Driving Dutch in France

I was flipping out.

I had just switched on the GPS in my rental car and the computerized voice was talking to me in Dutch. Dutch!

I’d landed at the Nice airport in the south of France an hour earlier, as the sun was setting and the darkness was settling in for the night. My goal was to drive a couple hours north of Nice — which hugs the Mediterranean coast — up into the Mercantour National Park at the base of the Alps.

I had an interview planned for the next day, where I’d be accompanying a handful of ecologists and entomologists into the park to talk to them about the search for new species in the old world. My B&B was located in a small village in the park, there were very few buses that made their way up there, and so I’d rented a car with the hopes of arriving in a reasonable amount of time.

I’d written down directions ahead of time but rapidly found them to be of no help since the roads were numbered slightly different from what I’d found online. The maps I picked up at the rental agency were zoomed out too far to be useful.

And so I’d turned on the GPS, naively expecting it to be of some help. Since I don’t speak Dutch, I didn’t know how to change the language to English or even French.

Somehow I managed to to punch in the town name where I was heading – St Dalmas – but the GPS found a different location with a slightly modified spelling a few hours due west of my current location, and was directing me there. But I had to go north! The Dutch GPS was of no help.

I stopped a couple of cars on the road in Nice and they got me on the right track, but I soon found myself hitting a couple of dead ends, wandering across an empty parking lot, and staring at road signs that were confusing at best and hieroglyphic at worst. I really should have looked up what they meant before arriving.

The roads were deserted — it was 10 at night and the sky was dark. At last I found a couple taking off their roller blades on the side of the road. I explained my predicament and they kindly guided me to a small hotel, where the man behind the desk showed me a much better map. I realized that I’d actually been traveling on the correct course, and that I just had to continue along.

I put a different town name into the GPS adjacent to where I was going — Valdeblore — and this time it found the right location. I proceeded along, gradually making my way higher and higher along tight switchbacks and narrow lanes. I was somewhat glad it was dark since I didn’t want to see just how far up I was, and how steep the mountain was that I was climbing up.

Slowly, slowly, the remaining distance on the GPS shrank, and at last I arrived in St Dalmas. Miraculously, I found the B&B since there were no signs indicating its whereabouts and the front stairs weren’t complete. I had to hoist myself up onto the porch, and I knocked on the glass door to be let in.

It was 11:30 p.m. I slept soundly that night.

The next morning when I woke up, the first thing I did was go to the window to see where I was. The scene was stunning — peaks of green and gray rising up on all sides of us, the sunlight pouring into the valley.

It was worth all the trouble. Or as the Dutch say, “In drie honderd meter gaat u linksaf.” (“In 300 meters, turn left.”)

Mercantour National Park, taken during my reporting trip. (Photo: Ari Daniel Shapiro)