French tag sales are good for my mental health
Hairpin bends in a stony forest. Downhill. Steep, then steeper. Smooth frictionless tarmac. I’ve got the car barely under control. A narrow bridge over a ravine. Single-file only. A van hurtling uphill. A recessed drain— unavoidable. Bang, crash, wallop. The car continues but feels mortally wounded. We limp to a passing place 50 yards further down the hill and I cut the engine. I get out and inspect the damage. A back tire is as flat as a flounder. It’s not my car. I open the trunk hoping to uncover the requisite tools and spare wheel. Jack, spare, warning triangle — present. Excellent. Lug wrench? Unfortunately not. Bugger. Phone signal? One bar. From time to time. I call Michael, a neighbor. A French ring tone, then his voice. Thank the Lord.