in the door.
I wedged myself into the driver’s seat and checked the dashboard. There was a slot about the same size as my little black case. I slipped the whole thing into the slot and lights and fans and such sprang to life. Checking the gear shift - the term four-on-the-floor flooded into my memory. Except this one was six forward gears and one reverse, over to one side. The speedometer top number was 260, admittedly kilometres an hour.
I pushed the button marked “Start and Stop” and the motor roared to life. Alpha-Romeos are known for powerful engines. We eased up the exit ramp, me carefully checking the narrow walls, into the Paris daylight.
We could see the Periphique beside us and knew that we must be on a service road. We eased up to a traffic light with six roads confusingly crossing.
“Left here,” Sandra directed. Now she is our navigator and I am the driver. I am hopeless on directions, having to check my GPS to find my way from home to the corner store. And maps...I still have no idea what they are all about.
I turned a sharp left and stopped seeing the red circle indicating “No entry”. This was obviously the exit ramp for the Periphique but there was little traffic and we hadn’t yet started down it so i would simply back around and go over to the correct road.
I shoved the gear shift over in the direction of reverse, let out the clutch and we hopped forward a few feet. I pushed it over more vigorously and let out the clutch... a few more feet forward.
Now I had owned a Volkswagen, a Celica and a Prelude, each with its own reverse idiosyncrasy. I slapped the lever. I pushed down on the lever. I pulled up on the lever. Each time we hopped forward a few feet. Now we were definitely the wrong way on the ramp from the Periphique.
I checked the dashboard. Perhaps there was a magic reverse button. No.
Two passing women started jabbering at me and waving their fingers as you would at a young boy about to do something stupid.
I smiled and replied, “Je sais.” Or is it, “Je connais.” I never can get those two straight so I said both.
Three cyclists joined the crowd. Trying to stifle the panic from my voice I said, “Connaissez-vous, ou savez-vous, ou est la reverse?” I figured that going backwards had to be feminine.
All five began talking among themselves, pointing and directing. I pushed and smacked and pulled the lever a few more times, proceeding further towards my death. Give them credit...they all hopped along with me.
In desperation I ran my hands over the shift stick under the knob and there it was - a ring around the stick. I squeezed it up to the knob and the lever slipped over farther to the left into reverse. I backed carefully off the ramp to the safety of the street, all my new friends stopping cars waving me back.
I graciously thanked them all.
One of the cyclist asked, “Vous etes americain?”
Now I read all the Fodors threads and I remember the one about Canadian patches on backpacks. You know the one where some posters chastised Canadians for being explicit about their nationality. I swallowed my pride and lied, “Oui. Je suis americain.”
We drove off on our way to Dordogne.

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