“What’s the matter?” asked Mother.

“Yeagh! Here come some more!” Within seconds, the square grille of the Mercedes hung about a meter behind my rear bumper, weaving back and forth threateningly. The driver was “being French.” Barbara Shortt, a correspondent for the Boston Globe, has written, “The open road is where the class war that started with the Revolution is still being fought....The French themselves describe their road technique as rapports de force – power relations. This technique results in one of Europe’s highest per-capita highway death rates.”

There was no point in my speeding up; they’d match whatever I did. Slowing down to let them pass on straight stretches hadn’t worked yet; the name of the game seems to be intimidation. Slowing way down hadn’t worked, either; it inspired only blasts of horns. Showing anger in a country where I understood only a fraction of what was said didn’t seem too bright. Pulling over is problematic where drainage ditches line the roads. So I just fumed, and mimed a pleasant conversation with my passenger till we came to a wide spot, where I signaled and pulled off. As they passed, they stared at me as if they thought me deranged. Only when I was sure they couldn’t see me in their mirrors, did I express myself – in sign language.

This, paradoxically, in a country which has had thousands of years to perfect its road system, and has done it brilliantly. Almost nowhere, as far as I could see, was there a destination – like some here – that we couldn’t get to from where we were. Most intersections were controlled by rotaries, which probably would drive American motorists nuts; but they served to dampen highway speeds, as well as keep traffic moving. For me, they were a chance to circle around again if I happened to miss the correct way out of the rotary the first time. And they were often the opportunity to get rid of my clouds of tailgaters for a few moments.

I rarely missed the first time around, because the ubiquitous signs were large and clear: the names of the towns (with major destinations in green) and arrows pointing the way. And along the way, signs telling us how many kilometers to the next few villages. It really was hard to go wrong.

Most of the medieval villages had fairly low speed limits, and speed bumps to remind drivers with short memories. Frequently the road narrowed to one lane between ancient houses. Here it was what the signs called “alternating traffic” – meaning watch out for, and if necessary, wait for oncoming traffic to pass. But my favorite touch was the automated speed signs, much like the portable ones that our cops park near schools or areas of traffic. Ours say, “Speed Limit X,” and just below display a flashing number indicating your speed. In France, the flashing display shows a frowning face if you’re over the limit, and a smiley face if you’re under. I got smiley faces every time; the expressions in my rear view mirror were anything but.

“For the French,” writes Shortt, “the car is a weapon for wreaking social vengeance....A normal, well-mannered French businessman...charming at the office and dinner table, when at the wheel resembles a homicidal maniac.” I have to agree with her. I was following a van that was moving along all right, but taking up a bit too much of the road, perhaps. The frustrated driver of a Renault just behind me pulled out to pass right in the teeth of approaching traffic, passed us both, and made a little statement by clipping the driver’s side mirror of the van. The van moved over.

The first time we went to France I rented a tiny French car – Pup, I think was the model – and spent a long week resisting apparent attempts to run us off the road. Three years later I splurged and got a fairly large turbodiesel that went like a bat and seemed to inspire some respect, besides; cars behind gave me about five feet of space. I went small again this time, and decided to try a philosophical attitude, pretending to be quite old and oblivious to my surroundings. This worked brilliantly. They were still all over my rear bumper – if a dog or deer had run out in front of us, it would have been mass mayhem – but I pretended not to notice till I found that spot to pull over.

Further machismo is evident at twilight. Nobody turns on his headlights until he actually needs them to see the road. This can be pretty scary; but as far as I can tell, I didn’t hit any of ‘em.

What doesn’t kill you, they say, makes you stronger. We’re still alive and a lot stronger and smarter for the experience. When we’ve managed to recharge our financial batteries, we may return to the road wars. I’ll be too old to rent a car – 75 is the cutoff age – but, weirdly, I can lease one. It’s going to be a much larger, faster, and fearsome vehicle. I thought at first I’d go as James Bond in an Aston-Martin, or as an English gentleman in a yellow Morgan. But a surplus Sherman tank may be the way to go, with Mother stationed up in the turret. Lafayette, we are here!