Sweating it out for the Chateau de Biron

In preparation for my three-hour stick shift nightmare to the castle, I do the following things: First, I begin by having a full-on panic attack, my body tensing up into one big knot that I cannot untangle, thus continuing my late-night crying tradition by filling half of my couch with crumpled, mascara-strewn Kleenexes.

Next, I write several desperate emails about my situation. “I’m freaking out,” I write to my mom, frantically, making sure to look for misspelled words so she can’t peg me later for being manic. “Be careful, have fun, and enjoy the French countryside!” is her response. Okay, not getting any sympathy there.

I round out the evening by working myself up so much that by the time I’m worn out enough to lie down, it is approximately 3 a.m. and I have to wake up at 7:30. Acknowledging this fact makes things even worse, adding another half an hour to my insomnia.

The next morning, I am a wreck. My eyes, stung red and half open, look like they got punched in the night before. Even my face feels puffy. I walk into the office and immediately feel validated.

“So, are you ready?” Magali asks me as I walk through the office, defeated already. I half smile and shake my head, and make some vague, gutteral response.

“How are you?” Nadege says with a worried look. As the rest of the women in the office huddle around me, offering advice, I suddenly realize what a huge drama queen I am.

“Just go slow,” says Marie empathically, her eyebrows coming to a point at the top of her forehead, “take as much time as you need.”

“Take lots of breaks! It’s okay if you need to stop!” Nadege offers.

“Remember to stay on the road!” Mickael pipes up from behind his cubicle. The woman caw at him loudly and we all laugh.

I fake the happy face and make for the door, ready to begin my day of fun. Stepping reluctantly into the car, I manage to kill three times as I try to leave the parking lot, first, almost smashing Adam’s car in front of me, then nearly hitting a very large green fence. Off to a great start.

Making my way through town, I somehow have figured it out. Maybe it was the article I read last night while I wasn’t sleeping, “How to learn to drive a stick shift!” After the parking lot, I don’t kill once, don’t get lost and I actually handle the roundabouts with finesse. Of course, the inside of the car paints a much different picture.

I am gripping the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles have gone purple and my palms are sweating profusely. What was once a piece of gum in my mouth is now a tight, hard ball that I am chomping so excessively that I risk extracting one of my dozen fillings. At every roundabout, every change of gears, I have a moment of sheer panic that shoots up into my shoulders. Please, God, don’t let there be any hills.

Every time I change into 5th gear, it hinges on getting stuck. It won’t accidentally go into reverse, will it?! At every long stretch of road, I desperately try to read the road map Nadege has given me, hoping I look up in time to dodge the wandering goats that are meandering on the side of the road. By far the best thing, however, is using my split-second thinking to figure out which of the four directions I need to take at every roundabout, of which there are dozens upon dozens. Luckily, I have the option of going around in circles, just like Chevy Chase in National Lampoon’s European Vacation. “Look kids, it’s Auchan!” I think, eyeballing the supermarket that I have passed three times. Good thing I have the name of my company printed in huge red letters on the back, left and right sides of the car so that no one is left wondering who I am and where I’ve come from.

As I get closer to my destination, the roads become more treacherous, winding in and out with the most bizarre signs I have ever seen. There’s the long, slim, crooked penis, the short, stubby but pointy penis and the two penises in a cross. Either it’s been awhile since I’ve had any action or France has a very dirty mind. In the end, I have no idea what any of them mean. Is that a hazard? Yes, maybe. I realize much later that most of them mean, “Danger! Sharp turn ahead!” But only after I’ve had to slam on the brakes so as not to surpass the short white pegs marking the side of the road. I’m pretty sure the large truck that’s been tailing me for a half an hour is not too amused by my antics.

About an hour and a half in, my bladder threatens to go. Where is the damn castle? The thought of having to stop, park and then go into the dreaded first gear again makes me cringe.

And then, there it is up ahead, its saffron columns and haystack spires cutting slightly through the fog. The Chateau de Biron.

Only a half hour late for my appointment, I step out of the car, a sweaty disgusting mess, and walk my wobbly legs to the entrance. I have a brief moment of panic as I realize that I have just parked on the edge of an enormous cliff. I’m pretty sure I pulled up the parking break when I left…

The castle is lovely. Charming. Host of several French films already with surely more on the way, it’s a shame that it is raining and blustery today. Not only is my umbrella threatening to flip inside out at every step, but it’s damn hard to take notes while rain is splattering everywhere. I am grateful when we step inside and Vivienne, my guide, tells me a few ghost stories.

