How to Fail a Truck Rental in France
When you rent a U-Haul in the U.S., you usually wait in line in a fairly undesirable part of town, show a driver’s license, sign a form that nobody reads, and leave with a 14-foot box truck that smelled faintly of chicken nuggets and divorce. Then you return it with the same amount of gas it started with.
But not in France.
In France, you bring your driver’s license — but it can’t be too new (don’t ask) — so I used my Florida license, which I still had.
Then you provide proof of where you live, in the form of a utility bill. Not a rental contract. Not a passport with your address written in. An electric bill. From EDF. Printed. With your name on it.
To rent a truck.
At Super U.
The grocery store.
You know, that well-known global threat for fraudulent truck activity.
I asked the clerk — a young guy in a Super U fleece vest who looked like he’d recently lost a bet — why they needed my facture EDF just to let me drive a van ten miles down the road.
He shrugged and said, “Pour preuve de domicile.”
Which is basically French for: “Because that’s how we do things here, peasant.”
The best part? I had met this guy the week before — at the checkout lane.
He spoke English and talked me into signing up for the store’s loyalty card while scanning my yogurt.
Now he was the gatekeeper of my vehicular freedom.
So I showed him the proof I’d downloaded from EDF and saved to my phone — because that’s the kind of person I am now. We’d moved here with no furniture, so D was on the hunt for all things old and French.
Which, as it turns out, is just a euphemism for incredibly heavy.
The pickup itself felt official — in that very French way where it’s all ceremony and no eye contact. Camille met me outside with a clipboard and a laminated diagram of a van.
She spoke no English, and looked right through me like a disappointed schoolmarm. Either annoyed that I didn’t speak proper French, or maybe just resentful that I’d had a friendly conversation with her English-speaking coworker.
She wasn’t here for conversation. She was here for procedure.
We walked around the van marking scratches, dents, and paint scrapes like we were cataloging crime scenes.
I pointed at a gash on the rear panel. She nodded. She tapped a dent near the headlight. I nodded. We nodded a lot.
D followed me over to a little town about ten miles away — a place I didn’t even know existed until that morning.
We arrived at the house and spoke our best awkward French to the very friendly couple selling the table.
I followed the husband through their backyard to the house, nodding politely while mentally preparing to lift something that had probably survived three revolutions.
He agreed to help carry it out, and the moment we picked it up I thought, Oh, hell. This thing is heavy. I walked backwards the full seventy yards to the van, taking six-inch steps, listening to the guy — who looked about my age — gasping for air like he was trying to blow out birthday candles on a moving treadmill.
We finally made it to the van. Now came the hard part.
He tried to hoist his end into the back, I thought he was going to stroke out.
D stepped in, grabbed a corner on his end, and together we shoved the heavy bastard inside. No plan. No grace. Just sweat and sheer refusal to fail in front of strangers.
And just like that, the table was in. Time to go home.
Of course, home meant navigating our narrow stone gate — something I had not factored in. I had a history with this wall...
I crept through at half a kilometer per hour, praying the truck would make it without leaving a chunk of Super U’s insurance deposit lodged in our wall.
It was slow. It was terrifying. But we made it. Table secured. Truck intact.
Pride: only mildly bruised.
“There I was, hose in hand, scrubbing a van I’d driven twenty miles — while Camille judged my sponge technique through a window.”
The drive back to Super U was sweaty.
The table was in. The van had survived the gate. I felt victorious — like I had conquered some minor French logistics boss level.
I was wrong.
I pulled into the Super U parking area — the ‘aire de stationnement’ — just past the gas pumps and the little building where they rent out vans and party equipment. Because apparently that’s one department now.
I parked, walked in, handed Camille the keys, and smiled.
“Bonne journée,” I said, like a gentleman who'd done his duty.
She looked at me. Then looked at the van.
And said, “Vous l’avez lavé ?”
Did I wash it?
Wash it?
Like… with water? Apparently, yes.
You have to wash the van before returning it. Not because it’s dirty.
But because — and I quote — it’s your responsibility.
And guess who generously offers to let you pay them to wash the van you just rented for twenty miles?
