Getting to Southern France is easy.  Surviving there is another matter.  On a clear Sunday evening, my wife, Karen, and I arrive on–time in Nice on British Airways. I purchase a French phone card in order to call our hotel and inform the hotel manager when to expect us.  The French phone card, however, doesn’t work.  I try several phones without success.  As I’m ready to give up I remember that I have a few minutes left on a British Telecom card that I had bought in London. 

Fortunately the British card works and I get the directions for the drive that should be about 45 minutes.

Our rental car is a tiny white Peugeot.  We squeeze our bags into it, hit the road and immediately become lost.  We can see the highway that we need to take.  We just can’t get to it. After making about a million U-turns, I stumble upon an entrance ramp to the motorway and eventually arrive at the Auberge De Courmes, at 10:30 p.m. The hotel is quiet and the small village of stone buildings is a ghost town.  I ring the bell.  Nothing.  I ring it again and start to worry that we’ll be sleeping in the car.  While I’m searching for another entrance, Karen spies a pay phone at the end of the street. I call the proprietor and as I’m saying “hello”, he hangs up.  Ugh!  I call again.  This time I get the answering machine.  Now I’m certain we’ll be sleeping in the car.

I’m ready to get back in the car and drive into Nice to find a hotel, but we see a group of people leaving one of the houses.  In my best phrase book French, I ask for help.  Their hostess tells us the innkeeper lives in a house down the road.  She walks us there (after grilling us to make sure that we actually have a reservation) and I gingerly ring the bell. An older Frenchman opens the door, huffing and gruffing and wanting to know what I want.  I explain that we had talked an hour earlier and that we have a reservation at his inn.   He huffs and gruffs some more and shows us to our room. The room is the size of a closet, only smaller.  A small bed is wedged into it abutting three of the walls. I enquire about breakfast (it’s included in the price.) He huffs and gruffs…. no breakfast tomorrow or the next day.  He and his wife are on holiday.  I’m too exhausted to try to figure this out.

Karen and I clean up and wiggle into the bed.  At least the room has a bathroom.  As I start to doze off I hear this sound… a growl reminiscent of a foghorn.  A man in the room ACROSS THE HALL is snoring to beat the band.  The paper-thin walls provide no sound insulation.  I turn on the bathroom fan to mask the noise.  But it’s no use.  The guy snores all night long and neither Karen nor I get any sleep. 

We should have slept in the car!

In the morning we drive 10 minutes up a winding mountain road to the place where we had originally made reservations.  They had lost our reservation and gave the room to another couple. but it would be vacant in three days.  Karen and I wander about the small village of Greolieres looking for the inn, the Chateau De Max. I stop at a pub and ask for directions to the Chateau de Max. The bartender stares at me as I if I’m speaking Dutch. He then turns beet-red and starts yelling “CHATEAU!  CHATEAU!  CHATEAU!!!  I think the bartender is about to explode and I stand there dumbfounded.  A guy drinking some coffee at the bar is bent over laughing and he signals me over.  He walks me outside and points to a building and says that it is the Chateau de Max.  Inside, the bartender is still shouting “CHATEAU!”   I’ve no clue as to what has transpired.

The Chateau appears empty, but eventually we are greeted by Arna Goldsmith.  She apologizes about our reservation and she takes us down the street to a small café and asks the owner to fix us a late breakfast.  Arna says there is a new inn down the road from the Auberge and we take note. First we must visit the town of Gourdon. Later we return to the café for dinner.

The town of Gourdon is an impossibly beautiful medieval city.  It’s perched on a jutting precipice with sheer cliffs dropping away hundreds of feet on three sides. The center of the town is filled with yellow stone houses, some dating back to the13th century, most of which are now colorful shops.  We pick up a bottle of wine and a few souvenirs and stop for lunch at a small outdoor café that serves pizzas on crepes.  Out in the main square, we sit on a stone wall and enjoy the spectacular view of narrow valleys and high mountains cascading down towards the Mediterranean.  Across a deep ravine is a higher rocky outcropping.  We ask around and get driving directions that lead us there and to a perfect postcard view of the city.   A warm ocean breeze buffets the mountain as clouds slowly form below and eventually obscure the view.

