The rond-point de l’Étoile in Paris is where urban planning sets the stage for existential angst. In the shadow of the majestic Arc de Triomphe, hundreds of drivers converge from a dozen directions, swerving across eight lanes of a roundabout stretching half a kilometre round. In the absence of road markings or discernible rules—who needs them, anyway?—drivers trace circles that seem to promise escape only to later confirm the futility of the attempt in a way that might have been staged by Jean-Paul Sartre. Each honk is a reminder that choice cannot be avoided; each swerve, an assertion of will. Hell is other drivers, but giving up is impossible, one must trudge on, c’est la vie! Out of this anxious improvisation most cars end up propelled, through an alchemy of will and fate, to roughly where they had intended to go.