Terry and I drove from one small provincial town to another. Gordes was perched way up on top of a mountain with small roads and narrow passages. A small fair had just shut down with it’s rides and vending trucks packed up and ready to go. I settled myself in the small public square with a large fountain. “Defense” was inscribed on the fountain I presume from WWII. There were no large crowds here, just the occasional tourist eating a snack or resting.
Terry and I didn’t understand all the road signs. Once we drove up a road with a sign that had a red circle with a white line through it. We discovered that meant “One way” since another car was coming the other way on the narrow one lane road. Locals shouted and waved at us to back up. We backed out gingerly for a solid block. Driving on the mountain roads took nerve and faith since every blind turn could result in a head on collision. When cars passed the opposite way, one car or the other would have to pull off the road. The closest call we had was with a huge tourist bus that didn’t yield at all. Our small Porsche shook as it roared by. There were traffic circles every few miles which were like mini smash-em derby’s. Slipping in and out of the circle traffic was a refined art with a dash of chaos.