The car that didn't want to be bought

A Marseille mission, a rogue key, and a legally binding relationship

Finally, all is quiet. I look outside… no movement in the trees. It feels like that strange silence when you step out of a thumping nightclub — your ears still ringing, but everything suddenly still.

For nine days, the Mistral has been unrelenting, day and night. I had mistakenly assumed it was a summer wind, but in fact it tends to show up between winter and spring. I am no meteorologist, but this wind has had such an impact that I’ve found myself deep in a “wtf is this?” mindset, googling its origins.

Apparently, it’s caused by a high-pressure system in the Bay of Biscay and a low-pressure system in the Gulf of Lion. And because it barrels over the Alps — still covered in snow — it arrives bitterly cold. Honestly, it’s been a bit of a shock to the system, having just come from the tail end of the Australian summer.

Today, though, is sunny and warm. The vines in the fields where I walk the dogs have changed noticeably in the three weeks we’ve been here. They’ve gone from looking like old, gnarly dead trees to sprouting fresh green shoots. Quite how those shoots have survived the wind is beyond me. This is the kind of wind that takes your breath away — literally — and makes walking feel like resistance training. It’s hard to fathom how something can be so relentless when you’re used to the Nor’easter back home, which might blow hard in the afternoon but is almost always gone by morning.

So firstly, reader, I’m sure you’re keen to hear the rest of the car saga.

I spent the weekend recovering from that Friday afternoon in Marseille. By Monday morning, I decided to assume the dealer had got over the issue with my licence, after I had stood my ground and pointed out the French section of my international driving permit. I had also come up with a Plan B — offering to do the transfer paperwork myself, which I understood to be the sticking point… even though, technically, you don’t need a French licence for this. None of it made much sense.

So I emailed the dealer and said I’d be coming back to Marseille on Wednesday and hoped to drive away (note: not “purchase” — I’m learning) the car that day. He replied saying he couldn’t commit and that I’d need to wait for his secretary to contact me to make an appointment.

Hmmmmm.

My Turo car was booked until Wednesday, and I didn’t want to keep paying for it, but I felt my hands were tied. Then, late on Tuesday, I got a phone call from the dealer — which I bravely answered. I understood about one word in three, but we agreed (I think) that I would pick up the car at 2pm the next day.

As I drove towards Marseille, I saw the signs for Marseille Centre — exactly where I needed to go to drop off the Turo car. I felt the anxiety rise immediately.

“Nooooo… I do not want to go back into the centre of Marseille.”

But I had no choice.

I missed the turn into the car park (naturally), but aside from that, I made it there unscathed. I then made my way to the dealer to collect the car.

This time, I was dealing with a different person — clearly the “handover” guy. I sat down in his office, slightly on edge, wondering if the licence issue might resurface… or if some new obstacle would appear and I’d be heading home empty-handed.

He began speaking to me in French. Again, I was catching about one word in three — which was fine until he asked me to do something. I nodded vaguely, while he stared at me expectantly.

He paused.“Vous ne parlez pas français ?”

“Un peu,” I replied.

Thankfully, he spoke some English.

Then he said, “I’ll just go and check if your car is ready.”

He came back, checked his schedule, and announced that my car had fallen off the timetable for the day and wasn’t ready.

I offered to wait. At this point, a knot of determination had formed — I was not leaving without that car.

Eventually, it was ready. I received a very thorough briefing — most of which went in one ear and out the other (the overwhelm is real) — and finally drove out of the dealership feeling quietly triumphant.

But… not quite the end.

Five minutes down the road, my phone rang. French number. I hesitated… then answered.

“Madame, I think I have left a key to another car inside your car. Can you please come back?”

At this point, I genuinely thought:

This is a car that does not want to be bought.

After returning the key, I was finally able to head home — and it felt like a huge achievement.

In other news… my partner and I are officially PACS’d.

“What is that?” I hear you ask.

Well, the French do not recognise de facto relationships — even those approaching 30 years (!!). As a British/Australian passport holder, I’m not entitled to live and work in France without going through what I suspect would be a long and complicated visa process. My partner, however, has an EU passport and can live and work here with far fewer bureaucratic hurdles.

If we were married, I would automatically benefit from this. As we’re not, we had to register a PACS.

This is another scenario where I did a mountain of research to make sure we had the correct paperwork.

I ordered a “certificat de non-PACS” (don’t ask).I ordered new copies of our birth certificates — which have to be less than three months old (again, don’t ask).They then had to be translated into French by a sworn translator.

The PACS process is handled by the local town hall, so we also needed proof of address. I had been reliably informed (by ChatGPT, no less…) that our tenancy agreement — showing both our names — would be sufficient.

As we arrived at the town hall, armed with my meticulously prepared paperwork, I was fully expecting things not to go smoothly. From what I’ve gathered so far, rules (and even laws) in France can be applied… flexibly, depending on who you’re dealing with and, quite possibly, their mood.

The lady at the town hall was very pleasant. She spoke no English.

We eventually understood that our tenancy agreement was not enough for proof of residence in the area— we needed an electricity bill. From my experience so far, electricity bills seem to be the golden ticket to everything in France.

But we didn’t have one.

She said she would check with her boss and call us back.

One small issue.

She needed our phone number.

I had literally signed up to a French eSIM the day before… and had no idea what my number was.

Cue us attempting to explain this in broken French, while she responded to our increasingly blank expressions. Eventually, she told us to call her number so she could see our number on her phone.

Genius.

Two days later, she called.

Again, I understood maybe 20% of what she said, but enough to gather that we should return the following Tuesday at 2pm to sign the documents.

When we arrived, she immediately began asking us questions in French.

We stared blankly.

She tried again, differently.

Still blank.

We cobbled together a few phrases between us, and she seemed satisfied.

She then launched into what I suspect was a fairly important explanation of the PACS agreement — one we probably should have fully understood before signing.

But… we didn’t.

The paperwork was stamped.We were congratulated by several people in the town hall.“Félicitations!”

I walked out of the town hall feeling relieved that, for once, something had gone vaguely to plan.

But I couldn’t shake the thought lingering in my head:

What have I just done?