If I were ranking the three best improvements in my life since moving to France, they’d be:
Cheese
Bread
Cars
The first two, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. But cars — or, rather, the lack thereof — I can quantify, thanks to my somewhat anal tracking of household expenses.
In 2021, the last full year in which we lived in Philly, Theresa and I spent $4,361.23 on cars. That includes insurance, maintenance, fuel, tolls and parking. If that sounds low compared to your budget, that’s because we had no car loans (Theresa’s Honda was more than 20 years old when we moved, and my Hyundai was 10). Also, we weren’t driving very much during the pandemic.
In 2023, our first full year in Brittany, our local transportation-related costs were barely one-third of that: $1,643.75.
That’s because we are carless for the first time in our lives. We have no car loans. We spend nothing on car insurance or gasoline or annual inspections or oil changes or a new fly rod for the thingamajig. Most of our transit dollars go toward bus and train rides and a car share we use about twice a month.
But living without a car goes well beyond dollars and cents. In many ways, it's symbolic of why we moved to France in the first place. We wanted to slow things down. We wanted to stop being angry. We wanted to stop worrying about stupid things. We wanted life to be more than just getting from here to there.
When we looked at our lives as we entered our senior years, we realized how often our cars generated negative vibes. Maybe no better example existed than Henry Avenue.
For those who aren’t familiar with northwest Philadelphia, Henry is a four-lane road running from the Allegheny West section of the city through East Falls, Roxborough and into Andorra. It runs through a college campus, across a towering bridge above Wissahickon Creek, past tidy homes, a farm with grazing horses, and a small commercial area with dueling cheesesteak joints. Much of it is green, bordering Fairmount Park, with a wide median and extra-wide bike lanes.
The speed limit is 35 mph.
It should be a gentle place, a verdant setting within the city. Instead, it is a commuter-heavy racetrack. Every time I drove on Henry Avenue, it was fear and loathing behind the wheel. Tailgating, speeding, horns honking, rage – a seething cauldron. Pedestrians could not cross without fear of a pickup truck barrel-assing through a crosswalk. Drivers risked fatal car crashes at poorly designed intersections. I gave up cycling on Henry after I witnessed drivers using the bike lanes to pass others who had the temerity to stop at a redlight.
Sixty-miles an hour was not uncommon on Henry. I know because I caught myself doing that on more than one occasion — the aggression was infectious. And to what end? So I could get to a dentist appointment?
It’s sad, because for most of my life, I couldn’t wait to drive. The freedom of just taking off, of discovering new places, visiting friends — it was part of the American dream, right? See the U.S.A. in your Chevrolet! One of my best memories is the night in 1978 when my cousin and I set off for the Phillies’ spring training camp in Florida in my brand new Datsun B-210, driving 18 hours straight, stopping for tamales at South of the Border on I-95, teaching him how to handle a clutch on the fly.
I guess I miss that freedom. But going carless has given me so much more.
In Roxborough, we routinely drove to the local CVS — a distance of 7/10ths of a mile from our home. We never thought of walking it because driving was so easy and there were no sidewalks for part of the trip. Here, Theresa thinks nothing of tallying 8,000 steps to pick up an order from the Nespresso shop. The window-shopping along the way brightens her day, and the few cars she encounters stop for her at crosswalks. In Roxborough, I made a weekly trip to pick up a case at Matthews Beverages — a distance of three whole blocks. Here, I amble a couple kilometers into town and visit Chez Alain or Le Marchand de Bière for a sixpack. On the way back, I might stop at La Piste for a half-liter under an umbrella.
You might say, You’re retired, Don. You’ve got all the time in the world. True, but believe me, I’m not the only one under the umbrella. Almost everyone here seems inclined to take their time; it’s key to the French lifestyle we so desired. You see it on weekday mornings when mothers pedal their kids to daycare, even in the rain. You see it at midday, when local businesses shut down for lunch. You see it on Sundays, when whole families stroll along the river.
And now, with global warming upon us, the city is stepping up its efforts to wean people from their cars.
They’re shutting down parking lots in Centre-Ville, to encourage commuters to use public transportation. Traffic-calming measures, including narrowed lanes, road bumps and pedestrian-only zones, are widespread. The growing Réseau Express Vélo — Express Bike Network — already provides 100 kilometers of dedicated cycle paths linking outlying communes for commuters. Don’t have a bike? The French government provides 150 € grants for residents to purchase a new one. If you promise to sell your car, they’ll give you even more.
Not everyone who moves to France goes without a car, of course. We know several Americans and Brits who opted for cozy farmhouses in tiny villages, where the closest store might be a 10k drive. Maybe city life wasn’t what they were after; we couldn’t imagine living without its benefits: the proximity to restaurants, the diversity of neighbors, the nearby access to healthcare and other social services
I imagine we could’ve gotten all those things in Philly, and we could’ve done it without a car. Maybe in Center City or South Philly.
But with all due respect to Sarcone’s and DiBruno’s, there’s nothing like a French baguette and Epoisses.
It sounds ideal. Of course, when I think about all of the hard work you both did to prepare for this big change, the language study, extensive thoughtful exploration of a place, the adjustments to a new culture - it is daunting. But obviously worth it. Congrats on this new life you have created.
I don't know if you caught Dan McQuade's observation that Walnut Lane golf course has the most dangerous 16th hole on the East Coast.