The €1 car reservation (and other lies I told myself)

What begins as a simple plan to buy a car in Marseille quickly turns into an exercise in French fine print, bureaucratic panic, and a surprising level of uncertainty about my Australian licence.

Yesterday I spent the entire day trying to buy a car.

I had done my homework. Hours of research. A clear budget. A preferred dealer. I had even been monitoring the Toyota dealer website in Marseille like it was the stock market. There was one car in particular I had my eye on. The plan was simple: drive to Marseille, buy the car, drive home.

Of course, this plan was immediately derailed by an unexpected emergency trip to Paris to collect our dogs after they missed their flight. As one does.

When I finally checked the website again, my car was gone. Disappointing, but not catastrophic. There were others. I found a suitable alternative and clicked the very reassuring-looking button: “Réserver ce véhicule.”

This required a payment of €1.

Now, even in my relatively short time in France, I had begun to suspect that things are rarely quite as straightforward as they seem. Reserving a car for €1 felt… optimistic. But I paid it anyway.

Within minutes, my phone rang. Impressive efficiency, I thought.

Unfortunately, the caller was speaking in French (of course he was!).

Under pressure, my brain did what it always does in these situations — it abandoned French entirely and offered up German instead. Not good German, I should add. Just… German-adjacent noises.

Somehow, the caller managed to communicate that a colleague who spoke English would call me the next day. I agreed, relieved to escape the conversation with what remained of my dignity.

No one called.

By the following afternoon, after several unanswered emails and messages about my “reservation,” I decided to take matters into my own hands and call them again.

This time I managed to explain that I had reserved a car. The man asked how much I had paid.

“Un Euro,” I said, already bracing myself.

“No,” he replied, “you must pay €1,000 to reserve a car.”

Ah.

He then asked which car I had reserved.

“That one has been sold,” he said.

Deep breaths.

But! There was another car. Slightly higher mileage, but still under their 3-year warranty. He offered to send photos. We then spent several minutes trying to exchange my contact details, during which I realised I did not know how to say the “@” symbol in French. A humbling moment.

Eventually, via email, we got there. I decided to go ahead.

I spent the rest of the day in a back-and-forth exchange with the dealer, sending:

• proof of address (not good enough),

• another proof of address (acceptable),

• bank details,

• licence details,

• identity documents.

I explained that I had an Australian licence and an International Driving Permit.

Silence.

In parallel, I had already arranged French car insurance without any issue whatsoever.

I told the dealer I would come the next day to 'acheter la voiture' and transfer the money on the spot.

The next day, I dropped off the rental car in Avignon, took a train to Marseille, and then an Uber to the dealership.

So far, so good.

He showed me the car.

It had a flat battery.

We sat down to do the paperwork. He paused.

“So… you don’t have a French licence?”

I explained (again) about the Australian licence and the International Driving Permit. I showed him both.

“I cannot sell you the car without a French licence,” he said.

I attempted, in a mixture of broken French and increasingly assertive English, to explain that:

• my licence is valid in France for one year,

• the IDP is literally written in French,

• and, technically, you don’t even need a licence to buy a car.

He admitted he had never seen an IDP before and had never encountered this situation. His secretary, he explained, was “not happy.”

We studied the IDP together. I pointed out the French section. Then the list of countries. He seemed genuinely surprised to see France included.

He dropped the issue… but remained deeply unconvinced.

I then asked when I should pay for the car.

“Not for a few days,” he said.

At this point, a small alarm bell rang in my head. But I chose optimism.

How trusting, I thought. They’re going to let me drive away without paying.

Reader, they were not.

“When can I take the car?” I asked.

“Next week.”

My face fell.

“But you said I could buy the car today.”

“Yes,” he replied. “Buying the car is not the same as driving the car away.”

Ah. Of course. Silly me.

I explained that I had no way of getting home. Tavel is over an hour away, and the dealership was nowhere near a train station.

He was unmoved.

“But the car is not ready.”

“But you have not paid.”

“But I will not see the payment until Monday.”

I left the dealership without a car.

I sat at a bus stop and considered my life choices.

Eventually, I decided to book a car through Turo. The nearest one was 6.8 km away. Google Maps suggested a two-hour walk.

“I have two hours,” I thought. “I’ll just walk.”

It turned out to be closer to 10 km.

Still, I enjoyed it. Marseille is lively, chaotic, and full of character. I liked it — from a safe walking distance.

As I approached the pickup point, the owner messaged to change the meeting location. “No problem,” I replied (in French, no less). “I am on foot. 10 minutes.”

I could not find it.

He sent photos. Still couldn’t find it.

Eventually he called. I was very close. Relieved, tired, and still instinctively looking the wrong way for traffic, I stepped into the road.

Brakes screeched. Horns blared. A motorbike narrowly missed me.

Everyone stared.

“Are you alright?” the car owner asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”

Which felt like a slight overstatement.

He showed me the car.

Manual- which normally would not bother me at all but....

At this point — end of a long day, unfamiliar city, wrong side of the road, mild brush with death — this felt like an unnecessary plot twist.

I got in. Tried reverse. Nothing happened.

Tried again. Still nothing.

I briefly considered abandoning the vehicle and walking home to Tavel.

Instead, I looked up a YouTube video on how to engage reverse gear in a Citroën. (A personal low point.)

Eventually I realised the clutch was just… extremely high.

I reversed. Went the wrong way around the car park. Found a dead end. Reversed again.

Progress.

Then I entered the Marseille rush hour traffic.

For the next 15 minutes, I drove in circles. Then took five wrong turns. Was honked at repeatedly. Was nearly sideswiped. Took the wrong motorway exit.

All I wanted — deeply, emotionally — was the A7.

Eventually, I made it home.

There was a gin and tonic waiting.

It was, without question, the best gin and tonic of my life.

And the car?

Well…

Oui. Mais non. À suivre......