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| THE TALES OF THE LION QUESTINDEX 01 02 03 04 05 06 07 08 09 10
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She wore a short tight leather skirt, her blue and white hopped T-shirt revealing contours that constantly changed in gentle undulations. One arm around his throat bound him closely to her. She weaved through the gridlocked Paris traffic with the expertise of experience, and the miniature black poodle sat contentedly between her thighs. The moped they shared passed slowly by and my husband exhaled a wistful, "Look at that!" I knew he was not referring to the poodle.
We had flown in to Charles de Gaulle airport to begin a six-month tour of Europe. This was our honeymoon trip, delayed 37 years by the rapid arrival of children. (It was the 5O's). Housing, feeding, educating five offspring, consumed our lives, the years retreating into memory, but still fit, healthy and together, eventually we were free. So here we were, stationary in the afternoon rush hour, exhilarated to be on our way, my husband already savoring the chic French girls and the atmosphere of the most sophisticated city in the world.
Audrey booked and paid our airfares. "I made it five months. We may as well do it properly," she said. "You can pay for the tour."
Five months! I discarded the brochures of conducted tours. Buses and trains were out. After 47 years' driving, I wasn't about to haul luggage on public transport. The decision was easy. We would tour by car.
A new Peugeot 405 Diesel from Sodexa in Paris through the agents, DTN rentals, was the obvious choice. Diesel for economy. A sedan, the trunk inaccessible from inside, as a precaution against broken windows and pilfering. A Peugeot for its reputation for reliability and roominess, and the legendary comfort of the marquee. Service anywhere in Europe and comprehensive insurance gave peace of mind, so James booked and paid for 93 days and eagerly anticipated his first new car.
There it sat, on row 3C, on 'Niveau trois' just as the laconic agent who exchanged keys for my signature had said. Dark green, almost black, it had an indefinable aura of elegance, the hint of vigor and power in its stance and with the graceful lines of a thoroughbred, it was clearly a worthy bearer of the distinguished Peugeot badge.
With joyous anticipation I clicked the key to unlock, strode purposely to the right-hand side and opened the door.
"I thought you were going to drive," said Audrey diplomatically.
"Just being the gentleman," I lied.
After stowing the luggage and finding the driver's side, I sat back reveling in the unmistakable aroma of newness, and reviewed the positioning of instruments, indicators, gears vis-a-vis LHD versus RED.
My total experience of LHD was our 6 day stopover in the USA, but there, the hired sedan with its repertoire of alarms had left me bewildered as I struggled to adapt to its idiosyncratic behavior. It had all the bells and whistles. The door open, the seat belt not done up, the automatic not in park, the hand brake not applied, over the speed limit, lights not turned off; each indiscretion was signaled with its own irritating ditty. Thankfully, I returned it in one piece, without ever finding out how to turn the lights off high, or set the cruise control.
But that was the USA. Here before me was a machine of impeccable pedigree, the epitome of French flair and design, and assuredly with no such foibles. No need to look under the bonnet; the engineering excellence was without question. The man-machine interface, one of master and servant, had a custom made feel to the layout.
Since our son Evan (25 and a student at Stanford) was to accompany us for the first few days and was due in on a later flight, I resisted the temptation to venture out. I was not sure I would find my way back, and reclining the luxurious velour seats to the fullest extent, we slept.
Evan breezed in. "I'll drive Dad" he said. Emulating the aggressive Paris driving style he headed unerringly for the lower decks and the exit and we sped out onto the motorway, the odometer showing 15 km, the speedometer 90.
We couldn't afford 6 months in hotels or even motels so Youth Hostels, Auberges de jeunesse, Ostellos per la Giovent6, jugendherberge would be the accommodation. The Peugeot provided our passport to roam whither we wished and gave us the means of foraging for the renowned bread, cheese and wine from Pttisseries, Boulangeries and Vignobles.
Before we married, Audrey had for six months, taught English, in France, to students who were just a little younger than herself. Friendships had flourished and lasted through the years. We had many French families to visit and no conducted tour would allow us the freedom to do that. We put our VISA in credit, booked just our first night in Paris, and agreed to play- it as it came from there.