We return to the auberge from hell and take a walk down the road to check out the other lodging, La Cascade.  It’s a beautiful ranch complete with horses.  The innkeeper’s English is marginal and he says he’ll have a room available the next day.  He shows us the prospective room. It’s large with rattan furniture, a queen sized bed, red tile floor and a high ceiling.  It opens directly to the outside and there’s a small table and chairs on a patio overlooking a forest.  We immediately agree to take it.  The price is only five euros more per night than the Auberge and breakfast is actually included.

Our dinner that evening is fantastic.  An entire five-course meal with a bottle of wine, desert and coffee spiked with Irish Cream costs only 43 euros (less than US$50).  And the food is the best I’ve had in a very long time - fine French cuisine at a bargain price!  We relish our time at the restaurant to delay going back to the Auberge.  Back in the tiny French prison, we have another restless night as the world’s loudest snorer serenades us with the sounds of phlegm.

I try to find the owner of the Auberge in the morning to tell him that we’re checking out two days early.  But he doesn’t answer the door or his phone.  I leave the key on the check-in counter with a note saying that we’ll stop by in the afternoon to make payment.  We drop our bags off at the ranch and are invited to stay for breakfast.  It’s served at a large common table where other guests are already seated having a lively discussion.  None speak English.  We say “Bonjour.”  The half-dozen French vacationers smile at us and nod politely, but we’ve definitely disrupted the mood of the previous conversation.  For all of the raves about the intricacies of French food, breakfast couldn’t be simpler: a choice of croissant or toast with jam or butter, orange juice and coffee.

We decide to spend the day hiking and stop at a cantina for water.  I ask the owner, a narrow woman in her mid-forties, for some bottled water using my best French “Avez vous une bouteille d'eau?”  She replies, “Oui, petit ou grand.”    (Yes, large or small.)    I say “grand” and she leans over the counter and yells “NO!”  So I say, “Okay, petit.” She leans right up to me, face to face, and yells even louder “NO!”  Dumbfounded again I shrug my shoulders and walk out of the store.  Karen asks, “Where’s the water?” Further up the road I stop at another store.  I ask the same question the same way and this time the clerk leads me over to a refrigerator with a selection of bottled water.  I purchase two large bottles as well as some fruit, bread and cheese for lunch. 

We hike one trail in the morning that leads to an overlook of Greolieres.  In the afternoon we follow a valley trail through the woods up to the town of Cipieres. The only landmark in the town is a small church. There are no shops or restaurants. A hill near the church provides a view of the other side of Greolieres. At 800 meters above sea level, Greolieres is like many of the villages in Provence. It’s built around a central chapel, St. Etienne’s, and is defined by stone houses and narrow roads.  It sits at the base of the mountain Cheiron, which rises another 100 meters higher.  From our view in Cipieres, Greolieres resembles a toy village against the background of the Cheiron. 

All of the restaurants in Greolieres are closed for dinner.  We stop at the Auberge and settle our bill and drive to the next town - everything is closed.  And so on. We end up back in Gourdon. There are at least a dozen restaurants.  Everything is closed except for the little pizza café. It’s Monday evening and this doesn’t make any sense.  But with no other choices, we have pizza and salad for dinner.

We drive back to the Château to ask Arna for advice. She informs us that many of the restaurants are only open when the owners feel like working and that there’s really no set schedule.  Great, I think.  She says that a different restaurant will be open on Tuesday night.  It serves Italian food and pizza.  I could do without any pizza for a while, but pasta will do.  While talking with Arna we meet the woman, Linda, who usurped our room at the Chateau.  She invites us to stick around for a drink.  I still have the bottle of wine in our car and we easily agree. On the patio outside the room, her husband, Peter, is debating the meaning of life with a small, bald Norwegian named Yon.  Both are way ahead of us in the drinking department.  The couple work as consultants for the airline industry.  He’s British and a former pilot and she’s Dutch and used to work as a stewardess.  Yon is retired and travels around Europe.  The bottle of wine is quickly drained and another appears as if by magic.  It’s a GREAT night!!!

