When I was only 20 years old, I took a co-op position with the EPA in Atlanta, Georgia. My cousin, Kim, graciously opened up her home to me in Roswell, so I packed up my meager belongings and set out for the city. Now, you must understand that at this point, I had spent most of my life living in small, rural towns in south Georgia, which meant that I had little big-city driving experience. I knew it would be an adjustment for me, but I had no idea just how crazy Atlanta drivers could be. My dad drove me to Atlanta, helped me unload my boxes and set up my bed, and then decided that we should wander downtown to find the office where I would start working the following Monday. My dad is a wanderer, an adventurer. He will drive into a new city, sans map, and know every street, intersection, and alley way by heart within 24 hours. He's not afraid of getting lost or taking a wrong turn, and he seems to have this built-in sense of direction that drives Mom and me insane. He can do no wrong. I, on the other hand, get lost in my own driveway. Living in Germany makes it even worse because Europeans don't believe in directional signs, which means they don't tell you if you're going north or south or east or west. People still ask me, "Do you live east or west of the base?" and I always give the same answer: Huh? You can imagine the difficulty I had in a place like Atlanta.

Dad and I hopped in the car and set out for the interstate. I was confused before we ever made it out of the subdivision, which wasn't a good sign. It took about 20 minutes to get downtown via I-285, which is the bypass loop that circles around Atlanta. Really, 285 is just a big circle, so no matter which direction you head, you'll eventually get to where you want to go. But in rush hour traffic at 6:00 in the morning, it isn't a good idea to miss your exit. Which is exactly what I did my first day of work. I had to leave the house no later than 5:45, and by then traffic was already at a stand still. It was dark outside, my brain was in "sleep" mode, and I was scared to death. Sure enough, the exit to I-285 south was upon me and I was sitting in the wrong lane. I couldn't exit, and I couldn't get anyone to let me over to the right lane. So what did I do? I started crying. No, sobbing is more like it. I didn't continue driving, or attempt to turn around at the next exit, or try to push my way in like a local. Nope, I just sat there, with my blinker on, and wept...like a baby. Of course, people were honking at me and yelling (and I can imagine some of the words they were throwing my way), but I sat still, cried, and prayed for someone to let me over into the exit lane. Finally, after what seemed to be hours, someone took pity on my poor soul and let me in. I made it to work, on time, but I was frazzled and my makeup was ruined and I vowed never to drive in Atlanta again....at least until 4:00 that afternoon, when it was time to go home.

After a couple of weeks, I was driving like an Atlanta pro--cutting people off, honking my horn, running red lights (sorry, Dad), outrunning the cops....just kidding! Of course, that was many years ago, and since that time, I've once again lived in rural areas with little traffic. So you can imagine my fear as I drove through Paris last week on our trip to Normandy. Because Atlanta traffic doesn't even BEGIN to compare with Paris. Our first mistake was leaving K-town in the afternoon so that we hit Paris at rush hour, about 5:00. Traffic was bumper to bumper. Literally. At one point we were actually rear-ended by a French lady driving a roller-skate. She didn't even bother to pull over or stop to exchange insurance information. She just scooted around us and went about her business, as if that is common place in Paris. Of course, compared to her skate, my car looked like a monster truck on steroids, so we figured she probably sustained more damage anyway...no big deal.

What was a big deal were the motorcycles that drive IN BETWEEN cars whether they are moving or not. They come out of nowhere and zoom past at lightning speeds. It's crazy. Talk about cutting to the front of the line. At one point I was so stressed, I thought sure I'd suffer an aneurism before we ever got outside the city limits. Oh, and there are no rules of the road in Paris. Okay, so there are rules, but no one follows them. You just go or get run over. Push your way in and force your way out. Pure insanity.

Coming back was much, much easier. Traffic was lighter and I had a better idea of where we were going. Plus I got an awesome view of the Eiffel Tower on the way into the city. It is truly a majestic sight to see. So the next time we go to Paris, I'll be driving like a pro...oh, who am I kidding? The next time we go to Paris, we'll go on a train! Vive la France!