There were a lot of angry French and Swiss people on the road today.

Coincidentally, it was my first day out alone driving stick, and I’m extremely proud of my newly acquired proficiency. I kept telling myself it could be learned, considering that there are probably over a million certified morons who nevertheless learned to drive stick. It hasn’t been doing much for my ego that I don’t even qualify as one of them.

“You just have to feeeel it,” everyone says. Now is that just about the most irritating advice ever or what? I don’t want to feeeel it. Why can’t I just put my foot on the gas and go?

Learning to drive stick really gave me the opportunity to appreciate the genius that is automatic gear-shifting. Everyone tells me that once I learn stick I’ll never be able to go back to automatic, blah blah. But on the contrary, I feel my respect for automatic growing every moment I contemplate parallel parking on a steep hill.

Which I refuse to do, by the way. Just thinking about it makes me shudder.

As I wheezed into a parking spot by La Praille, a commercial center in the next town over from Geneva, Switzerland, the guy who had just parked next to me told me my car was sick. I demurred that my voiture was in fact très bonne, and that I was just learning. In retrospect, I think I shall make a habit of not admitting that to strangers.

I always cross back into France by the unmanned side road by the monstrously visible Buffalo Grill, a large barn of a hotel-restaurant that one often finds alongside French highways. Today, of course, as if it wasn’t enough that as I rounded a blind corner on my way back into France, nerves already frazzled by the dark and having had to pull out of a turn lane – on a hill – I had mistakenly entered because I’m not incredibly familiar with the road, I suddenly came upon a construction site completely blocking my lane. To be fair, it had reflective warning signs around it, the kind that light up when you’re about two feet away and are extremely USELESS when they’re around a blind corner. Of course I jolted the car to a stop mere inches from the dastardly thing, killing the motor, and then peeped timidly beyond it to see if any cars were coming the other direction, much to the chagrin of the motorist behind me, who scooted around me as soon as possible, beeping furiously. But it’s hard to take someone seriously when they’re on a motor-scooter. Of course then, when I could finally see the welcoming red glow of the G A U M O N T movie theater sign that distinguishes our building from the rest of countryside, and there should have been nothing between me and home but an open stretch of highway, of course there was a cadre of border guards with flashlights, asking if I’d made any purchases in Switzerland that day. God must have been on my side, because I managed not only to slowed to a halt within reasonable distance of the group, but I also answered in passable French that I had nothing of the sort, and pulled off at a respectable clip, if I do say so myself. Because I’m not entirely sure it’s at all legal that I’m driving in France. Or Switzerland.

By the way, my French is getting good. Watch out world; here I come.

Also by the way, is there seriously anybody in the world who cares about the difference between and en-dash (—) and a hyphen (-) (besides me, of course)? I desperately wish my concern weren’t so extremely marginalized. It makes me look anal. I was very disappointed to discover that the English-language magazine I so carefully edited – and believe you me, it was in dire need of my services – decided, after I patiently explained all the nuances of style and usage, to do away with the en-dash altogether! Can you imagine?

I’m sure you can.

On that note, not to sound too anal, good night.