Fifteen years ago, James and I hosted a French exchange student who had become like one of our daughters, and now a successful business women, she was delighted to show us her family and her city. Early next morning in her top-of-the-range Peugeot 605 company car Cathy showed no surprise as we emerged from a rather down-market accommodation. We embraced with typical Gallic fervor and immediately were whisked into the most comprehensive tour imaginable. Cathy, a Parisienne all her life, had no qualms at squeezing her 60S through the seemingly impenetrable traffic, all the time with a running commentary in her impeccable but heavily-accented English.
"I will let you off here. You have 30 minutes. I will pick you up here for there is no parking."
Later we strolled together on the banks of the Seine. A typical French meal followed, requiring three hours to encompass the food, the conversation, the wine and then we glimpsed Paris by night from Montmartre. We accepted Cathy's Invitation to stay near the end of our trip. Paris would be the finale and highlight of our adventure.
My first at-the-wheel venture began. Seat adjusted to a sensible driving position, instrument check, now where are those indicators? Remember to look right not left for the rear vision mirror, right hand not left for the gears, adjust wing mirrors, seat belt (no annoying reminder) ignition and away - well, 200 meters to the gas station to fill up with essence, or rather diesel.
"Think we could catch the NZ/England game?" said Evan. "Good thought, " said James. "Let's find the nearest bar at the next village."
Evan and James, alternating driving had made steady progress eastward avoiding the payage. Our destination that night: Besandon on the French Swiss border.
High on the ramparts of Langres, a medieval town overlooking the Tarn, we found our bar and a few well-lubricated French rugby fans ensconced in front of the TV.
"Let's establish our credentials," said James. "We don't want to be mistaken for 'Anglais'."
So I ordered cafe in my most confident manner adding, "Nous sommes des Neo Ze1andais, Monsieur. Nous voulons regarder La Coupe Mondiale."
"Mon Deiu. Quel ogre!" breathed a Frenchman as Lomu trampled the opposition. We basked in the glory of association.
"Je suis from Nouvelle Zelande" ventured James to the patrons around.
This scenario was repeated in the next few days as James always managed to be conveniently placed round kick-off time.
"I am getting better at this," I thought, as I flicked off the windscreen wipers and hit the indicator stalk for the umpteenth time. I had mastered reaching for the gear lever with my right hand, glancing to the right not left for the rear view mirror, and taking the roundabouts anti-clockwise, but each time I indicated a turn by activating the wipers, a groan ensued. "With that performance, they know you mean to turn but not which way," was Audrey's pained comment.
"Let me drive through the town,' said Evan, displaying the confidence of youth and experience. "I think you are more suited to the open road."
Audrey was keen on exploring rural France. Our map had roads with the standard indicated by color. Twin red stripes enclosing a fine yellow one for the Payage or toll motorways, red for major highways, yellow for secondary routes, white for minor rural roads. "It's yellow or white for you," said Audrey.
"No, I have less trouble on the red." I replied.
Later I was to find the Payage, Autostrada or Autobahn was the easiest. Keeping in the middle lane at a steady 140 km/hr, the heavy trucks receded on our right and in the 'lunatic' lane on our left, maniacs in Merc's hurtled past.
"This gas dial must be stuck or something." Evan glanced at the dials. 1100 km since we filled in Paris and they both arrived at the same conclusion. 'Less than 5 liters per 100 km," said Evan.
"Better than 54 mpg," said James. "Diesel is about two-thirds the price of petrol and this engine gives unbelievable economy.
Besand on and the Swiss border, then on to Lausanne, and finally Interlaken. Light mist and cloud hung low when we awoke so Evan suggested we drive up to Grindelwald and test the visibility before investing in the scandalously high ticket price from the Grund station up the M&nnlichen mountain to glimpse the Eiger and the jungfrau. The prospect was appealing but not worth the $50 each. Oh for a better exchange rate! Our local maps showed some dotted trails (roads?) going above Grindelwald so after packing into the capacious trunk, our belongings; four suitcases, bedding, packs, food, drink, gifts and all the paraphernalia needed for five months on the road, we set off. The Swiss, like the Germans, build excellent roads and following the valley at first, and then climbing steadily, our 405 made easy work in third gear of the steeper inclines. Evan kept the revs high, sweeping into the turns like a rally driver. Across the valley, the typical Swiss chalets dotted the slopes, with cloud and mist alternately revealing, then hiding the retreating valley floor.
