Our trip started innocently enough. We rented a purple Opel Corsa near the Air France office at Les Invalides in Paris. The car had the acceleration of a golf cart and the structural integrity of an aluminum can, but we weren't worried.
My wife, Lisa, and I planned to take our time, spending two weeks touring the villages, cathedrals and chateaus of rural France. Little did we know that by doing so we would enter an unofficial nationwide road rally we came to call Le Grand Prix.
After pulling out of the garage, we headed north, planning to access the ring road around Paris and drive east toward Strasbourg. There was no gun to announce the start of the race, only a green light that permitted us to turn onto the Quai d'Orsay, one of the main avenues along the left bank of the Seine. We cruised down the street, passing stately sycamore trees, shops bustling with late morning business and the gilded Alexander III bridge.
We had several seconds to drink in the mystery and romance of Paris. Then the traffic caught up with us. The din of horns grew deafening -- the squeaks of Vespa scooters, the sticky doorbell buzz of mopeds, the shuddering roar of the big trucks. The wave overwhelmed us. We were surrounded by Fiats, Peugeots, and Renaults. Organ-donor motorcyclists with bulbous, insectlike helmets wove between cars packed impossibly close together.
This was not the stately, civilized procession I had imagined, but a terrifying free-for-all. There was no Socialist solidarity; it was every man for himself.
The traffic barreled down the Quai d'Orsay toward the roundabout at the Place de la Resistance, where we needed to turn off for the autoroute. Several streets converged on the square, and the result was a Gallic version of monster truck. Cars careered out from the side streets, came straight at us, then peeled off at the last second.
Lisa looked for a sign to Strasbourg on our third circuit of the roundabout. I signaled to get over. Several cars blocked my passage and gave me the horn for good measure.
On the fourth try, I managed to exit onto a narrow, cobbled street that slalomed through an old neighborhood. There was no place to turn off and no chance to slow down; when I applied the brakes, I got blasted by horns and cries of ''Depechez- vous!'' We were hurtling 50 miles an hour down a street designed for donkey carts, and drivers were shouting at us to hurry up.
Another roundabout was approaching. Lisa unfurled the Michelin map.
''Which way do I turn?'' I asked.
''I can't tell,'' she said. ''I think we go straight.''
''But that'll take us to Rouen,'' I said, glancing at the map. ''We want to go to Strasbourg!''
Lisa lifted the map, blocking my view from the right. Our bonhomie had evaporated. Our joie de vivre was in tatters.
''Put the map down!'' I yelled. As she lowered it, a Citroen streaked toward us like an Exocet missile.
''Look out!'' Lisa screamed. The driver, accustomed to Jerry Lewis-style traffic maneuvers, rocketed around us, but our nerves were badly shaken by the near collision. Somehow we managed to find our way to the ring road. But the superhighway was no picnic either. Here as elsewhere in France, everyone drove as fast as possible. The Government has tried to counteract this need for speed with signs like: ''La Vie ou La Vitesse,'' as if the French actually ponder whether to choose life or speed.
After several hours of manic, white-knuckle driving, we stopped at a Total station. Gas was expensive, $4 a gallon, but the station was well-stocked with food and drink. We bought a large wheel of Brie and a good bottle of Bordeaux to drink at the end of the day.
Rather than endure the roundabout at Rouen, we decided to forgo Strasbourg, turn off the highway and enjoy the pastoral beauty of the French countryside. But Le Grand Prix prevailed there as well.
After several days of driving through Normandy, we arrived in Nantes, totally worn out. I had attended college there and was nostalgic about revisiting my old stomping grounds, but came away more impressed with an outrageous maneuver that occurred on the main street. When the light turned, the green Deux Chevaux in front of us made a U-turn into oncoming traffic. The driver couldn't complete the turn because of the curb, so he backed up into the street, holding up two lanes and earning many shouts and honks. He laughed at the insults and looked thoroughly pleased with himself. It was a wonderfully brash move, totally at odds with the one-world, one-currency talk that prevails in the French media these days. I realized that this was all a game, although a dangerous one. The idea was to learn the rules and press your advantage.
This was the turning point in the trip. Miles of this kind of driving had left us exhausted and willing to argue about such banalities as the ripening wheel of Brie, which I insisted on keeping on the back seat.
Later that night, after a plate of raw oysters for the palate and a bottle of Muscadet for the nerves, we decided to change our approach to driving.
IT was the process that counted, not the destination. From now on we would concentrate on driving, not sightseeing. Mont-St.-Michel, Chartres, the D-Day beaches? So what! We just wanted to drive as fast as possible between them.
Taking this attitude made all the difference in the world. No longer were we outraged by French driving habits. We expected bizarre traffic maneuvers and were not disappointed. By the end of our trip, we felt ready for a real challenge.
We would take Paris by car.
That night we pored over the Michelin map, devising the easiest and most direct route into Paris. We rose early. I stoked up with two large coffees, two pains au chocolat and a Gauloise unfiltered.
We had no trouble getting into Paris, but after entering the Porte d'Orleans, things heated up. I stopped at a Total station to fill up the car. As I pulled out, a wave of traffic approaching from the left, I darted into the middle of the street, blocking several lanes before bullying my way into the traffic from the right. Everyone gave me the horn.
''Imbecile!'' someone shouted.
''Oui!'' I grinned, giddy with pride.
''Left turn ahead,'' Lisa said.
We were nearing our hotel. As we approached the Rodin Museum, however, a huge embouteillage, or traffic jam, came into view.
''Where do I go now?'' I asked, trying not to panic.
While Lisa scanned the map, I searched for a sidestreet. But I was distracted by a whiff of the Brie, which had reached full, nostril-filling ripeness. Its aroma wafted through the car like a decomposing corpse. I inhaled deeply. It smelled like victory.
Never mind,'' I said, going straight ahead. As we got closer, we saw that the traffic jam was caused by students protesting a fee hike at the University of Paris. Remembering the generation of '68, they launched themselves into the street. Did the drivers show sympathy for the revolution? Did they let nostalgia interfere with their need for speed? Cars accelerated, and students were lucky to escape with their lives.
I veered left, threatening to cave in the side of a silver Peugeot. The driver expected my aggressiveness and moved, shaking his fist at me as we passed.
''Left turn coming up,'' Lisa warned.
As we approached our hotel, I promptly took a wrong turn. We would have to circle several blocks and get caught in the demonstration again or drive the wrong way down a one-way street. La vie? Non, la vitesse. I barreled down the one-way street, honking at cars that had the nerve to get in my way. I turned left into the pedestrian zone and double-parked in front of our hotel.
At the end of the street, a waiter ran out
of a restaurant and shook a red-and-white tablecloth. Was he
cleaning crumbs or giving us the checkered flag? We preferred
to think the latter.
