It was here I met Anja Luebke, a gourgeous German girl from Strausburg who enlightened my on all the ways to say "screw you" with hand signals in any European country. Useful stuff I thought. Most Europeans understand the middle finger used by Americans, which also happens to be the standard greeting in New York City. However, there are many other ways to converse using hand signals throughout the European Union. The French for instance understand the middle finger, but also have the fingertip kiss, the eyelid pull and the shoulder shrug. The fingertip kiss denotes something delicious or sexy. The eyelid pull is done to impart that they don't believe you, and the shoulder shrug means I don't know or I don't care. We Americans have the peace sign which in the Muslim world means victory. Australians do something similar using the same two fingers showing the back of the hand in an upward motion that means "up yours." The English however have historically shown the peace sign on the back of the right hand which means "f___ you." Anja informed me that this came about in the middle ages shortly after the Battle of Hastings in 1066. This was the last successful invasion of England by the Normans (French) led by William the Conqueror. As the story goes, the Normans would cut off the first two fingers of any captured English soldier. This was to ensure they could not use their long bows against them. Henceforth, showing your two fingers meant "f___ you, I still have my fingers." Good stuff. Truly good stuff.

I wanted to stay with Anja and learn more useful facts about rude Eurpean hand gestures, but they were now boarding my flight to Bordeaux. We exchanged emails and bid each other farewell. I then stood up a little too quickly and realized, "wow, I'm going to be shitfaced by the time I get to France." Upon arrival, I was expecting customs agents in full face masks and riot gear with dogs the size of small ponies. But there wasn't a badge in site. Just a well-dressed kid of maybe 19 years asking me if I was there for business or pleasure. Before I could think of anything smart to say, he pounded the stamp on my passport, handed it back and said, "go."

La Voiture Sexy (the sexy car)

By the time I made it through customs, my boards were already waiting for me in oversized baggage. It's rather hard to maintain a low profile while traveling with a tandem board and shortboard. All I know is I was just glad my boards had actually arrived. Another pretty face greeted me at the Hertz Rental Car agency. Her name was Aubrey and from the looks of it, she was single. You see, looking for a wedding ring has been a thing of mine since being a bartender. Old habits die hard I guess. And for that matter, I also never sit in a bar or restaurant with my back to the door. You see, I've slept with too many married women in my time. Okay then, back to Aubrey and now's my chance to wow her with my knowledge of the French language. It had been 13 years since studying in Paris and I'd forgotten a lot. The fact that no one in the states speaks French doesn't help either. So I'd purchased advanced French language books to help me with any situation. Every conversation in French seems to end with a joke or laughter of some sort. So I asked her if there was a cheaper car that was more sexy. Without hesitation she replied "no, this is the cheapest, sexiest car on the lot." "I'll take it then!" I say slamming my palm on the counter. This must have startled everyone in line because the lady behind me jumped.

She walked me out to the car which looked more like a Malibu Grand Prix go-cart. "This is it?" I asked, opening the back door and sitting down. "But it's too small to even have sex in the back seat," I say, patting on the seat next to me as if asking her to sit down. Again without batting an eye she quips, "you just have to have sex on the hood then." So with a quick smile, a provocative look, and then a roll of her eyes, she turned and walked away. I couldn't think of anything to counter that, so I just watched her ass as she walked away.

After strapping soft racks, a tandem board and short board atop my go-cart, I proceeded out of the airport parking lot and got lost within five minutes. I was prepared for this inevitably however, and had purchased a Michelin Guide and had brought my compass. I'd studied the map on the flight over so I wasn't too worried. I was heading west and the Atlantic Ocean was out there somewhere.

Come to find out, this little three cylinder diesel with manual five-speed tranny was incredibly fun to drive. Never mind the fact that the tandem board on top was longer than the car itself, and if turned sideways would constitute an airplane wing. I thought I might just fly that thing home. But then again, American girls like big cars. Expensive ones you can have sex in.

I finally made my way to Lacanau-Ocean, a small seaside resort town situated about one hour west of Bordeaux. Apparently tourist season doesn't start until Easter, this weekend. So at 7:00 pm on Thursday evening, the town looked deserted. There was one place open however, an Australian pub located on a roundabout on Rue Alle's Ortal. Laurents, a young Franco-Australian chap greeted me with a "bonjour mesiour." I thought I'd be funny and replied "G-day mate!" Getting a look of scorn from most of the French already eating, I pressed him for info on how it really was living there in small-town France. The economic climate, local industries, and the like. Come to find out, Laurents is an incredibly intelligent young man who enlightened me on each of the major parties and candidates running for the French presidential elections held in late April. After much conversation and way too many beers, I walked back out into the cold April rain to my room at the Hotel Cote D'Argent. A box-looking hotel situated over a bar along the ocean front. The rooms were small but impecibly clean with shower cabinets that sprayed at you from all directions. And no, that's not a urinal, it's called a "bidet."

After three hours of light sleep, it was around 4:00 am and I was wide awake. Damn, I'm starting to feel hung over and I can feel jet lag setting in. After looking at the ceiling for two hours trying to fall asleep, I decided to go for a drive in that sexy little car. It wasn't sunrise yet and I found myself in the forrest south of Lacanau-Ocean. It was a daytime parking and picnic area for the beach which was separated from the forest by a massive wall of sand dunes. It was also deserted, so I decided to see just what this little Toyota Aygo could do. The tiny unpaved road was winding and lined on each side with large pine trees. I made it my goal to see just how fast I could make it around the circuit. My little go-cart had 13 inch cookie cutter wheels and a short wheel base so it cornered like a raped ape. I don't know what that means, but my redneck landlord races cars and so I think it's good. I'm not in any way condoning beastiality, just cornering.

The rental car babe had warned me to watch out for deer and wild pigs in this area of France, and she was right. I saw the hairy little sangliere at about 30 yards and hit the brakes, but while cornering was sliding towards a group of pine trees. Being a front-wheel drive go-cart, I hit the gas which kept me from hitting the trees, but put me right back on the road and back in line with the pig. I think we made eye contact and realized that neither of us wanted to hurt the other, so he bolted and I down-shifted in order to make up lost time. I almost grilled that little pig. Grill of my car that is. I decided I'd better slow down to save the local wildlife from crazy American driving habits. And as the sun came up on Lacanau-Ocean, I had my time down to 39 seconds.

Part II continues next month.