Excuse me! Yes, sir, over here, across the street! I just happened to notice that your car looks like a complete shitbox - may I take a picture?

That is basically what happened last Monday evening while traveling on foot with m’lady through Manhattan¹s Upper West Side.

As we were rounding the corner of 5th avenue and 78th, I spied the unmistakeable silhouette of one of the rarest and, indeed, greatest car designs of the last century: it was a light-blue, early 1970¹s Citroen DS station wagon; a car so rare in America that if you were ever to admit to seeing one on the streets of NewYork, they would have slapped you in a straight-jacket and shipped you off to Bellevue. Thankfully, I had proof, as I had a camera, and I intended to use it.

The DS was parked on the sidewalk and the owner, joined by his small family, was actually loading the wagon up for some sort of ³voyage², most likely to ³ze countryside². As you see in the photo, the owner, straight out of Central Casting for “Guy who looks really French” was even wearing a beret, so a photo-op was clearly in order. So here I saw an opportunity: after 3 days of intensive tourism, being bombarded by the same NYC touristy dreck that everyone else experiences (look how tall that building is! Things are expensive here! That crazy person just spat and yelled at my shoes!), here was an opportunity to wow a native New Yorker, albeit a French transplant, on my terms. That is to say; with cars and French. That¹s what I know. Well, I know cars, anyway, and my French is more than passable, certainly so far as any Noo Yawker is concerned - French passport, black beret and espadrilles be damned.

With the Citroen in plain view, I tugged on my girlfriend¹s arm and b-lined towards car, much like a child who eyeballs and bolts towards the sole remaining box of Sugar-Bomb-Seizure-O¹s at the supermarket. I was like a wildlife photographer capturing his most elusive subject; the spotted gazelle, or maybe the silverback gorilla with a pink faux-hawk. Aaanyway, seeing the owner loading things into the back of the car, I make my way over and I initiate a friendly conversation in French, complementing him on his car and asking him if I can take a picture of it. He politely obliges. The car is gorgeous, and is in great condition. True, she has various minor dents and scratches, and the driver¹s side has been smashed in (perhaps the victim of an angry Parisian protester, or an errant, airborne baguette? C¹est la vie!) but she is still a beaut.

After I take a few photos with my lady posing as prop model, I decide to impress Johnny Beret with a) my passable French, and b) my knowledge and appreciation of his classic jalopy. One piece of information that is crucial to this anecdote: The Citroen DS was often referred to as ³the goddess², apparently because it was such a beautiful, feminine, yet powerful design. Also, my passable-French vocabulary told me that “goddess” in French was pronounced ³goddasse².

So I complement him on his car and then mention how I know the car is called ³la goddasse². And I am dead wrong. The car is indeed called “the goddess” in French, but ³goddess² in French is pronounced ³deesse². Worse, ³Godasse² in French actually means “dirty, filthy, possibly shit-stained old shoe”. So after thanking him for the photo op, I proceeded to enlighten him with what I really think of his car: "thanks for the photo op – you know, I’m aware that citroen enthusiasts call this the car "the shit-stained old shoe.", n’est-ce pas? Jonny Beret is not amused, and after my girlfriend, whose French is clearly way better than mine, explains my gaffe to me, we leave the scene immediately. I’m going to be a diplomat one day.