“Buckle up. We’re here.”
I turn around to check on Diego and Mollie in the backseat. Diego is running a rosary through his fingers. Mollie is reciting Hail Marys. Upfront, Miguel is sweating so much that his hands keep slipping off the steering wheel.
We shoot past two Peugeots and are in the roundabout. There’s honking, immediately. From left, right, and seemingly above and below. Out of sheer fright, Miguel starts honking too.
I turn to see the line 92 bus heading directly at us. Neither conductor nor passengers seem to mind. I do. Then Mollie screams “Jesus!”, and the bus is hidden by a gaggle of Vespas. Someone kicks against my door as they drive past. I discern we’re going the wrong direction on the roundabout.
Miguel faints. The car keeps moving, seemingly of its own accord. I want to consult with Mollie and Diego, but they’ve turned into the spirits of De Gaulle and Édith Piaf, clinking flutes of champagne together behind me and laughing.
“Hahaha,” I say, also. Outside, the Arc de Triomphe looms above us, and I realise it’s the biggest building in human history, the largest thing we’ve ever made. No wonder we keep going around it in circles, I think. All that gravity.
I try to remember the exit we were gunning for, but it’s hard to focus, what with all the Napoleonic troops squeezing past our car and the German tanks making a racket behind them.
Then there’s a sign somewhere. Avenue Hoche. Us.
I grab the left side of the steering wheel, yank it down, and brace as we cut straight across seven lanes of traffic toward the exit. Through the windshield, I see all the Parisian car crashes I’ve been in already, and all the ones I still have to experience.
