Road rage in Roussillon

AUGUST 14, AVIGNON, FRANCE— The day after my adventure to the top of the world, in Provence at least, and back dawned sunny and bright. After having a bit of a lie in, as the Brits say, Stef and I headed down the main drag in Avignon, back to the little grocery store that was under a ‘boulangerie’ or bakery to resupply for the days journeys. Supermarkets in Europe look pretty much like they do in the States; if someone conked you on the head and you woke up in a French supermarché, you wouldn’t have any trouble finding what you need. Perhaps you just couldn’t read the specials. The neat thing about such stores on the Continent is that when you are in dense, historic, city centers, you find them in the oddest places. But people gotta eat.

We performed the usual mid-air refueling operation: “Red Leader, Red Leader, break right and get the baguette. I’m breaking left to pick up the ‘jambon.’ We’ll rendezvous on the fruit aisle.” While in the store, we ran into the charming owner of our hotel. She was pulling the little grocery caddy on wheels that marked her as a resident. We opted for the plastic bags. Don’t forget: at supermarkets in Europe, you pay for the bags that you use and put a 1-euro deposit down on the grocery carts; they are all tethered together in front of the store with little chains that plug into a little coin box on the cart. You place your coin in the slot, move the lever and it releases it from the herd of other carts. When you return, you plug your cart back in to the others and your money is returned. Moral of the story: Always keep reusable IKEA shopping bags and 1-euro coins in your car.

Exiting from the store, we took our wares and headed outside of the city walls to pick up the Micra which was parked in an underground parking garage near the train station. Our destination: the medieval towns of Gordes and Roussillon.

Gordes is a charming medieval town, another of the most beautiful villages in France as the sign says, that sits perched on a hill. The French are super organized nowadays. As you approach the edge of town, you pass a couple of three-star hotels and then come to a ‘Parking Payant’ or private parking lot. There is a teenage attendant seated next to his comic book reading punk little brother. You have no choice but to pay the man. He hands you a ticket for your dash as you complete the transaction. We pull into the lot, drive past the Gendarme station and into the overflow lot in back. It’s mid-day on a Sunday and the lot is already teeming with tourists. I maneuver the Micra into a spot in between two French cars. (I must say that I haven’t seen too many Americans this year. Most tourists are French, followed by other Europeans, the Dutch most notably.) We break out the picnic materials. I slice the baguette with a makeshift knife and build the ham and cheese sandwiches. Stefania cracks open the Orangina soda. I hand her her sandwich and we get our snack on.

After lunch, we hike about a kilometer to the entrance of the village. Again, no cars are allowed except for residents and delivery vans. The streets are abuzz with tourists going in and out of the immaculate stores. Stef and I split up. I walk around staring at the contrails in the blue sky as Stefania heads for the first shoe store she can find. Up and down, up and down. The medieval folk just had to build their cities on hills, didn’t they. My dogs are barking from all of the walking we’ve been doing and yesterday’s ride. We hook up again. I snap some nice pics. We finish our visit and head back to the car.

Next stop, Roussillon. On our way we take a perilous side trip down a narrow road to see an abbey in a field of Provençal lavender that has now gone brown. We park and check out the abbey but they want to jack us for like, 10 euros a pop to see the inside. I veto that idea and return to the gardens to snap a few pics before we resume our journey toward Roussillon.

The trip is beautiful. Up and down winding country roads. Picturesque villages. A few burned areas where forest fires have raged recently. It’s too bad that the lavender has already been harvested. After another half hour of driving we arrive in the hill-top village of Roussillon. It is of note because of the sandstone cliffs upon which it sits. They are of an amazing red, terracotta color. The buildings of the village are painted to match the color of the surrounding cliffs. The sky is a deep blue.

Parking is the same routine. Up the hill and into a sea of campers, station wagons and mini vans. Don’t forget to take your parking ticket with you in France if you get it out of one of those machines when you enter. When you leave, you go to another machine, stick your ticket in the slot, and pay the amount due. The machine then spits your ticket back out with an electronic code that a third machine reads at the ‘sortie’ or exit which allows the barrier to rise out of your way. If you leave it in the car, you have to hoof it back to the car, get the ticket, hoof it back to the machine, pay and then return to your car again. If you parked 10 levels below in some massive parking garage and the machine is on the ground floor, you are in deep doodoo.

The village itself was typical of what we had seen of late: beautiful, organized around tourism and immaculately clean. France and Provence is almost too clean now. Italy still has that little feeling of controlled chaos. The French are a bit more low key.

We stopped for a beer at a sidewalk café and watched the owner’s dog go in and out of the front door. He was like the maître d’ for dogs. Each tourist that came by with a dog, he would run out and sniff the newcomer as if he were taking canine reservations. The cats just sit in the sun in window boxes, laconically observing the proceedings with typical Gallic detachment.

We zipped back towards Avignon but not before I almost got us killed at a T intersection. I paused, wondering if I should go right or left. Stef said something to me as I kind of eased my nose into the road. Just then, a car comes flashing by from the right. I turn hard into the left lane and let him go by, passing me on the right. I think we both had to change our drawers after that close call. Probably the French car, too. I’m sure he was weaving a tapestry of profanity as he continued on.

Then, just our luck, we pulled up behind the guy I had almost cut off at a long traffic light.I watch in slow motion as the driver’s side door opens and out steps a squat man in his late forties. He walks slowly toward my door. I imagine this scene in the U.S. as said driver pulls a 9mm out and riddles my car with lead. I could see the headlines: “American shot in France in road rage incident.”

In reality, I rolled down my window as he approached. He said evenly, “Vous savez, c’est comme ça que des accidents arrivent. Il faut faire attention.” (You know, that’s how accidents happen.You have to pay attention (when you drive).) I said, “I know, I know. It’s my fault. Please excuse me,” making sure to use the formal/polite “vous” form of you. He said that it was okay, wished us a good day and got in his car and drove off. That, to me, is the perfect example of the French penchant for directness that Americans sometimes confuse for rudeness. A French person will (another sweeping generalization) tend not to hesitate to tell you if you have done something that they perceive as objectionable. The same scene in the U.S. would probably tend to have unfolded in a more passive-agressive manner: an obscene gesture followed by a squealing of tires as the offended person sped away. Or, they would have done nothing. The Frenchman was very cordial and simply expressed his displeasure at what had happened. Obviously, speaking the language helps. If I were a tourist who didn’t understand his culture or what he said, I could have interpreted his gesture in a much different manner. More on that when we get to Nice.

The next morning, we packed loaded up the car, bid adieu to our kind hosts and headed back down the autoroute towards the French Riviera.