Kill The Rich.

So—we got a new car. A kinda fancy grown-up new car. Well, fancy for me anyway. I’ve only owned one car in my life. My grandparents bought me a car when I was 21 years old. It was a three year old Chevy Corsica. I drove it for another three years until I graduated from college and then I sold it and used the money to move to New York City. Before that, as a passenger, I had suffered through many of my mom’s hand-me-down automobiles. You know, the car that just barely runs, but needs special attention ie: the transmission slips between gears, the engine light never goes off, and only one of the front seat-belts works so you have to pull it across your chest with lightening speed whenever you see a cop cruiser. Needless to say, the idea of having a new car is totally foreign to me, let alone a fancy new car.

When FrenchBoy picked me up in Paris at the airport for the first time, the Alfa Romeo 147 was probably one of the nicest cars I had ever been in. The name even sounded fancy to me! And a year later when I became the primary driver of the Alfa, I did so with a heavy dose of trepidation. Now, fast forward four years to the day, not so very long ago, when one evening out of the clear blue sky FrenchBoy puffs up his chest and announces with absolute glee: “This weekend we’re going to order an Audi A4!”

Gulp.

Luckily I had a few months while the car was being built to get used to the idea. But I’ll be honest with you. The day I went with French Father-in-law to pick it up, I was still scared. I mean really scared. I could barely sleep the night before.

But then something happened in my brain at the car dealership. Maybe it was all those new car fumes in the air, but as I signed the service agreement (Which was conveniently written in German, so for all I know I signed away my first born child.) I started to get all giddy. And then, the Car Dealer Dude handed me the keys. I accepted them graciously. I played it cool. But in my head I was screaming: “Holy holey sweet muther of the lord baby jesus. I just got me a dope-ass bran-new car!” (Note the mid-western liason on “bran-new”.) And then as soon as Car Dealer Dude's back was turned, I made a mad dash for the front door of the dealership and ran out into the ice-cold pissing rain to find my shiny new car waiting for me. Eventually Car Dealer Dude came out to meet me and explained how every knob and button worked. But five minutes after he was gone I had to run back into the dealership to find him because the first time he explained everything I hadn’t actual heard a thing he had said. I went all ADD while looking at all the shiny buttons. Finally, after the second explanation of everything, I turned on the car and, well, I drove my brand new car off the lot.

With the exception of the time I accidentally turned on the heated sets on a 30 degree day, every ride in this car has been an absolute pleasure. I’m not afraid to drive it, I’m not afraid to park it, and it purs like a kitten. I never thought I would say this about a car, but, I looooove this car. I love diving it, I love parking it. I love coming out of a store, looking for it in a sea of Peugots and Fiats in the parking lot, and then finding it. (A task made much easier by the huge Obama for president sticker on the back windshield.)

In fact there is nothing I don’t like about driving the A4--- except the way people look at me while I’m driving it. Mind you, women generally pay no attention, but men, especially grouchy middle aged men, seem particularly indignant when they see me pull up in the A4. Which brings me to the heart of the matter. The French hate the rich. They hate them, hate them, hate them, no mater the fact that no one can decide what constitutes “rich”. And let me clue you in on something--nothing inspires more suspicion in the old-school Frogs than an adorable little 30-something Black girl, easily young enough to be their daughter, rolling around in a tricked-out Audi.

You should see the daggers these old Toads shoot at me. You’d think I’d robbed a bank, their bank to be specific. Mind you these are probably the same connards who find new and creative ways to abuse the system and screw the French government out of money any chance they get while simultaneously complaining about how high their taxes are.

So what gives? I’ve already read 60 million Frenchmen Can’t Be Wrong, but apparently I need a re-read to remind myself that their behavior is common if not normal. But still, I’d like to enjoy driving the only new car I’ve ever had in my life without that gnawing feeling that perhaps the locals are secretly plotting to guillotine me.

BONUS: Serious Brownie points for the first poster in comments who can translate the saying:

"Don't hate the player, hate the game." into French.