TRAVEL FOR TWO: Car-tastrophe in Paris, part one

Roger Zubrinich and Judy Peters like to travel. A lot. Prior to the pandemic, the couple would escape the Australian winter and head to Europe for the summer, traipsing through countries via a hire car.

With overseas travel now something of a dream, Roger has decided to revisit some of their destinations in writing. This week, Roger and Judy battle a rattling Renault, left-handed driving, and apathetic mechanics.

CAR-TASTROPHE PART ONE: Paris to Tours

The BA flight from London to Paris crossed the English Channel and started its descent. I experienced the slight downward pressure in the abdomen that accompanies the change in speed. As the plane rocked gently, I looked out the window at the countryside below; at the cars crawling along minor roads and shooting down motorways on the right-hand side of the road.
The perspective from altitude of the cars and the unfamiliar organised, neat, green patchwork countryside, fed my nervousness. Before too long, I thought, I’d be down there on those roads.

And so it was that a week later, on a dull, smoggy morning in the August of our first visit to Paris, we left our hotel near Place de La Bastille and took a madcap taxi ride to the Renault depot at Aeroport Charles de Gaulle to collect our leased car.

We made it intact, signed the lease papers and after a perfunctory explanation from the female attendant we met our travelling companion for the next few weeks. I was now the registered owner of a silver Renault Clio five door hatchback. It had 14 kilometres on the clock and fifteen kilometres worth of fuel in the tank.
We needed fuel if we were to drive further than the boundaries of the airport. We’d been provided with vague instructions on how to find a Total service station within the airport and with some astonishment, we actually found it.

Loaded with fuel it was time for the interesting bit; finding our way from the airport to Tours in the Loire Valley. I was the designated driver because Judy refused to risk life and limb driving a strange car with manual transmission on the right-hand side of the road in a foreign land. By default, she became the official navigator. That arrangement has endured for the last 25 years or more.

Now it’s important to note that GPS devices were some years into the future; we had to find our way using maps. We’d had the foresight to purchase a large yellow spiral bound Michelin road atlas of France while we were in Paris. We knew from a previous look at the atlas that Tours was south-west of Paris which meant that we’d need to circumnavigate the city to get there. So, with the help of a rudimentary airport map supplied by Renault we tentatively found our way out of the airport onto the A1 back to Paris.

We squeezed in between cars that were driven at or above the speed limit with little regard for burgeoning congestion until faced with impending destruction. I studied the prominent, large, green and blue direction signs overhanging the motorway. The blue signs carried the distinctive motorway symbol, the green didn’t. I thought I could make sense of them; more or less.

Close to Paris we hooked past the huge Stade de France. The dome of Sacré-Coeur in Montmartre was visible in the distance and before too long we were on the Boulevard Périphérique, the ring route that encircles Paris.

On a map, from above, it resembles the shape of an ink blot; it’s a multilane carriageway with clockwise and anticlockwise rings. Some sections are covered, others open to the smoggy atmosphere. We entered with trepidation at the northern side near La Chapelle in the 18th arrondissement and immediately found ourselves in the midst of a frantic, thrumming pack. I was still adapting to driving a left-hand drive manual vehicle while at the same time attempting to keep us and the car intact. In the covered sections the thunder of large trucks reverberating off the walls sounded like a demented funeral march; exhaust fumes invaded the car despite the closed windows.
Our aim was to exit on to the A6 at the opposite, southern side of the Périphérique, in the 13th arrondissement. The drive of about 20 kilometres felt interminable. The seemingly countless entrances and exits from and to minor roads and major motorways meant the flow of traffic was unpredictable and constantly changing. At times a string of brake lights indicated oncoming congestion; at other times the traffic moved with considerable speed. Speeding motorbikes and scooters threaded their way between cars. They used the white lines demarcating driving lanes as way-finders. Any driver, us included, obstructing their forward progress was subjected to bleating horns and finger gestures from rider and pillion passenger.

