Faîtes le plein

Not really time travelling, but I can see myself at the age of 11 sitting in the French classroom. There is some kind of transparency projector and the teacher has to roll it up every time she hears a beeeeep on the tape. Stick characters represent situations we might be in when we go to France. We learn how to ask for a train ticket, order things in a restaurant and now get the petrol tank in our car filled up.
'Faîtes le plein, s'il vous plaît,' we all repeat.

Most of the expressions we learned in what was then called the first year - as though school proper only started when you arrived at secondary school - we eventually got to use, just not the 'fill it up please,' one. By the time any of us passed our driving tests, for me at the age of 19, the world had moved on. Petrol stations the world over - if we assume the world to be one small corner of the south of England - were now self-service, there was no little stick person to rush out and fill your car up.

This is not however the case in 21st Century Richmond. Nope, not Canada, not Vancouver or any of the neighbouring cities, Delta, Surrey, just Richmond. This is an irritation for Kevin, whenever possible he will fill the car up when we go to visit his parents in Surrey on a Sunday. I too find it annoying, but at last I think in my twisted British brain, an opportunity to use the expression. I like to think of this plan as puckish, mischievous, quirky. I'm sure everyone else finds it obnoxious. I feel that since Canada has two official languages, I should be able to annoy people who serve me by speaking French at them. Many of them here in Vancouver do speak two languages, just one of them generally isn't French.

Yesterday I needed to buy petrol, so I headed out, determined to demand that the plein be fait. I get to the junction of five road and Westminster highway. Across the way is the petrol station. But I cannot reach the petrol station because at this major crossroads ..... the traffic lights have failed.

I need to digress a moment to bleat about something else. The four-way stop. In Britain, nay in Europe, we have the roundabout. The roundabout works because it is governed by one simple easily stated rule. 'Priorité à droite'. Actually, that works better in Britain because we drive on the left, so giving priority to whatever is coming from the right doesn't in itself result in complete gridlock of the roundabout. Just like to mention that this rule should never, ever be applied in politics.
The four-way stop relies on telepathy, first person to arrive goes, then the next and so on. But what if you think you're the first person and so does someone else? Suffice to say, I have not yet mastered the four-way stop and tend to rely on the person behind me beeping and letting me know it's my go before their head explodes.

HOWever.....yesterday, with the traffic lights out, I beheld the might of the four-way stop in all its glory.
Brits know that if ever traffic lights go out they have two courses of action. They can sit in their cars politely waiting for everyone else to go. OR they can put their fist on the horn whilst turning purple and shouting abuse at the world in general. Neither strategy ever works and gridlock ensues, police have to be called, troops have to be mobilised and arrests are invariably made.

Canadians on the other hand know that when the lights fail, the four-way stop protocol is instantly called into play. And there it was, in action. And when it is writ large like that, from four different roads, everyone taking their turn, it works bigtime. The traffic was slowed, but hell it WAS working. And I knew and everyone else knew when it was their turn because it was like a simply choreographed dance.

I got to the petrol station and the attendants were spared my English French. In the end I think this was a mercy, because even my English isn't what they are expecting. This time they didn't think I was speaking Spanish, but the guy did have to repeat what I said five times just to confirm that he'd heard correctly. But when I was there, I remembered my last solo visit. Another motorist, and I really do think he thought he was joking, was asking the attendant whether he was one of 'them there terrorists' because he looked like one. In comparison, maybe having a pompous Brit trying out her French on you isn't quite as obnoxious as it seems.