After Grindelwald, with no detailed map, Evan turned off the seal and continued climbing on a narrow gravel pathway. This progressively steepened and the cloud obscured our surroundings. We reached a gateway. "Pull in the wing mirrors, Dad," said Ev. "We may as well go on for there is nowhere to turn."
"Is that wise?' I cautioned. We were down to low gear now and after a few minutes James said, "Let's call it a day. Evan you have found a goat track to the high meadows. I guess you will have to back down the last kilometer until we get to that gateway." So much for our attempt to scale the jungfrau by 405. Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Austria, Germany, Austria again and on to Salzburg. Four counties in an hour. The autobahn proved rather better than Te Anau-Milford but offered similar magnificent scenery. Evan still driving after our abortive attempt on the jungfrau, interrupted our musings...
"Look up the specs on this chariot, Dad. I've had the pedal to the metal for five k's and can't seem to get the damn thing over 162.
"Well, Evan, that's what it says in the book. Top speed 162 km/hr."
"Slow down immediately," said Audrey. "I wondered why we weren't being passed anymore by BMWs and Mercy's."
A night in Mayrhofen, a delightful ski resort, and dinner with Jacqui, a former pupil, then we were on over the Alps to Italy. James had graduated to the autobahn, feeling safe in the middle lane at a steady 140 km/hr, and now as the Brenner Pass loomed, Evan took command.
"These tunnel tolls are expensive. Over, not under, seems a better idea." Said Evan.
"You're determined to find the highest point in Europe accessible by car," I said, "but I'll drive up; you can drive down."
Soon there was no traffic at all and switchback followed switchback with monotonous regularity as we slowly climbed through the forest and above the tree line. I had plenty of power in 2nd or 3rd and sedately negotiated the tight turns, the steering positive and responsive. I felt the car an extension of myself and my confidence and control steadily rising.
"Why are we doing this?" said Audrey. "Because it's there." I replied. "Yeah, let's knock the bastard off" said Evan.
At the summit we found company. An Italian motorcycle gang out for a Sunday romp to impress their girl friends strutted about with typical macho sexual swagger. Their black-leather-clad partners (whom in my youth in our politically incorrect, gender discriminatory way we knew as 'pillion pussies') reclined seductively on their paramours' machines.
We changed seats. Down into Italy. Nearly 2000 meters down. The bright sunny afternoon emphasized the precipitous nature of the descent from 2030 m to Merano nestled at 300m.
"Keep in a low gear Evan. We don't want brake fade." The bikers were mounting their machines. "I think we'll keep ahead of them." Said Evan.
Gear changes came thick and fast. 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th, 4th, 3rd, 2nd, brake, round the hairpin, 3rd, 4th, next hairpin coming up, 3rd, 2nd, brake 3rd ... Rock face on the right, precipice on the left, only a low parapet between us and eternity.
"You are not in your Porsche or a James Bond movie, Evan. We want to get there.' "Lighten up, Dad, this is fun. Peugeots are more than just a family wagon."
Audrey held her breath and her counsel. I think she was praying. The bikers coalesced behind but only the most daring hazarded passing. And so on through apple orchards, then vineyards to Bolzano, to Lake Garda, Riva and the Ostello Benacus.
Later, we would retrace our route in more leisurely fashion, but Evan's conference in Portofino set us a deadline of five days from Paris to Genoa. James had wanted to get detailed maps of all areas, but economizing, I had opted for a map of Europe. Finding our way through towns was a matter of reading the signs, and finding the hostels rather hit and miss, assisted only by our 'Let's go Europe' guide. "Ostello per la Giovent6, North west from the stazione, offers panoramic views,' said the Guide, so I knew it must be on the hills above the harbor.
Unfortunately, Genoa has two central stazione, Principe and Brignole. Evan driving. Up the hills again on roads just capable of two lanes, one up one down, but encroached on by a solid phalanx of Flats, the traffic continuous and defying stopping to get bearings. We explored several hills but no Ostello.
