Diesel...

is my new nickname. Touring around the Bordeaux with Tamara and her Mom, I like to think of myself as the worldly man of travel, the successful artist transplant so expertly navigating the European milieu.

Re the nickname. Tamara and her mom actually prefer, "Gassy," but I prefer the slightly more masculine ring of "Diesel." So goes it when you fill a diesel car with gasoline... I used to be a highly competent engineer type, proud of my technical prowess and not a probably not a little bit arrogant. But then I moved to Europe, and every single little thing conspired against that belief. Anyway, that arrogance is long gone now. Try doing art for a year and half for a living, and you'll understand too.

Anyway, first, the facts. 10 liters of gasoline were pumped into a tank that is supposed to take diesel. In my defense, I can only say... well, not much actually.

After the fact, sick to our collective stomachs, we pulled into a Renault dealership. Tamara's been that mad before, once or maybe twice. The slick salesman said the shop was closed, but we walked around to the back where a couple of the mechanics were having a cig. The question was posed, what happens if you have 10 liters of gasoline in a tank that is supposed to be filled with diesel, in a tank that has a capacity of 50 liters? The first reaction, after a certain puzzlement, were these wonderful, little smug smiles. You know what I mean.

We were lucky to have Tamara's mom, Jacqueline, there to pose the question in French. We stumped the two mechanics, and after the little smug smiles we stumped the the third and the fourth. Plus smiles. Time to summon the top mechanic. He joined the group, deep grease lines staining the wrinkles in his face and uniform. He was a master, and completely without ego. His word was gold, and every mechanic there treated him with the reverence that was his due. There was no smug smile from him. I loved him for the master he was, and for a brief second thought briefly about giving up art forever, becoming a mechanic and apprenticing at the Renault garage. He thought for a minute, asked a few clarifying questions, and finally made his pronouncement, which had the added weight of being made in French. All seven of us hung on his every word, every syllable uttered with seriousness and gravity.

Namely, we were to drive the car around, ignore any coughing sounds of complaint, and dilute the tank with diesel as we went. The car was good to go. If only my reputation and ego were as easily repaired. Please, just call me "Diesel." Not, "Gassy." I'm just not ready for that.

Tamara's mom just cooked a lovely dinner for us all. I thanked her before she went to bed, and she let me know that she after all, was "just cooking with gas."