Red Red Whine

What follows is a tale about a time I rode a bike. The French word for bike is vélo, and the Paris city council has a bunch of these called "Velibs", which I imagine is some sort of play on words. 

 
Velibs are a great local government initiative whereby you pay a small fee, and you can use a bike wherever you like for 45 minutes. All you have to do is return the Velib to a Velib station and connect it to the little connecty thingy. The light goes green, and all is well. If the light is red, something is amiss. This follows the basic colour/values convention that is now pervasive all over the world. Green things are good (Tangy Apples, Luke’s new-and-improved lightsaber, Ninja Turtles) and red things are bad (Communism, Republicans, Satan, Simply Red). Orange is the colour of apathy.

It was this system of which I ran afoul.

To start: Bikes are a big deal in Paris. There are no helmets, and, maybe as a result, cars and buses are very respectful of cyclists’ space. Driving seems like it would be a bit of a bore, with so many one way streets and ungodly roundabouts. It is a generally flat city. Bikes are just a good idea. On a bike, a (handsome) man is free.

He is not free from the tyranny of the colour police. Or, indeed, the police police. I had seen so many cyclists flouting the road rules that it seemed as though, as long as you rode safely, you could sort of do what you liked. Not, apparently, if you choose to run a red light right next to a police car. Now, in my defence, I didn’t see the police car. Also, it wasn’t a four-way crossing. This was a traffic light to allow pedestrians to cross, and no pedestrians were in danger (nor was I or anyone else). I actually needed to get across three lanes of traffic, and this seemed like a good time to do so, what with all the cars stationary. The police car next to me did not agree.

So I got pulled over by the French police. It was almost exactly like that verse in 99 Problems, except without the coke, the questionable race relations or the oft-forgotten-about speeding violation. The police, in this instance, consisted of two tubby chaps in their 40s (I reckon). The first thing they had to do was put on their hats. French police wear funny little sailor’s hats, which they had neatly folded on the dashboard of the police car. 

[As an aside, I heard from someone recently that, at least in New Zealand, the police have to be wearing their hats before arresting you. Possibly even before issuing any sort of ticket. This should have been the first thing we learned in law school. For shame. [It’s not important whether this is true, by the way, just that I heard it]].

At this point, I still was not certain why I had been pulled over. I had been riding with headphones (everyone does it), and wondered whether that wasn’t allowed. I had also just bolted across three lanes of traffic, and if you did it in a car, you might expect some sort of dressing down. After explaining that I do not speak French, and handing over my driver’s licence, one tubby policeman explained to me in decent English the whole “red is bad” rule. He took down my address, and I suspect he was ready to slap me with a fine.

What played out next was a delightfully-timed cliché: the French take on Good Cop/Bad Cop. His tubby partner, from what I could make out, didn’t seem to think a fine was necessary. [It should be noted that I was genuinely a bit surprised when I discovered that I had been stopped for the red light thing, and I made it pretty clear that I didn’t know it was a problem.] Here is transcript of what I imagine they were saying to one another:

Bad Cop: “He’s getting a ticket.”

Good Cop: “He says he didn’t know.”

Bad Cop: “He ran a light; he gets a fine. Case closed.”

Good Cop: “Look, his licence says he’s from New Zealand.” [‘Nouvelle Zelande’ was mentioned several times]. “Do they even have traffic lights there?”

Bad Cop: “I’ve been there. I went with my mistress. They have lights. Case closed.”

Good Cop: “Thanks for the invite.”

Bad Cop: “Well I was hardly going to take you on my adulterous trip around the world.”

Good Cop: “Just say it, you don’t want to hang out outside of work.”

Bad Cop: “Jesus, not this again.”

Good Cop: “I get the message.”

Bad Cop: “Look, if I don’t give him the ticket, will you please drop it?”

Good Cop: “OK, but I get to drive back to the station. And it would be nice if, sometimes, you told me that my hat looks nice. And sometimes I want to say ‘case closed.’”

Bad Cop: “Fine. But I’m going to glare at the New Zealand kid a few times to send him a message.”

Good Cop: “Case closed.”

In the end, Good Cop won, and they didn’t give me a ticket. I did get the glares though, before Good Cop politely showed me where I could ride my bike to get back on the road. I thanked them robustly, and hurried off home, stopping at all red lights that happened to have a police car waiting at them. Lesson learned.