Finally, as we left from Stazione Brignole the International Youth Hostel sign was spotted. My sensible suggestion that we wait for bus 35 and follow it had offended both my men, who thought it wimpish to ask directions. It was clear from the width of the carriageway and the impossibility of off-road parking, why Italian cars are narrow and short.
"Pull in the wing mirrors, Dad,' said Evan, as we scraped past. "I hope this is a one-way," said James. "Oh no, it's not!"
Exhausted, relieved and two hours after making our first attempt we had covered the two miles from the Stazione, but the sevenstorey Ostello proved all worth it with marble floors, magnificent staircases and bathrooms, all marble.
After a rest, James suggested that since he would have to drive in Genoa, he and Evan should reconnoitre and drive down to the harbor, mapping the way with a list of the streets as they descended.
"Yes," I said. "Do that. Be like Hansel and Gretel but take a ball of twine."
I decided to take a siesta and two hours later became concerned they were not back. Eventually James came in fuming.
"Going down, there are some one-way alleys, so despite my list, I couldn't use it coming up. So we had the same problem. If you miss the one-way hole in the wall under the railway embankment, there is no way to get here."
We were to return to the Genoa hostel twice more during our trip and it never got any better.
"It's left here," I said, turning on the wipers. "I hope so or we won't be back by dark," said Audrey.
Having carefully planned our route to Leonardo da Vinci airport, Evan had driven us out, and caught his plane to Cyprus. I was driving back to our Ostello alongside the Olympic stadium. We would meet Evan later in France. In the interim, the burden of negotiating the cities would be lifted.
"What does 'Roma bis' mean?" I said. "I had a deprived education," said Audrey. "At my school they didn't teach Latin."
Some kilometres later and still on the ring road, well north instead of west of the city, I took an exit from the interchange and rejoined the autostrada, retracing our path.
"Are we going back to the airport to start again? Why don't you get off the motorway and ask someone." said Audrey.
Taking the next exit we found two farmers in conversation alongside a cart.
"Well, try out your Italian on these peasants," I rejoined. Gesticulation and "non capisco" but eventually "Grazie" from Audrey.
"I think they meant we should take that road, so let's go."
More kilometres on quiet rural roads.
"I love driving in the country," was the gentle reminder that Roma was getting further behind us.
"Did you ask how to get in to Rome or out of it?" I asked, as we appeared to be circling the city at about a 20 mile radius. A pre-nuptial test of compatibility is surely to be on speaking terms after days of navigating a foreign land.
"I don't mind spending the night with you in the car but it is rather adolescent and I'd prefer a romantic evening in a bed. They say love flourishes in Rome so get me there before morning," said my spouse. That sort of encouragement was the spur for love to find a way and eventually I parked the Peugeot outside the hostel. Hand in hand we negotiated the throng of young backpackers. La dolce vita? I thought of the aphorism, "If young ones knew and the old ones could."
Padus, Venice, Verona, Como, Les Deux Alpes, Grenoble, Menton, Nice, Montpellier. I think James had mastered the driving as only occasionally would the wipers come on.
Ali! The French. No separate rooms here. A knowing wink and a small packet for James. "Pour vous, Monsieur." He had enjoyed the swims on the Cite d'Azur with Grand'meres, Mesdames, and Mesdemoiselles all topless and flaunting their bronzed busts. "Mission Bay was never like this," he said with eyes not knowing where to focus.
"You need some dark glasses," I said, "and probably a cold shower."
Lunching on the Promenade des Anglais, in a beachside restaurant we could ill afford, the different attitude to the female form was exemplified by a swimsuit display by a nubile young woman, particularly well endowed, and a shoo in for a Baywatch babe. The tables were set out on a short pier and she swayed back and forth between them with that characteristic catwalk wobble.
Then in full view of all, stripping off her bikini, she wriggled into a new top - made more for decoration than concealment decorously donned the thong bottom, and chassied past my astounded James. This performance was repeated many times until we had seen all she and her swimsuit sponsor had to offer. "Putting you off your food?" I asked as his iced dessert grew warmer.
"I don't know how the males stand it," said James.
"You get used to it."
"I hope that takes some time," said my rejuvenated spouse. "In the meantime, it's just thanks for the mammaries."
We had decided on a 405 for we would call on the parents of my former pupils and they would be elderly and probably no longer driving. With the roominess of the Peugeot we could invite them to our local tour guides.