The following day we plan to go horseback riding.  We’ve both ridden English tack for years.  Several guidebooks touted excellent riding in the area and we look forward to some high intensity canters with lots of jumps.  But both places we find only offer Western dude-ranch style riding where the horses only walk along the trials. And by the looks of them, walk very, slowly.  Why would anyone want to ride Western in France? 

We give up and continue on to St. Paul De Vence, a small medieval fortress town known for numerous art galleries. Cars are forbidden within the city (except for deliveries).  We park at a multi-level garage and stroll past restaurants and shops to the main entrance, a large tunnel through the thick stone walls.   Inside the fortress, we pause at one of the ramparts and take in the view of the verdant mountains.  The tight streets are like a maze and we let ourselves get lost among the galleries and boutiques.  A smell of garlic pulls us into a cozy café and we lunch on soup and vegetable sandwiches.  We spend the remainder of the afternoon debating on whether to buy pieces of art.  All of the galleries have unique paintings and sculptures.  Karen is particularly taken by the paintings of an artist named Tron.  He paints scenes of Provence in bold, bright hues that leap from the canvas, but somewhat pricey for our budget.  We compromise and purchase a few small prints.

Dinner at the Italian restaurant in Greolieres is mediocre.  But we have another fun night of drinking wine with our new friends.  The following morning we enjoy our last breakfast at the ranch, and arrive at the chateau in time to bid farewell to Linda and Peter.   Finally, four days behind schedule, we check into the chateau.  Rather than a room, we now have a small one bedroom apartment, complete with kitchen. Unfortunately, none of the grocery stores are open.  We go from town to town and everything is closed.  As with restaurants, there’s no rhyme or reason as to when things are open.  We also can’t find gasoline for the rental car.  The service stations will only take French gas or credit cards.  They won’t take cash!  We drive almost all of the way to Nice before we find a gas station that will take cash.  It’s a very frustrating day of not getting anything done or seeing any sites.  Linda and Peter left behind milk, juice, fruit and cereal so we won’t starve at breakfast.  We have nothing for dinner, however, and get a pizza from the Italian restaurant.  The pie is better than their pastas.

Looking through some guide books in the apartment we discover a large Equestrian Center south of Vence in Lo Colle. We head there the next day and are delighted to see horses everywhere and everyone riding English.  Riders are practicing dressage and jumping in a large arena.  A brochure in the main office lists several trail rides.  Once again, however, my bubble is burst.  They no longer offer trail rides.  Karen asks about taking a jumping lesson just so we can enjoy riding in France.  Again, the answer is no.  They don’t have any available instructors.  Aaarrgghhh!!!

We continue onto Nice.  The beach in Nice is not so nice.  It’s just a bunch of rocks.  No sand at all… only gravel.  But the sea air and view of the Mediterranean are refreshing.  Karen and I walk a couple of miles along the water and dip our toes into the waves.  After the walk, we’re both hungry.  As usual, nothing is open.  Well almost nothing.  Pizza Hut is open.  I’ve lost count as to how many times I’ve now eaten pizza in France.

Our last day is beautiful and sunny.  We drive to another small medieval town, Thorenc, and up to the top of a mountain called Col de Bleine.  The panoramic view is so spectacular we spend most of the day there.  The jagged mountain peaks and pine forests have a much more Alpine feeling than the maritime mountains only a half an hour to the south.  I wish we would have come hear earlier.  There are numerous trails and biking paths and we find a charming roadside café that seems to be open all day long.  We have a late lunch, take a drive through the valley and return to the top of the mountain to watch sunset.  Basking in the warm glow of an orange sun is a great way to end the day and end the week.  If only I’d known what to expect at the beginning of the week, we may have had more days like this.