{"id":165983,"date":"2023-11-06T11:29:57","date_gmt":"2023-11-06T16:29:57","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=165983"},"modified":"2023-12-06T12:53:08","modified_gmt":"2023-12-06T17:53:08","slug":"citroen-cactus","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/11\/06\/citroen-cactus\/","title":{"rendered":"Citro\u00ebn Cactus"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

The French Cactus. Photograph by Holly Connolly.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cI want to wrap \/ my face tight with a silk scarf and spiral\u00a0 \u00a0 down \/\u00a0 \u00a0 a Cinque Terre highway in an Alfa Romeo,\u201d writes\u00a0Olivia Sokolowski in her poem \u201cLover of Cars<\/a>,\u201d which appears in the new Fall issue of the <\/em>Review. And who doesn’t, when you put it like that? In celebration of Sokolowski’s poem, we’ve commissioned writers to reflect briefly on cars they’ve loved, struggled with, coveted, and crushed on.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cOkay, fine,\u201d I said, when we saw the price of train tickets from Paris to the wedding we were attending deep in the South of France. \u201cI\u2019ll drive. But we\u2019re getting a Citro\u00ebn Cactus.\u201d I had not driven in Continental Europe before, and had, by quirk more than anything else, only ever driven a succession of Cactuses; first my mum\u2019s, then a different rental, then, finally, my own.<\/p>\n

The Cactus is essentially a four-door, five-seat car, but one of deeply muscular proportions\u2014when I sent a photo of my gray model to a friend who could barely believe that I drive, let alone own, a car, he replied, \u201cIt\u2019s, like, a 4×4?\u201d Then there is my favorite feature\u2014unique, as far as I know, to the Cactus\u2014a strip of \u201cAirbumps\u201d lining each side. Said to act as a buffer on collision-prone Parisian streets, they make the car look a little like it\u2019s kitted out in a North Face jacket. Cactuses are not flashy, nor are they known for their reliability. Say the word Citro\u00ebn<\/em> to any man who is invested in cars and he will shake his head and start talking about \u201cthose French cars and their electrics.\u201d But I have never loved anything because it is functional.<\/p>\n

So if I was going to drive for hours on the wrong side of the motorway, I wanted a Cactus. Europcar, however, had other ideas.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat is this car?\u201d I said, when I saw the word Renault<\/em> on the rental forms in Europcar\u2019s Charles de Gaulle office. \u201cWe selected the Citro\u00ebn Cactus.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said the stiff-haired woman behind the counter. \u201cBut we have upgraded you. You\u2019ll see: this is a much better car.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThe key.\u201d She handed me a strange, sleek object that could have come from an Apple Store. There was no metal key attached to it. It was far too light in my hand. \u201cAnd remember to photograph any scratches that we haven\u2019t marked up.\u201d<\/p>\n

Brave face. \u201cIt\u2019s the future!\u201d I said, brandishing the keyless key as I returned to Zs\u00f3fia, who stood with our suitcases outside the office. \u201cWe\u2019re looking for row F28.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh! My mum had this car,\u201d Zs\u00f3fia said as we arrived at a nondescript white car. \u201cShe loved it. It\u2019s a good car.\u201d It looked small\u2014much smaller than the Cactus. Inside, it was worse. We were seated so low down that we\u2019d be looking up at every other car, crammed in tight together; Zs\u00f3fia\u2019s knee was touching the gear stick.<\/p>\n

There was no ignition. Of course there wasn\u2019t, because there was no key. So then what.<\/p>\n

There were many buttons. One, apart from the others, read \u201cEngine Start Stop.\u201d Was that it? Start the car by pressing a button? Slowly, very slowly, I pressed it. Nothing. It was like sitting in one of those coin-operated rides for children they have in shopping centers, but you\u2019ve run out of money.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll call my mum and ask how hers worked,\u201d said Zs\u00f3fia. The phone started ringing, she was put on speaker\u2014the connection was terrible. \u201cThe clutch?\u201d Zs\u00f3fia was saying. \u201cThe button and what with the clutch?\u201d I felt really hot. I started trying to get the windows down. \u201cHow the fuck do you even move the mirrors in this thing?\u201d<\/p>\n

I know now that all I had to do was hold down the clutch, then<\/em> press the on button and the car would start. But this felt too illogical to even bother to try: How would it know I was pressing the clutch before it was even turned on?<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said. \u201cIt\u2019s too much. This is all too much. This is not a real car.\u201d<\/p>\n

Once, driving back to the airport at the end of a family holiday, my dad pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the Spanish motorway and, screaming all the while, threw a suitcase full of John Grisham novels into a field. I felt like that. \u201cZs\u00f3fia,\u201d I said. I was trying not to catch sight of myself in the rearview mirror. \u201cLet\u2019s take the suitcases out of the boot.\u201d<\/p>\n

I marched back to the office, straight to the front of the queue\u2014\u201cIt\u2019s urgent\u201d\u2014and slammed the fake key down on the counter. \u201cI saw a Cactus in the parking lot,\u201d I said. \u201cGive it to me.\u201d The woman looked up. We had been awake since 4 A.M.<\/small> I did not look nice. \u201cOf course,\u201d she said. \u201cOne moment.\u201d Ten minutes later, driving out of the parking lot high up behind the wheel of my Cactus, I was Thelma and Louise. I was ready. I was home.<\/p>\n

Driving, as anyone will tell you, is about muscle memory. It is also about overriding your own fear of the car\u2019s capacity to kill, until being at the wheel becomes something maybe like the thrill of holding a loaded gun. Or it is for me, at least. I was taught to drive twice. First at nineteen, then again at twenty-seven, both times by a sturdy County Tyrone man called Jim. I felt younger the second time. Timid and illegal in the driver\u2019s seat and horribly aware that it was I and only I who was operating thousands of pounds of steel and aluminum\u2014that I was responsible for everything that happened.<\/p>\n

When it clicked, and I can\u2019t explain it any better than that\u2014it was a thing that happened overnight\u2014there was nothing like the sheer feeling of control. The meditative gravity. Very few things that I do in my life have any real stakes; driving is one. But for me, for the magic to work, there needs to be a certain symbiosis with your car: you have to trust it. And so I got in my Cactus.<\/p>\n

Later, after we had gotten a flat tire and the only mechanic within an hour\u2019s drive still open in rural France at 6 P.M.<\/small> on a Friday had taken pity on us and offered to change it for free, I texted my brother a photo of the Cactus being repaired. He wrote back: \u201cDo you have some sponsorship deal with citroen cactus haha.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Holly Connolly is a writer based in London and Belfast.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cI have never loved anything because it is functional.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2316,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[68725],"tags":[10484,37591,67827,865],"class_list":["post-165983","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-car-crushes","tag-cars","tag-citroen","tag-featured","tag-france"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nCitro\u00ebn Cactus by Holly Connolly<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 6, 2023 \u2013 \u201cI have never loved anything because it is functional.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2023\/11\/06\/citroen-cactus\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" 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