Judy, novice navigator, had the Michelin atlas on her lap open at a map of Paris. When we eventually neared our anticipated exit, she began counting down exit numbers; truly an expert in the making. I edged into the correct lane all the while watching for the sign to the A6 and there it was. I swerved out of the 10th circle of hell (Insanity) and we were on our way to Tours via the A6. Initially it was predictably congested and we crawled more than ran but eventually the traffic thinned, the 130 km/h speed signs became an invitation rather than a cruel promise and we took flight, so to speak.

I was the would-be quintessential internationalist at work, kitted out in my bought in Singapore denims and polo shirt and wearing Ray-Ban aviator classics purchased a year earlier in Hong Kong. The real deal with the pedal to the metal. The speedo was clocking 130 and rising. At this rate we’d be in Tours in about two-and-half hours, I calculated.

Except we were on the wrong road and were heading at warp speed towards Dijon in the south-east rather than Tours in the south-west.

Tours was on the A10, not the A6. Some kilometres out of Paris the A10 diverged from the A6 and we’d driven past the motorway junction. Panic. But Judy’s map reading skills were evolving faster than the car was travelling. She’d registered that Bordeaux too was on the A10 and when we saw a road sign that included Bordeaux in its destinations, we followed it and before long we were on the A10. Panic subsided.

I confirmed that despite its diminutive appearance and meagre 1400 cc capacity, our car was a pocket rocket. My ambitious throttle foot got to work again. Having learned from experience I now scrutinised all motorway signs carefully through my Ray-Bans. I also embarked on a learning curve of my own; I was still adapting to the left-hand drive car. I kept searching for a ghost gear stick with my left hand rather than my right and we both noticed that I had acquired a disconcerting tendency to drift to the right; a tendency that persisted for the remainder of the trip. I subsequently discovered that this isn’t unusual in people used to driving on the other side of the road.

Then there was the constant concern about the ability of the tailgate latch to hold our luggage in place. We’d squeezed a couple of long and high cases plus airline cabin bags into the boot. Closing the hatch at the rear meant leaning my back hard against it, digging my heels in the ground, and pushing until it clicked shut.

I frequently checked the rearview mirror in the expectation that the hatch had sprung open, spilling our luggage in a cascade down the motorway with our smalls, freed from split cases, hanging on the wing mirrors of cars taking frantic evasive action. But happily, Renault make excellent hatch catches and our luggage stayed safely contained for the duration of our trip.
While I was indulging myself with self-congratulatory notions about how inescapably good my driving capabilities were, I belatedly noticed that the navigator was radiating discontent. She had her feet braced against the engine end of the footwell, was holding tightly with one hand to the handle above the door that was designed to assist the less mobile to enter and exit the car, and had her other hand pushed hard against the dashboard. It took no more than a covert peek at her to establish that she appeared to be inhabiting a space on the wrong side of terror.

‘Everything ok?’ I ventured with vacuous banality.

No. Everything most certainly was not ok. She was convinced I was going to kill us. She expressed her view, vehemently, that my determination to travel at 130 km/h or higher was excessive and inviting disaster. She also pointed out that in the small car she felt as though the bitumen rushing beneath her bum was only a few centimetres away – which was probably true – about 30 centimetres I estimated.

The animated debate about my driving habits ceased only when we stopped at the motorway exit to pay the road toll and we began yapping and snapping again as we drove into the outskirts of Tours. Parking the car so we could attempt dispute resolution seemed a sensible option. Then, in the centre of Tours, I promptly scored an own goal by clattering hard against a 30-centimetre-high stone curb as I parked. The curse of the drift to the right. That silenced us. So much that we could hear the ticking sound of the cooling car motor.

A damage inspection rapidly determined the impact had redesigned the wheel trim and I nervously speculated about what damage might be less visible. So, it was with a degree of latent concern that we found a hotel with vacancies, planned the remainder of our stay in Tours and then saw out a difficult day in a restaurant, served by a difficult waiter.
And plan we did. The Loire Valley, in which Tours has the good fortune to be located, is surely one of the most beautiful places in France. Clearly the French aristocracy thought so too because they managed to build remarkably extravagant and frequently beautiful chateaux there. Depending on definitions, some counts have close to three hundred but regardless, around twelve were constructed by royals and many more by nobility of varying degrees of importance.