This worked ideally except for James' lack of French. "A droite," "A gauche," from our hostess initially needed translation which called for quick reaction especially with the interpolation of the wipers, before the indicator action.
Starting in June with our rapid dash south we now made unhurried progress north, following the ripening fields as summer brought its warmth to higher latitudes. We seemed always to be in the height of the 'season of mellow fruitfulness'. Cathy's mother, a recent widow was glad of company and language seemed no barrier as my French became more fluent, and Madame's English more confident. We had an exquisite room at Gilette, perched high above the Var valley, on the hills above Nice. The balmy days, long leisurely meals in the warm evenings on a terrace flanked by lavender and broom, both in full flower and nights of rekindled passion seemed all too brief. Why did we wait so long? Was it 40 years since we had met? Truly this was a honeymoon.
Into trusty transport again! Ample room for all our luggage, provisions, gifts for friends, and souvenirs acquired. No need to travel light. It was off to the rural roads again and exploration of the river valleys, the Gorges du Tam, the Lot, the Loire. Audrey had decided we would start at the mouth and find the source. I had surreptitiously acquired several 2 cm to the km Michelin maps and was quietly confident. If I didn't know where we were going at least I would know where I was. It was the white roads, often leaf-canopied, through golden fields of sunflower as far as the eye could see.
Our green-black Peugeot was like a bumblebee among the flowers, flitting from village to village with a pause to take in not pollen but bread, Brie, Camembert, and wine. Thus we spent our 93 days with not a care in the world. We pitied the patrons on conducted tours of Europe. No itinerary for us. We stopped where fancy took us. Our travel costs were minimal. The car already paid for and cheaper for longer hire, the economy outstanding, and so we crisscrossed France, into Spain and back with little impact on the wallet or VISA.
Barcelona was hot. The best way to seize a respite from the heat was to ascend. We had done it in the Dolomites, in the Massif Central to Mont Dore and Puy-de-dome, and now the Pyrenees beckoned. We found the 150 bed hostel at 1800 metres bare of snow and devoid of skiers. just ourselves and two others. Like Italy, Spain regarded hostels as showcases for their country and we found some of palatial style.
We had a commitment to a birthday party back in Montpellier, but why not add Andorra to our list of countries? First we needed to replenish our food supplies at the nearest town 'ust across the Spanish-French border. The Douane (Customs) seeing our red tourist plates waved us through. Audrey, our exchequer, attempted to change our remaining pesetas at the Bank but balked at the $7 minimum charge and their refusal to take the copious Spanish coinage.
Into the Peugeot, back through the Customs, and a co-operative service station obliged with French francs for our Spanish pesetas. Again into France, we found the Customs taking a little more interest. Having stocked up on the usual intake of baguettes, pate, fromage, we drove back through increasingly-bewildered Customs' officials. for the fourth time in 30 minutes. Perhaps the NZ sticker and a Kiwi on the windscreen eased our passage.
England, Scotland, Wales: our compliant Peugeot carried us there and back. Only the unpronounceable Celtic signposts in Wales gave us trouble. James had mastered the left hand, left-hand-drive combination. We thought nothing of backtracking from the Western Highlands to Edinburgh just to catch the Festival, for camel-like, our car required liquid intake so infrequently, the cost was inconsequential.
Yes, we did the tourist things too: Florence, Pisa, Ravenna, Venice, Rome, the chateaux of the Loire, the wonderous extravagance of Versailles, the excitement of Paris, the Louvre, Tour Eiffel, Arc de Triomphe, Place de la Concorde and the Jardin des Tuileries. I admit we left-our 405 on the Paris outskirts and took the Metro, but this was the only time we were parted. The wild Brittany coast proved we could comfortably sleep the night in the reclined seats when we over-estimated our ability to make haven, or just spent too much time in village markets.
With great reluctance we returned our still pristine Peugeot 405 to Charles de Gaulle airport. The odometer read 15,000 kilometers. just two service checks, one in France, one in Italy, expeditiously carried out at Peugeot dealerships.
Had we done Europe? Surely not! We would return.
Planning a trip to remember and savour? For perfection take a Peugeot, take a map, take a mate, take your time and 'Just do it'.
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