Siesta Across Southern France - Final Episode: Saou to Crest

We rose groggy from the siesta and ventured down the road towards our day's final destination: a small working farm a few kilometers outside Saou. On the way, we found that the most treacherous part of our journey - aside from Mr. Die and Die Junior - was dodging German RVs along busy roads and listening to stories of mikvas in Israel. We crossed fields on unmarked paths and found our way to the farm.

Farm sounds and smells greeted us. The farm was owned by the families of two brothers whose family had kept it for nearly 300 years. Shaking their hands felt like lacing up boxing gloves - they were immense. We saw a basketball hoop (7 ft or so) and were immediately overcome with the need to dunk. We started up a game against the locals and the two Americans quickly began wreckin' shop Wu-Tang style. The Americans were annihilating the French team (consisting of a small bespeckled child and a roughneck Frenchman) when a game delay was called and the ball had to be fished out of a stagnant trough.

Dinner that night was a feast of 5-6 courses topped off with a heavy helping of homemade cheeses. We had our fair helping of fromage blanc, which is not porn speak for anything. Our siesta master was so pleased with the meal, the next morning his ass decided to voice its approval in a loud, unadulterated monologue. The moving story awoke all of us. One last photo op for the Brokeback Drome tourism board and we were on our way.

We headed to Autichamp the next day, our second to last perched village. We approached from the South and found a semi-civilized, quasi-modern setup: tended fields, irrigation, fountains, and a few sunlit-drenched (read: roofless) homes to buy in the middle of an upcoming neighborhood (read: demolished ruin), steps to Central Park (read: see the tended fields part). We walked up through the remains of the city, saw stunning views of the surrounding mountains, found a nice rocky courtyard overseen by a statue of the Virgin Mary, and took our last siesta of the trip.

Our path to Crest was not very direct. We crossed fields, unmarked paths, and hoped we were headed in the right direction. We passed dozens of dog kennels that unnerved our Spanish compatriot so much he took to carrying a large rock in the event of random dog attack. "The country dogs", he would say, "these are the worst." The only unfenced dog we were greeted by was perhaps a breed somewhere between a Furby and a Tribble. The Spaniard's grip on his rock tightened as we passed the 180-decible, walking toupee.

We picked our way across our last dusty field and finished at an outdoor cafe at the foot of the largest attraction in the city of Crest: a medieval dungeon. Creepy and exquisitely kept, the dungeon felt like a fun house with all the goofy staircases and passages. Speakers piped in creepy-crawly-creeky sounds and added a nice touch when accompanied with the authenticity of the 1900s-era graffiti. The views from the top of the dungeon were amazing.

We boarded our last bus to get to Valence and headed back towards Geneva. We sampled the new European Coke Black (which tastes like a carbonated, sweet, espresso) and witnessed the equivalent of French white trash - who looked oddly like the woman from Throw Mama from the Train, with glasses and a sandpapery-hoarse French voice.

Our faces were sunburned, our feet were sore, and our buns were toasted. We wanted to do it all over again. And plan to. Stay tuned.