So began our three-day chateau blitz. The first port of call was the Chateau d’Amboise about 30 kilometres from Tours. It’s enormous, overwhelming and old. The original construction dates back to the 12th century.

The royals loved it although Charles VIII’s affair with it ended when he accidentally topped himself by belting his head against a low lintel. Later Francis I was reputed to have made good use of the rooms by hosting all night parties, but much more significantly, he hosted Leonardo da Vinci who arrived there in 1515 and lived and died nearby in 1519.
Next was the beautifully symmetrical 16th century Chateau d’Azay-le-Rideau that is set on an island and appears to be rising from the water. Small by chateau standards in this region it is testimony to the fact that big is not necessarily best. Then it was on to have a peek at the imposing 12th century Chateau de Chinon that looks very much like the castle that it was. In 1492 it hosted Joan of Arc when she had a natter with Charles VII about reclaiming his throne from the English. A mere two years later the hospitable English made her the centrepiece of a bonfire.

On a roll, we headed for the Chateau de Villandry to check out what were reputedly some of the most spectacular gardens in France and indeed they were. Who would have imagined that a kitchen garden with cabbages and onions and similar could be a visual delight? Plenty of people I expect, but not me, so I was singularly impressed.

The next day we checked out the Chateau de Blois and then on to the 16th century Chateau de Chambord, which took 28 years to complete and is the largest in the Loire Valley. It truly is an impressive structure and has a spectacular double spiral-staircase that da Vinci may or may not have had a hand in. It was built as a hunting lodge for Francis I but boasts 440 rooms. That would house enough hunters to eradicate every living creature in half of the country.
Our departure drew the curtain on the good bit of the day. I was still concerned about the front end of the car but was just a little bit sanguine about the prospect of no damage given we hadn’t noticed any problems on our chateau runs. Still, I thought it prudent to test it out at speed on the A10 on the way back to Tours. I soon discovered a vibration in the steering at any speed above 100 kmh. No doubt I’d deranged something in the front end of the car and the prospect of taking it to a Renault dealer to have the derangement rearranged was a recipe for despondency.

Not much further on at a higher speed the car started a high-pitched screeching as though it had been poked with something sharp and hot. That was nothing to be sanguine about. Indeed, so bad was the screeching that I was reluctant to drive further so at the earliest opportunity we called into a BP station from where I called Renault Assist in Paris from a public phone. We didn’t have a mobile phone then.

After an interminable beep-beep-beep a woman answered, in French of course. I made the standard ‘Parlez-vous anglais’ opening gambit and ‘Oui,’ she did, more or less. I attempted to explain what the problem was:

‘I’m at a BP station on the A10 near Tours and my lease car is vibrating incessantly at speed and makes loud squealing noises too. My wife was shouting at me and I drove into a kerb,’ I said, seeking to mitigate my incompetence.

After numerous attempts at explanation in the face of her growing impatience, eventually I was put on hold and subjected to an endless loop of asinine 60s French music designed to show the non-French that they’re in France. She returned after, I assumed, a cup of coffee, a pee and a read of the day’s newspaper to inform me that a mechanic would arrive soon.

And he did, within about 15 minutes, in a dilapidated red tow truck. Obviously, the Renault Assist person had been very efficient when I was on hold regardless of what I thought. The mechanic was a young, affable non-English speaker. We did the mimed communication dance before he eventually drove the car around in circles with the hazard lights flashing; a sophisticated fault-finding strategy. He emerged from the car, shrugged, thereby indicating that the car was without fault. Oh, sure.

