A long and winding road trip through central France
LANDING after midnight to start that road trip, in a country where you’ve never driven, don’t speak the language and can’t get yourself out of Charles de Gaulle Airport, however, is less advised.
Yet that’s how two friends and I embarked on our week-long road trip through central France. In our Volkswagen rental, we covered 1,500 miles from Paris to Lyon, around Grenoble, briefly through the Alps, and into the vineyards of Burgundy and Champagne.
After landing at Charles de Gaulle just before midnight, we raced across the terminal to pick up the car. (Note: Most rentalcar counters at CDG close right at midnight. So you might want to time your flights better.) Once behind the wheel, we had the tricky task of navigating our way out of the airport and through a dizzying maze of overlapping highways.
We made a few errors, landing on deserted streets, missing turnings at roundabouts and being foiled by roads closed for construction. Google Maps did a decent job. But French motorways come with lots of signs, stacked on top of one another - for instance, “A4/A6/ A10 Vers/Aeroport Orly/Porte de Montreuil/Peripherique Sud.” The Voice of Google Maps reads them all, without pause, butchering the French names horribly. What we learned: Ignore the voice and follow the arrows on your phone screen.
A drive that should have taken an hour, however, took us about 2 1/2. At 3 in the morning, we arrived at our first bedand-breakfast, in the small farm town of Les Molieres. We tiptoed on the gravel pathway, using our cellphones for light, looking for our room key, which the owner was to have slipped under the doormat. But it wasn’t there. Luckily, a side door was unlocked. We slipped in, found our room vacant and tucked in for the night.
The next day, we met the owner, a lively young farmer who was flabbergasted by the mishap and told us the key had probably been taken by her dog - a massive and quite unruly St. Bernard.
“He’s probably buried it somewhere,” she said. “And I don’t even have a spare. I’ll have to go to the shop today to get one made.”
She served us oeufs mollets, or soft-boiled eggs, and demonstrated how to eat them: Slice the shell off the top, sprinkle in a bit of fleur de sel and black pepper, and either scoop it out or dunk in a piece of crusty, white bread.
“You have to flirt with how long you cook them. Too long and they turn into a hard-boiled egg - not as exciting,” she said.
They were magnificent - so much so that I ordered them everywhere else we stayed.
After breakfast, we set out on the longest leg of our trip: from Paris to Lyon, about 300 miles on a toll road. That’s the quickest route - and the least scenic. Roads labeled with an A, for autoroute, are fast highways laden with tolls (generally 10 euros or more); use them if you’re in a hurry, not on vacation.
Instead, we opted for a slower, more intimate ride through the countryside, using the E and D roads. E, or European roadways, don’t have the tolls of an A road; they’re not as massive but still quick and effective for getting around. D, or departmental roads (departments are like states), take you through every little town, which translates into lots of charm and lots of roundabouts.
Our first stop on the long day’s drive was Orleans, one of the prettiest cities in France and a popular getaway for Parisians. We parked the car and meandered down its lovely streets, looking for a local SIM card for our phone. The saleswoman at the cellphone store was intrigued by our visit to her town. “You have come from California?” I nodded with a smile. “I have always dreamed of driving there, on the road that runs along the ocean - what’s it called?”
“You mean, PCH, the Pacific Coast Highway,” I replied.
“Yes, yes. It would be - comment dit-on ( how do you say) bienheureux?” she said, reaching for her phone to find the word. She held up the Google translation: “Blissful.”
“Blissful, yes,” I said. “I’m here to drive through the countryside of France. That, for me, will be blissful.”
She smiled. “Yes, yes. It is blissful. Especially with some wine!”
Before we left, she pointed us to the flea market in the central square. At an antique bookseller’s table, we spotted some Gustave Flaubert, the art of French living, religious texts, the history of boules. Some were hundreds of years old. I picked up a French cooking classic, “Larousse Gastronomique.”
Leaving Orleans, we drove through the Loire Valley in search of chateaus. In America, we have road signs for the nearest eatery or gas station; in France, they have signs for the local chateau.
The symbol, a large house, appears on the smallest of signboards in the countryside. Driving on Route D108, we stumbled on a couple, including the 18th-century Chateau de Villette. Sitting handsomely on more than 100 acres of land, this is one of the “smaller” chateaus in the area, with only 45 rooms. Unfortunately, it was being used for a private event that day (many chateaus have been converted to party venues or bedand-breakfasts), so we couldn’t wander the grounds. Heading farther east, we admired the more regal Chateau de Sully-surLoire.
With no time for a leisurely French lunch, we bought ham- and-cheese baguettes at a local bakery and kept driving along the Loire River. — WPBloomberg