Driving in France

Roundabouts and Back Roads

Photo by Mattia Albertin

My kids and I agree that roundabouts are the superior intersection. There is an order and fluidity to them that resembles a well orchestrated dance. My family loves them so much that I’ll often take another lap around the loop, met with cheers of approval from the back seat. Ok, maybe the 17 year old is rolling her eyes. 

Roundabouts are the superior mousetrap. They have proven to significantly reduce traffic, collisions, and fatalities. Studies have even shown that they are more environmentally friendly. So why haven’t we embraced this decongesting urban planning design? I think it’s because we must trust that our fellow driver will yield at the last minute. Americans simply can’t fathom the idea. 

We do have roundabouts back at home. In fact, there is a double roundabout just off the 10 Freeway at the Morongo Casino. I often gas up there on my way to my Mojave cabin. But no one knows how to use these elegant creations. Inevitably, a driver with trust issues waits too long to merge, and a dastardly bottleneck ensues. I’ve read that the town of Carmel, Indiana has 140 roundabouts–the most in any North American city–and they are replacing more four-way stops every year. I must visit these evolved people, and inquire as to their mode of enlightenment. 

In general, when I get behind the wheel in France, I feel like I’m about to do a lap of Le Circuit de la Sarthe with Steve McQueen as my co-pilot, even if I’m driving a plug-in hybrid MG with three kids and a pile of luggage obscuring the rear-view mirror. This is normally the case because I’m utilizing a ubiquitous manual transmission–-another lost art of the 20th Century in the US. Nowadays, it’s easier to find an automatic, but not the norm. In fact, France makes you take a driver’s test with a “boîte manuelle” if you plan to drive a stick. For me, it’s exciting to careen around the neighborhood in a car that seldom has as much power as mine at home, but feels more like a Formula 1 as I run through the gears.

The local roads of Aix-en-Provence might as well be part of the Le Mans racecourse. They are narrow, winding, and seldom posted with speed limits. Just outside our gate, there is a chicane, an ese-shaped curve delineated with blue and white barber poles. This is an inexpensive way to slow down traffic on long country roads prone to speeding. It’s more likely you’ll see one of these on a racetrack, and I’ve never seen one in the US. But there are two in our town. Ironically, I prefer to drive through these obstacles as quickly as I can, pretending to be Schumacher or Senna.

My biggest complaint when driving in France is the tendency on the freeways to switch lanes as frequently as gear changes. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that French drivers use the passing lane exclusively for passing–unless, of course, they drive a large-displacement German sportscar, and then they travel exclusively in the fast lane at twice the posted speed limit. But I do wish they didn’t overtake so often. 

Without fail, I am tailgated by a driver in a hatchback half the size of my rental. Flashing his lights, he flies past me on the left, only to immediately dive back into the slow lane just in front of me, decelerating to the posted speed limit. This then forces me to swing into the passing lane, and overtake him, as I am driving just above the posted limits (not advisable if there is a flashé speed camera close by). Apparently, this overtaking is not done in France, and is interpreted as an assault on French pride. As a result, the driver flashes his lights again, passing me once more, and returning to the slow lane just in front of me as before. 

Our autoroute leap frog persists for miles–and on several occasions, can go on for hours when on long car trips to Avignon or Nice–only to end when one of us finds their exit.

But why am I complaining? I would gladly spar on the roads of Provence with my paysans. Plus, lounging by the pool, I haven’t had to get in the car once today, and the bottle of rosé is still half full. C’est la vie!