Incredible Acts of Chutzpah & Kindness N°3

Bicycle riding in any city can be dangerous. All the more, perhaps in Grenoble. In Grenoble, there are bicycle paths, sure, but most of them disappear a few meters down the road, leading me to ask myself if the City Hall just didn't buy enough green paint.

When I did have my bicycle, I was a demon on wheels! I would speed through the city, rain and snow, dodge cars, baby-carriages. Sometimes I would have my daughters strapped on behind me, with all the safety-gear imaginable. I would carry my groceries in the tiny basket in front of me, or going to my Beaux-Arts classes, I would have my big bulky black artists' bag and all my supplies strapped onto the thingamajig on the back, and I would speed from one end of the city. I had wings of steal and rubber!

Eventually, however, riding a bicycle comes with great risks. The greatest being the cops. They are everywhere, "Big Brother" is real (oops, I think I'm getting carried away.). However, I have realized why the Frenchies really do rebel against the cops: They're a pain in the tukhes תּחת. Never have I seen public servants so haughty and naughty.

One fine day, with the sun shining warmly on my back as I sped as fast as possible throughout the Arab quarter (Saint-Bruno), I ran a red light. Yes kids, I actually broke the law. When the police started yelling (no, they did not turn on the lights or do anything, they basically tried running me over, and yelled "Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle!"). I asked them politely what was their problem.

"That was a red light back there," they said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I'm color blind. You see why I don't have my driver's license, now?", and I sped away as fast as I could.

For anyone who has ever driven in Grenoble, those people know about the situation of certain streets. The most shameful being street that takes me to the kosher butcher. Once again, speeding on the bicycle, going to Mr. Cohen's butchery to get myself a chicken in time for shabbos when the shop closes at 13h00, I got sick of speeding slowly on this big avenue and harming myself with these giant pot-holes, and cruised over to the over-sized sidewalk in front of Lycée Champollion.

Once again the traffic police were there. Nicer this time. Probably because this is not the Arab district.

"Madamoiselle! Madamoiselle! C'est interdite d'aller sur le troittoir!!'

Damnations! I said to myself and mildly pissed off that if I stopped to reason with them, I would miss out on that kosher chicken for shabbos.

"I'm so sorry, but I don't speak French!" I shouted back and pedalled as fast as I could, faster than when I was a teenager, without a doubt!

Since then, many things have stayed the same. The Arab quarter still gives me the freaks when I go by. The smell of the unhealthy mystery-kebab is still there. My bicycle eventually lost its' breaks, its headlights were stolen. For a while I used my feet to slow myself down.

Eventually, I took the train one early morning to go to Bordeaux. I parked and locked up my bike outside the train station, thinking that it could never get stolen there with all the military people who would roam around there with automatic machine guns thanks to Al-Quaïda & C°.

well...yes, you guessed it. The hippies probably stole it. Goodbye Daisy. Fare-the-well.