On October 12 my wife and I went to a small city in France’s Dordogne region called Montignac, which is in close proximity to the Lascaux and other ancient caves. One of the most interesting is the Font de Gaume, to which tickets must be bought, usually before 8 AM for that day as it is very popular and allows only less than a hundred people to visit in a whole day. Of the three caves we visited this roughly 15,000 year old cave with its clear drawings of wooly mammals, horses (a colt and a full-grown horse jumping) plus two aurochs seemingly amorous proved to me the most fascinating. It may not stay open for too long as we learned that the carbon dioxide humans exhale can damage the ancient very clear drawings. The Cromagnon artists used magnesium for the black drawings and iron oxide for the red. Archeologists have certified the age of the cave as nearly as possible as well as the drawings.
We had gone by train from Paris to Bordeaux, then rented a car to drive the 150 or so kilometers to Montignac. At the Avis place the agent told me that an automatic transmission automobile would cost 100 Euros more than a standard (Automatics are somewhat rare in Europe). I decided not to pay the extra Euros because both my wife and I could drive a stick-shift auto, even though I knew she was more adept at it; I hadn’t driven one in quite a few years.
She drove all the way here with no problem—or with very few. The navigation system, absolutely up-to-date, was set in Czech, a language of which neither of us knew one word. Though there were five other languages listed, we had no instructions in English for how to change the language, the French instruction book proved indecipherable, and we never converted the navigation guide into English until we spent an hour working on it when we were ready to drive back.
The next morning I volunteered to get up early and drive to get the tickets to visit the Font de Gaume Cave. At 7:30 AM it was very dark when I unlocked the auto. I knew to put the car in neutral, depress the clutch, and turn the key to start the engine. I did this five times or more. Nothing happened. I went back in the small inn where we were staying, and the owner cheerfully came out and started the car instantly. I got in, depressed the clutch, and tried for first gear. The car would not respond. I went back into the inn, the same man came out without complaining and did it instantly, showing me, he thought, how I should do it. He left. I failed. I summoned him again. Still cheerful, he showed me carefully and left. This time I succeeded.
I drove into the then quiet street, cautiously, managed to shift into second gear, and made a turn to go over a bridge. The car stalled. It wouldn’t start. Soon there were six or seven cars behind me; fortunately I was on a hill. I let the car roll backwards sideways so that I could get out of the road, and all the traffic, including two trucks, passed me, all frowning, some saying things I fortunately could not hear. I tried to start it again. Nothing. Earlier just after I had driven away from the inn a women had passed me saying cross words about my slowness. Now she drove to my right—I was blocking one lane of a little road but she could get around my car—and she asked me, this time pleasantly what was wrong with me. Thank God that I can speak French as she had only two or three words of English (Montignac is not Paris.).
I explained my dilemma. She jumped into my car, started it, and certified my written directions of how to get to the cave. She also said, “I have an automatic. We should change cars.” She told me that all I had to do was go around one traffic circle and stay on the narrow road for the 24 kilometers to the Font de Gaume. She pointed out that it was easy to go into second and third. I started out and crossed the bridge, accomplished the traffic circle and continued down the street. I was terrified and perspiring. The one-way street was only wide enough for one car; it was one of two central streets in the town. Above it I noticed a sign that said “Catechisims,” which prompted a quick prayer. A stalled car would drive the regular drivers mad. Suddenly a sign indicated a turn; I missed it. I realized my mistake and turned left into a driveway. I had learned how to start it, but I couldn’t get it into reverse. I didn’t have a phone with me because my cell phone, which I am not good at carrying, was completely out of battery strength. I sat there, terrified.
A man squeezed his car next to me. I jumped out of my car, obviously desperate and cried out, “Save me!” Perplexed, he told me he spoke not a word of English which was probably good. I explained that I could barely drive the car and couldn’t make it go into reverse. He jumped in, turned the car around easily, and told me my directions were right. Go back to the road, follow the signs to Les Eyzies, where I could find the Font de Gaume . I went to the road, and actually made one turn successfully.
I knew at this point that I would never accomplish the 30 kilometer drive to Les Eyzies; it was already past 8, supposedly all the tickets are gone by then, and I was scared to get out of second gear. I still don’t know how I did it, but instead of turning toward Les Eyzies, I saw a familiar bridge where my wife and I had walked the night before. It brought me across the Vezere river, and though it put me on the main street of Montignac and the town was waking up, I prayed that I could get back to the hotel without the car stalling. Afraid to try for third gear, I drove at ten miles an hour. I finally saw the hotel sign, turned through what I swear is a five-foot wide opening into the parking place and stopped. I was home.
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