Jumbo me takes to the road

Well, I’m finally here in France and somewhat settled…As usual, I’m struck by the smaller scale of things – cars, roads, rooms, drinking glasses…We Americans are so accustomed to JUMBO and conspicuous consumption, and the Europeans manage with less, and in a way that’s kinder to the planet and their heritage, I think.

Anyway, today I had my first solo outing with the car, a Daewoo built to be driven by an anorexic troll. Think of a mini-sausage casing, say, the size of a dainty cocktail weenie: that would be the car. Now think of about 74 lbs. of prime sausage meat to be stuffed inside that sucker. NOT a pretty picture. Especially when gear-shifting is involved. Yikes! On my best day I despise gear-shifting, but this Daewoo was simply not designed for a person of my womanly proportions. In some countries, I could get arrested during my execution of second gear. Fortunately, the French are quite relaxed about those matters.

Anyway, my objective today was the Chateau d’Auvers, a castle about 35 miles north of Paris that has been renovated and turned into the site of a multi-media tribute to the Impressionist painters. The presentation is sort of Disney-esque but it’s quite tasteful and well worth the drive – after I was able to find the highway.

Between the total lack of signage and the é+§&@$£# gears in that car, I was just about to give up and call it a day. I’ll admit to many unchristian utterances during my fruitless ponderings of the map and wrong turns. Even worse than the Brits, the French eschew the use of north/south, etc., and require you to know which town you’re heading toward. I needed to head EAST to find Auvers, but from the sun I knew I was obviously driving south. So I did a loop-de-loop (downshifting into second gear as seldom as possible), eventually finding the right road (no thanks to the Ministry of Signage, the scoundrels) and the homage to the Impressionists.

Maybe I wasn’t the only tourist having trouble finding her way: I was only one of four visitors today at the Chateau. So I had Van Gogh (who’s buried there), Renoir, Serat and them pretty much to myself. But you’d think that for all the trouble the Auvers castle folks went to to simulcast their commentary in eight languages, including English (bless ‘em) they’d provide better signs.

For her part, the sausage is just glad to be out of her casing for the rest of the evening. I’m heading to some yummy goose pate that the French are so justly famous for, and a beverage -- jumbo-sized, of course.