I had intended to sit down this evening and write about my fantastic day skiing. Here it is, the 7th of April, and there was fresh snow at Chamrousse this morning. I drove up there and met a friend, and we skied all day. We skied all over the mountain… daring to make our way down red (difficult) runs and daring to test the fresh powder off-piste. We sat outside and ate a wonderful lunch of crepes. We got a little sunburned and didn’t especially care.
But all that was brushed aside on my way home… the moment I stupidly drove over a rock. A big rock. A big sharp rock. A big sharp rock that punctured a gash in the side of my tire… deflating it instantly.
So there I was on a two-lane, winding mountain road with a flat tire. Very flat tire. I pulled as close to the side as I could to get out and look at it. Then I called Bill to ask if he thought I could drive on it so that I could at least get to a safer spot. I wasn’t really too far past the bottom area of the ski resort, but there’s no place to turn around. So I drove at 10 kilometers/hour down the mountain to the next pull off that I knew of. Several cars passed me as I crept along with my blinkers going… including the gendarmarie (they’re sorta like the state troopers). No one stopped. No one even slowed down.
While I was making my way to a safe spot to stop, I called someone to pick up Kaitlyn from school. I was trying to decide if I was better off calling the Mercedes Benz roadside assistance phone number which I’ve never tried (never needed to before) or calling someone else who lives in our town to drive up and help change the tire. I’d gotten out of my car and was contemplating this dilemma when a couple out for an afternoon stroll asked if I needed help. Oh, yes. Do I have a spare tire? At least, I think that’s what they asked. I heard the word for tire and for emergency. A rather appropriate name for it, really. I said yes, it seemed like the answer that would at least get them to stay.
The man dug around in my trunk for gloves. I guess it’s one thing to help a stranded motorist, it’s quite another to dirty ones hands in the process. His girlfriend held his jacket. (Why was he wearing a sports jacket to stroll around the mountain? I have no idea. But he was.) He took the spare tire out of the trunk, I got out the jack. Then he asked for tools. Tools? Shit.. there are supposed to be tools in my car? We looked everywhere. He asked for the owners manual to try to see if it revealed the hiding place. I had no idea where to look in the book, so I flipped to a page about the spare tire. It was no help. I was not going to let them leave. I fished around the bottom of the compartment where I’d found the jack and the little orange reflective triangle to set out on the road (it’s a law here)… and finally found a blue sack rolled up with tools inside. Voila. It didn’t take him too long to change the tire. While he worked, his girlfriend tried to make small talk with me. We quickly established I cannot speak French, especially when I’m upset. Once everything seemed more under control I managed to carry on a simple enough conversation. She spoke a little English and said she wants to speak more. That helped some.
When he finished, we put everything back into the car and I thanked them profusely. How do you adequately thank a person who just bailed you out of a miserable situation? You really can’t. I don’t know their names. I don’t think I’d even recognize them if I saw them again. But I won’t forget them or their kindness.
How fantastic this couple chose to help out. It tends to wash away a lot of the stereotype about the French. If you look far enough, you can usually find kind exceptions to any rule. Of course, who wrote the rule in the first place that people are to be rude. Glad it turned out okay, sorry it even happened.
The kidness of other has amazed me, especially after Ummed’s death. kindness lives within all of us, we only need to let it out more often.