The other volunteers and I have managed to fit in some more explorations during our free time. We made it a mission to visit a place mentioned to us in passing--the Gorge of Verdon, supposedly the Grand Canyon of France. We thought it would be a simple day trip, wake up and leave by 10, grab gas for the car (a Kangoo, basically a old European mini van that is kindly provided by our hosts for volunteer use) and a picnic lunch. We were wrong in assuming, as life can never be simple. Five hours were spent before we reached the gorge which is two and a half hours away by car. When we first stopped for gas, we checked the oil as the dashboard had multiple warning lights on and we didn't know which were unusual for this cute, green clunker. After finally locating the oil and the testing stick in the European engine, we saw how low it was and decided to buy some more. In trying to find the oil we also found that some other parts looked a little funky, but since the warning lights were off when restarting the car we decided to soldier on. After about two hours of driving, we had passed through civilization and were bordering the secluded mountains and forests that surrounded our destination. That is when the volunteer driving the Kangoo interrupted our thoughts and French study sessions to point out a light on the dashboard that had been on for the last few kilometers. Pulling over, we popped the hood and looked under. Only one of the four of us really knows anything about cars and the look on his face when he saw the puff of smoke and bubbling canister told me that this would be quite a ride.
He told us the coolant had run out and the car was overheating. So we poured in some of our hiking water, let the engine cool off, and planned a route through the mountainous roads to the nearest town, still a couple clicks away. We drove as slowly as possible, all four sets of eyes watching the water temperature gauge. Upon finally arriving at the town and driving around looking for a gas station, I hopped out of the car and used my best French accent to ask where one was. I was given a sympathetic glance and told that this town didn't have one, but the last town we had passed through on the way to the Gorge did. Back at the car we poured in more water and I took over driving for a bit, slowing winding our way back the route we came.
We stopped once, at a garage with cars out front, but the only answer to our knocking and loud 'Bonjour!'s was the continuous barking of the watchdog. After driving another 20 or so kilometers with anxious hands gripping the steering wheel, we came to the gas station. People were there filling up their tanks, however the store portion of the station was closed. It was then that we realized it was a Sunday afternoon. In France, Sundays mean lazy days in which almost nothing is open in the mornings and absolutely nothing is open past noon. We emptied the last of our water into the radiator and decided to turn tail and do our best to get home in one piece.
I continued driving, my mind turned inward thinking about if the car would make it much longer and the missed opportunity of the Gorge. About two minutes down the road, my eyes caught on something and I was pulling into the parking lot as I fully registered the sign: TOTAL 24h/7j. It was a lone open gas station, our savior. We rushed inside and bought the biggest container of coolant they sold and a bit more gas, before turning back towards our initial destination. Thus, three hours after our expected arrival we pulled up to a lookout perch and ogled the small picturesque town built in the side of a mountain and the deep valleys that hinted of the Gorge.
Drove just a tad farther before we saw a sign for a balcony. We made our way through the trees to the edge of a cliff that dropped off. The mountains on the opposite side sat sturdy and full in the flat gray of the sky. Edging closer my stomach gave a jump, as I looked into the gash of grey rock and tiers of trees. In order to see the water running bright, clear aqua at the base I had to get on my hands and knees, clutching the ridges of rock in front of me. One of the boys next to me gave a yelp, followed by the reverberating echoes that lasted for about thirty seconds. Soon three boys were calling out. Their voices threw across the canyon and spread their child-like wonder of this feature that made us all seem so small and young. We made it to the Gorge of Verdon and it was worth the trip.
We found the balcony (a proper lookout, unlike the previous precipice we clung to) and took in the repetitive, surrounding, hulky vastness that encased us. Then we took the bridge across the Gorge to a picnic spot to have our lunch at last. More exploring was done before I insisted in stopping at one of the nearby villages. Here's the thing about France--if you see a crumble of cobblestone and churches perched on a ridge, you should probably stop in. There are too many little villages and towns built on ruins that are too small or too interesting to be put in guidebooks and on websites. So we did just that and got out to walk through what was called Trigance. My gut was right about this one. Trigance was my favorite castle and old village so far. Though the inside of the castle was not open to the public, we spent over an hour walking the same handful of streets. Our faces tight with awe, eyes open wide and twitching in order to take it all in. Crooked lilac shutters, a tiny square with a fountain, a little boy playing in the streets, the dome of the sky overhead, the cats sulking in an alley, the view of the countryside that enveloped the town from the base of the castle--simply too much for the human body to contain.
Eventually we headed home, quite tired and satisfied with our journey, only having to stop and pour in more coolant once.