Parking & Sexism in NYC Explored in Report

By Patricia Fieldsteel

My street is ancient, though wide enough for cars, though many in the Vieille Ville (Old Town) are not. Jane St. is a four-lane superhighway compared to where I live now. Parking is permitted on the side of the street opposite my own. Hypothetically, this space is open to everyone. The reality is my car-owning neighbors have each staked out their own private spots, clearly marked when their cars aren’t in them by buckets, traffic cones and plastic jugs. Some of the aforementioned are attached by chains to the owners’ homes (there being no sidewalks).

A few months after I moved in, I bought a second-hand red Citroen AX and parked in front of the empty house across from mine. After a few weeks, I too started marking “my” spot, initially with bottomless red plastic pails that mysteriously disappeared. Next I filled sky-blue plastic oil jugs with pebbles, but they too vanished.

I began to receive anonymous notes instructing me not to park in that spot. My next-door neighbor, Françoise-Marie, one of the grandes-dames of Nyons, said to ignore the notes, as did Monsieur and Madame Lorca, “les Espagnoles” and Hans and Klara, “les Allemands.” No one had the right to tell anyone not to park there; after all, it was a “voie publique,” a public space. I noticed the disappearance of my markers coincided with the placement of the same brown SUV in “my” spot.

I asked Mr. Charmer, an unemployed truck driver who lives directly opposite me, if he knew the offending auto’s owner, since he is our street’s self-appointed parking valet. In hushed and reverent tones, his flabby Donald Duck lips flapping outward, he motioned me closer, “It’s Véronique’s….” And who is Véronique? I enquired. Well, Véronique is his weekend girlfriend (as opposed to the one he has during the week). Mr. Charmer is what the French call a “chaud lapin” (a “hot rabbit”) or skirt chaser. Years ago, Mr. Charmer’s wife and he parted ways due to not-mutually-agreed-upon punching bouts in the home. Mr. Charmer then took up with a young woman he nearly “loved” to death, landing her in the hospital and himself in the slammer, followed by several extended stays in locked medical facilities because of his behavior towards members of the opposite sex.

None of this would have been of interest to me, if it weren’t for the fact that Mr. Charmer has tried since I moved here to make me his latest “project.” Shortly after I began parking across the street, “someone” called the police to complain about my car; a warning summons was left on my windshield. Mr. Charmer was in an agitated state, telling me I was in big trouble and had better move my car immediately because the “residents” of the (empty) house (next door to his) couldn’t get their “car” out of their “garage,” their “garage” that is really a bathroom. No sooner had I moved my car than you’ll never guess which SUV promptly took the space!

Mr. Charmer was quick to point out he was trying to protect me because I didn’t understand French laws and customs. In fact, this had been his latest obsession, trying to be my so-called best friend, even going so far as to insist we should “tutoyer” (use the familiar form of you), a real no-no as far as I was concerned. I had begun to feel smothered, if not harassed, by his constant attempts at kindness, especially since he’d ignored me for months after he’d inquired if I was Jewish and clearly did not receive a response (affirmative) to his liking. Suddenly now, he wanted to lure me into his house to admire the “most beautiful thing in the world,” his crucifix. All the troubles in the world, he explained, come because of people who don’t follow Jesus Christ. He was always offering his help and I always politely refused.

I went to the police and explained the house opposite was unoccupied, the owner in a nursing home and the garage actually a bathroom; they apologized and said to continue to park there. Mr. Charmer was notified he had no right to stop people from parking in front of the house next door to his. That evening “someone” put their hand on my doorbell and held it there. Mr. Charmer was screaming hysterically, his face blood red and puffed to twice its size. He had a family emergency; my car was blocking his, he couldn’t get out! I looked across the street. In the last 10 minutes my little Citroen had managed to move 5 feet backwards to rest against the front fender of Mr. Charmer’s “bateau noir” (black boat), my name for his obscenely long low-slung black car. Smack up against the black boat’s back fender was a blue Peugeot in the parking space normally reserved by his neighbors on the other side. I suggested he push my car back to where it had been before its mysterious leap. He unleashed a torrent of “gros mots” (swear words) and screamed at all the neighbors to come see what I’d done. The little kids next door pulled me aside to whisper they’d watched him push my car. I grabbed my keys and moved my Citroen.