Super U.
You wash it right there at Super U. How convenient… for them.
They have a self-serve car wash right there in the parking lot. One of those big moving rigs that glides over the car while you just stand there awkwardly, watching your sins get rinsed off.
Or you can go to the manual wash bay — where you hold a high-pressure wand and blast it yourself, like a disgraced apprentice in a medieval guild.
And of course, the rental shack has a big window. So they can watch you do it. I imagined Camille stood behind the glass, sipping an espresso and silently judging my sponge technique.
There I was, hose in hand, standing in the Super U car wash bay, scrubbing a van I had driven a grand total of twenty miles. A van already dented, chipped, and bruised like a post-war Renault.
I half expected Camille to start offering notes through a walkie-talkie like a film director:
“A little more soap on the back wheel well, monsieur. No, not like that. Try to look more ashamed.”
After I was confident that the white van was just as clean as when I started washing it, the inspection began.
Camille walked around it with a clipboard and the expression of someone trained by both airport security and emotionally unavailable fathers. I trailed her, smiling, nodding, and doing my best to speak just enough French to seem harmless — the kind of awkward charm offensive that says, “Please don’t fine me, I’m just a soft American man who loves cheese and tried his best.”
She crouched. She squinted. She ran her fingers along a scuff mark like a detective examining a crime scene. And I stood there, heart racing, waiting for the verdict.
In that moment, I truly believed this could be it. This is how it happens, I thought. This is how innocent people go to jail in movies. Somehow, a simple van return felt like it could derail my entire residency status.
But then — after a long pause — she stood up, nodded once, and walked back inside without a word.
No fine. No accusations. No passive-aggressive note in my Super U loyalty file.
Just the lingering feeling that I'd somehow failed an important test.
Off the Beaten Path: Normandy Edition
Where we skipped the crowds at Mont Saint-Michel… and stayed in a castle instead.
We recently spent a few days with friends from SoCal in a turreted château in Normandy — and somehow, we had the entire place to ourselves.
Château La Rametière is just 20 minutes from Mont Saint-Michel, but it might as well be a world away. Five spacious rooms. Rolling green hills. No tour buses. No crowds. Just us, our dogs, and one perfect croissant-filled morning after another.
But the real reason to go is Pascale — the warm, wickedly funny hostess who somehow makes you feel like you're visiting a favorite cousin with better taste in antiques. She even steered us to La Croix d'Or in the nearby town of Avranches, a restaurant that reminded us that the best meals in France are often the ones you’ve never heard of.
One night after a long day at Omaha Beach, we decided to nosh. We stopped at a massive E.Leclerc and loaded up on everything: cheeses, charcuterie, baguettes, wine — the works.
I asked Pascale if it was okay to eat out in front of the château. Not only was it okay… she brought us plates. Real wine glasses (not our sad little Solo cups). Fresh silverware to replace the flimsy plastic ones. And, of course, her smile and her warmth.
The Quirky Bit
French Cuisine... From a Vending Machine?
In the in-between places — not quite countryside, not quite city — restaurants keep odd hours — especially pizzerias, which are often open from 7 to 10 p.m. And that’s if they’re open. So what do the French do when it’s 3 p.m., the shops are closed, and the craving hits?
Apparently… they go to the pizza vending machine.
Yes, this is a real thing. You walk up, push a few buttons, and three minutes later — voilà — out pops a hot pizza, made inside the machine. We’ve also spotted one for French tacos (which are a whole other fever dream — imagine a grilled burrito stuffed with meat, fries, and melted cheese sauce).
We’ve never worked up the courage to try one… yet. But clearly someone is, because they’re everywhere. And honestly? If you live in a village where the only other dinner option is to forage for wild fennel, a machine-made four-cheese pizza doesn’t sound half bad.
Just don’t call it fast food. It’s French fast food — which means the crust probably has AOC status.
Until next time, savor the chaos.
Thanks for reading. If you’re enjoying the stories and want to help us grow, forward this to someone who dreams of moving to France — or at least wants to laugh at someone who already did.
Thanks for being here.
Paul
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