Holiday Road

  “Attitude is the difference between an ordeal and an adventure.” — Bob Bitchin

So, Broz said, “We’re going to rent the car at the Bordeaux airport instead of in the city. When we drive to Sarlat, I want to avoid the city traffic and just get on the road.”

I said, “Good idea. Hiring a driver to get to the airport is well worth the fifty euros if we can manage to avoid sressful driving in a city we don’t know.”

So, this morning a driver picked us up at our hotel and whisked us off to the airport. There we spent about forty minutes fiddling around at the Budget counter and then getting into the Prius we’d rented. The GPS was set to English, we put in our address in Sarlat-la-Canada, and the Budget guy assured us that the route was set to the highway that would skirt the city. Broz figured out how to release the emergency break, and we were on our way!

Yup, on our way… but the snippy-toned GPS gal, in her irritatingly perfect British English, sent us back through the heart of the city, right along the streets we’d rode on to get to the airport. Deja vu!  We drove past our hotel, where we’d been picked up 90 minutes earlier. We dodged buses and snaked through a construction zone. Then, to add insult to injury, Ms. Snooty GPS Voice directed us to turn onto the Pont de Pierre. Mais, non! Pont de Pierre is a pedestrian bridge, and the Bordeaux gendarmerie frown on cars attempting to cross it.

We disobeyed Ms. GPS’s orders, but she was having none of it. “Turn back,” she directed, and when we ignored her commands, she scolded us. “Recalculating…. recalculating….”

But we Griswolds outfoxed her. Clark headed north to another bridge and traversed across the river. Ms. GPS wasn’t finished with us, though. In the space of about one square block, the bitch tried to send us into oncoming traffic, and when we ignored her, we were punished with several goofy turns. We were sure that GPSers sitting in front of a screen somewhere, laughing their heads off, saying, “Look at this jackass! I have him going in circles!”

Yet we prevailed, avoided driving into oncoming traffic, and then  a juggler entertained us at a stoplight.  (BTW, the circus is in town),  Finally, two and a half hours after we’d left our hotel, we were on the damn  road out of town.

Well, we had no deadlines. What did it matter when we arrived in Sarlat? What’s a trip without a little hiccup to chuckle about, right? But by one thirty, we were getting hungry and needed a bathroom. Where to stop?

We desperately kept our eyes peeled for a place to eat, but by now we were tooling along a country road and no options presented themselves. Then! A sign — Le Relais de Gascogne–  a bar, some umbrella tables, and, lots of trucks lined along the side of the road — always a good sign.  We took a chance and pulled over.

Serendipity! What looked like a sketchy little bar was a bustling place with plenty of  the local Francais enjoying their dejuener. Next to us sat a seventy- something couple, he with the thickest thatch of eyebrows I’ve ever seen. Nearby was a grandpere with his grandfils. A bourgeoisie in a chic tan suit was greeted warmly by the proprietor. Out on the terrace, a table of ten or so laborers in dusty gray tee shirts bearing the logo of a nearby chateau took time out for their lunch break.

A darling little French girl explained the menu du jour. For a mere thirteen euros, we had potage du jour — scalloped potatoes and ham–followed by an main plat of  delicious French version of meatballs and spaghetti, followed by dessert of creme brûlée or chocolate mousse, all accompanied by a demi-bottle of vin rouge. Incredible! This was hearty country food, not Michelin-rated  nouvelle cuisine. We loved it.

So, this is what travel is all about. Sometimes things don’t go as planned, and then you end up with a story to tell and an unexpected bowl of chocolate mousse for lunch.

Later than planned, we arrived in Sarlat, which looks like a fairy tale. But, that’s a story for tomorrow.