Mr. Charmer was running up and down the street screaming into his “portable” at the gendarmes to come immediately because his evil neighbor was blocking his attending to a life-and-death emergency. Within minutes the gendarmes (national police) arrived, though parking issues are strictly the domain of the police municipale (local police).

A crowd accumulated on the street as I fled inside my house. There was much shouting and screaming; it was difficult to understand. The gendarmes rang my bell; I explained the monsieur was not telling “la verité”; my French was not good and I was waiting for a friend who could translate. The gendarmes lost interest and left. Did Mr. Charmer rush in his bateau noir to this “family crisis”? Not exactly. He got into the mysterious blue Peugeot and drove it back into his garage on the corner, then vanished inside his house!

Thus began what is now more than 1 1/2 years of continual harassment from Mr. Charmer. Vile acts as well as inane ones. In the past month he has escalated. He has been spoken to by neighbors, warned many times by the police, who have been kind and supportive. Mr. Charmer’s response is always the same — he hasn’t done anything. I am the aggressor. He knows the law better than most lawyers and has figured out every loophole.

One of the delights that come under the rubric politely referred to as “civilization” is troublsome neighbors. Is Mr. Charmer deranged, or is he focusing on me because I’m foreign, a woman alone and Jewish to boot? On and off during the siege from across the street, I’ve been convinced of nasty ideas concerning “the French.” Yes, I chose to live here, yes, I am probably the original Francophile. Suddenly, in fits of frustration, I’ve thought of this as the country that gave Hitler carte blanche to walk in; a people who didn’t notice their Jewish neighbors disappeared and never came back; as xenophobes who loathe anything not French and are genetically predisposed to not get involved. I loved them; I hated them. I was certainly blaming “them” for Mr. Charmer, a rabidly nationalistic Frenchman. I was hurt; for months the only neighbors to come to my aid were other foreigners. Why was this, I demanded of Marie-Françoise? She insisted it wasn’t so. Look at the evidence! We argued some more while we continued together to feed and fuss over the feral cats we look out for.

After one of the worst assaults from across the street, I said I was selling my house — to a large Arab (God forbid!) family with lots of adolescent males! I was outrageous — I was also scared and overwhelmed. Mr. Charmer dangled from his roof and took photos of me inside my house. He verbally harassed me whenever I opened my door, while in the same breath he ran up to old ladies begging to relieve them of their bundles, escorting them home. Such a nice young man! Marie-Françoise was sure I was misinterpreting his behavior. After all, he had offered to take her photo that same day! We argued some more. And then she saw it, saw it more than once and then many times. I apologized for insinuating she was anti-Arab. She apologized for not believing me; she suggested we “tutoyer.” She has been my greatest ally and advocate.

Some friends thought I should “porter plainte” — those magic French words that seem to be nearly as popular a pastime as strikes and street demonstrations. Basically, you go to the proper authorities and complain and an official investigation is begun. I felt this would make matters worse. What I did do — at the urging of the chief of police —was consult the town mediators, a committee of three who periodically convene in a deserted wing of the former town hall. They listened. They asked questions and offered advice. I had the sense Mr. Charmer was not an individual unknown to them. They wanted to speak to him. I feared this might gratify his perverted need to do battle and insinuate himself as an important person in my life. They agreed. We worked out a strategy and a time frame. If the plan didn’t work, they would call him in. They suggested certain men in this part of “la France profonde”— men who are “un peau rétrograde” (a polite way of saying “male chauvinist pig”) — can be driven to extremes by the “threat” of an independent woman living alone who is not seduced by their charms.

We laughed, we shook hands. They assured me they were there for me, that racism is a punishable crime in France and will not be tolerated; neither will harassment. They also gave me perspective. What he was doing was unpleasant and had to stop, but it was hardly life threatening. For now at least our strategy is working. Mr. Charmer has left me alone for the past three weeks. We’ll see what happens….