We followed his clanking truck to his garage in a small village nearby so we could deal with matters from there. Inside, standing before a desk in a small office, was a middle-aged woman with a ferocious stare and folded arms, accompanied by another young man in oil-stained overalls. The smell of engine oil and coolant was pervasive.
We communicated in sign language with the occasional verbal reinforcements – I thought I was getting pretty good at this by then – and I rang Renault Assist again on their phone/fax machine. The handset was sticky with grease. When I eventually spoke with someone, struggling to hear over the penetrating rattle of a wheel gun in the workshop next door, I had to restate my name, the make and model of our car, the registration number, my address (currently no fixed abode) and probably the number of wheels on the car.

The forbidding garage proprietor took the phone, spoke rapidly, looked at me with contempt and handed it back. The person on the other end, a male named Mauro, said they could find no fault (by driving the car in circles no less) and that I should drive to Tours and take the car to a Renault dealer there.

Meanwhile my gimlet-eyed antagonist was busy printing an invoice from the fax machine. It was a bill for their services; equivalent to about $A100 at the time. She had the keys to the car, effectively impounding it pending payment of the said sum. I took the greasy phone again and called Renault Assist, again. I asked to speak with Mauro, thus forestalling the name, car, wheels routine and he again spoke to the forbidding one.
He must have convinced her that Renault would settle the account (part of the lease deal) because she gave me the keys with palpable reticence. Her young oil-stained accomplice smiled as though we’d negotiated a bargain and then made suggestions about restaurants we should visit in Tours. This in excellent American-accented English. And he’d stayed silent during the whole excruciating pantomimed transaction.

Back in the car that so far had been diagnosed as simply neurotic – or perhaps they meant me – we returned to Tours.

It was late on the Friday afternoon, so we needed to extend our stay until Tuesday because the Renault dealer didn’t open on weekends. On Saturday we checked out Tours and the 11th century bullet-pocked Chateau de Tours and on Sunday we completed our chateau blitz by visiting the magnificent 15th century Chateau de Langeais with its stunning and original interior.
Then came Monday. We took our whingeing, pain-in-the-arse car to a Renault dealer in Tours North. A beaming man of middle age with cheerful white teeth greeted us in a reception area next to the workshop. He soon drifted into the familiar shrug routine to explain that he spoke no English, but he did manage to convey that a woman who certainly did would be with us soon.

At 10.30, ninety minutes after our arrival, a statuesque young woman appeared who moved with such grace and confidence that she appeared to float rather than walk. She was accompanied by another service supervisor with an impish rubber-mask face. She was indeed the English speaker. I explained, with some shame, that I’d driven into a kerb and the car now seemed deranged inasmuch as it vibrated and screeched at speed. He nodded knowingly.

A mechanic climbed into the car, drove off, returned, disappeared, returned, removed a front wheel and wandered off. I amused myself by watching the people bringing in their cars for repairs. Without exception, the women in couples took control while the males looked on passively. They were terrifying in their determination – much more so than me – so I assumed their cars would take precedence over our miserable little beast.
Eventually the floating woman appeared and informed us that our neurotic car would be transformed by 2 pm if we would like to return then, which we did at 3 pm, just to allow time for the mechanic to have time for a smoke and a beer. That was too optimistic. The car now wouldn’t be available until 4 pm because a replacement wheel hadn’t arrived. Did I hit the kerb that hard?

We returned from a sojourn in a nearby park to be greeted by the man with the cheerful white teeth. He beckoned us to follow him to a car park outside the workshop. ‘Voila!’ he declared with extravagant gestures. Our horrible little car had been repaired. It now sported a new wheel and the windscreen had been refitted. That had apparently been the source of the screeching. It hadn’t been fitted properly in the factory and the seal had popped in a corner on the driver’s side.

The car no longer vibrated and screeched when we took it next to Bordeaux, then Pau and then into Spain. Indeed, it behaved so impeccably during the following weeks of our trip that we and Clio departed with sweet sorrow when we eventually returned it in Nice. It is true to say though, that Judy never really adapted fully to travelling in a smallish car at 140 km/h with her backside 30 centimetres above the tarmac. She still hasn’t.

Travel for Two is a guest series by Roger Zubrinich.
Keep an eye on the blog for more instalments!