Page 30 - Jan2023

Driving in France, continued from page 29 My expectation had been to drive directly to my
accommodations, but my landlady simply would
He bravely approached the incoherently
not give me her address. Why, I couldn?
t
babbling madman, and his frantically waving
understand. Complying, however, with her
arms. Quickly back inside the building he went,
directions as requested, I squeezed into a spot
and came back out with several other serious
between a shiny new Peugeot and a battered old
looking young Frenchmen dressed in coveralls.
panel truck. Short minutes later she appeared,
They, like him, spoke no English.
driving an old Citroen Helene. It was fortunate that
As I continued to repeat ?rouge rouge rouge?, I had very little luggage, because I could barely fold
the answer to this situation seemed to dawn on myself into the tiny car, sharing it with Madame
them all simultaneously. They stood up straight, Odile herself, and a number of bags, boxes,
relaxed, and smiled broadly. bundled packages, and her dog.

Frenchman number one then leaned into the Francois was a pleasant little dog that
car, pointed to a small unlabeled rocker switch on resembled the head of an old string mop, in size,
the console (right by the spot where my elbow color, texture, and aroma. He was remarkably
had been resting) and somehow communicated similar in some ways to the little car. They were of
to me that I had switched on a speed warning
system.

The red lights glowing all around the dash had
nothing to do with the engine overheating, and
everything to do with me driving faster than the
speed threshold that was set in the car?s alert
system. Never seen anything like that before or
since. Sacra Bleu! Guess I?d better be careful
where I rest my elbow for the rest of my trip.
(Hey, I?m practically fluent now!) Merci monsieur,
merci beaucoup!

Smiling and waving, and relieved that my
Franco-ride was functioning as its makers
intended, I eased back onto the roadway.

Not long afterwards the scenic village that
was my holiday destination appeared, perilously
perched at the edge of the Dordogne River. Above: The morning view from the large front
Rounding the last curve, an artist?s view of the window of my AirBnB, a place with no address,
compact town presented itself. where cars are for trips to the outside world, not for
daily use.
It was a crowded canvas of ancient stone
buildings, narrow and tall peaked, tumbling down
the steep hillside from the cliffs above, jostling
their way down to the road below. I pulled my
mid-sized Euro machine into the small parking
lot, apparently the only really flat spot in the A 1970s model Helene, a little two cylinder car, was the
town, just a few yards from the river. perfect micro-car for traversing a French village.

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