Turns out, one of the old barons was beheaded in 1602 and has since been heard crying and seen holding his head in his hands on the night of his death. I’m not sure if I believe it or not, but later, as Vivienne is demonstrating the type of wood used on one of the castle doors, I hear a swishing sound behind it. When I look around the edge, nothing is there.

After my tour, I weave my way back to Monpazier, a nearby town, and have some lunch. It’s sprinkling, so of course this gives the French an excuse not to work. I start to get angry at every business I pass. Even the bakeries are closed, with the lights out, the doors locked and the storekeepers inside doing their books. Is the power out or is everyone just being lazy?

Then I stumble upon Bistro 2, a restaurant set in the middle of a large square. It’s pricey, but Adam specifically told me before I left to keep my receipt so that the company can pay me back. I would enjoy my meal—a perfectly cooked piece of hand-sized steak in Bordelais sauce, roasted potatoes in half-moons and thinly sliced endives--a bit more if I didn’t have Miranda’s voice ringing inside my head. “Just take the day,” she told me the day before I left, “Walk around, treat yourself to some lunch.” Treat yourself. Hmmm.

I’m conflicted. Do I listen to good cop or bad cop? Exactly who is paying for my 18 euro meal?

I finish off with an effortlessly blended coffee, steal the placemat to send to my brother at home and set off on my way. After all, I’ve got another two-hour drive ahead of me.

This time, everything is easier. The rain begins to taper off and the clouds part to make way for a bright blue sky, casting a yellow glaze over the lush countryside. This time, I try to remember what my mama told me. Enjoy.

Soon, I am weaving around rocky cliffs like a pro, cranking up the radio to anything that’s playing music and even turning off the radio once in awhile to sing, one of the things I miss most about driving my own car. First, I try my hand at an old Leann Rimes song. It doesn’t pan out. Then, something from Beaches that I sang for the auditions of my high school production of Fiddler on the Roof. Too short. Finally, I settle on repeating the national anthem about four times because it’s the only song I know by heart and is by far the hardest song to sing. I live for a challenge.

I like challenges so much that by the time I get back to the office seven hours after I left it, I am ready to call my dad to beg him to hand me down his VW Jetta—with the manual transmission. I am a new woman.

Still, I play it cool. Wouldn’t want to be taken for a complete drama queen, after all. I walk into the office and everyone stops, wide eyed, to ask me how things went.

“So?” Says Mickael from his desk. I flop exaggeratingly onto the table next too him, throwing my belongings everywhere.

Nadege pops her head out of her corner. “How was it?”

I let out a huge sigh because I know how much the French love emotion. “Alors, je suis vivante!” I say. I am alive.

The exhaustion of the day has affected me more than I thought. I sit practically comatose in my chair while Miranda and Alison talk over me.

“Did you have a good time?” Miranda asks, only somewhat genuine.

“Yes,” I croak, the pain building around my eyes. I am now really feeling the fact that I got 4 hours of sleep the night before. “But I have never driven a stick shift for longer than a half an hour in my entire life, so it was a bit stressful.”

“Oh really?” She balks, “I thought you had!”

I’m not sure I’m buying this. Surely she must have heard all my complaining, seen the stress on my face. There had to be some sort of a motive for sending me two hours away to write 400 words on a castle that has been there for centuries.

Well, if there’s a motive, I’m too pooped to figure it out.

“I’m sorry,” I tell Miranda, “but I am completely worthless right now.”

Within 20 minutes, I am home, sipping 3 euro wine with my feet up on the couch and talking to my dad. When he tells me that he has already thought about handing down his car to me someday, I don’t have one shred of panic left inside me to protest. Maybe it’s the fatigue talking, but I don’t think so. It’s almost impossible to be scared of something after doing it for four whole hours. And I’m none too pleased to discover that I was wrong and everyone else was right. Yes, fine, I just had to do it in order to learn. Whatever.

I barely eat anything for dinner because I really can’t be asked. It’s all I can do to motivate to take a shower, which I only do because I remember how much I have been sweating today, fearing for my life.

I turn off the TV and computer early tonight and lie down. Tomorrow is another whirlwind tour to a nearby town with Alison to report on a new organic store opening up. Even though it’s only 20 minutes away and I am filled with an enormous sense of accomplishment and confidence after my big trip, I think I’m going to make Alison drive. At this point, I would pay her to do it.