Toutes Directions

I stood among the grapevines, the sun warming my face, the sky a brilliant blue overhead. Gérald pointed to the twisted spire of the church beside Domaine Beaumont and spoke about history, the nearby monks, and his philosophy of winemaking. As he described the harvest, I imagined the land before me in the fall—alive with decisions about which grapes to pick and which to leave on the vine.

After an enlightening and deeply personal tour—along with the best tasting I have experienced—I sat in the sunshine outside the caves, eating a sandwich with homemade pâté and drinking more wine. Time moved slowly and deliciously as I talked with the owner, his delightful wife Sara-Jane, and two new friends.

It was a perfect Sunday afternoon.

And none of it had been planned: it only happened because the Blue Car broke down and was in the shop, waiting for repairs.

When I left the vineyard, I drove through the village and stopped at an intersection where I saw a French road sign that has both bemused and delighted me during my time here:

Toutes Directions.

All directions.

I first noticed these signs on my drive from the Paris airport to Normandy three weeks ago. I don’t recall seeing anything like them in the U.S. Perhaps I am not traveling to the right places. Or perhaps it’s a cultural difference.

At first, I loved the optimism of the message. But then I wondered how it could possibly be true—standing at tiny village intersections where roads are barely wide enough for one car, with blind corners wrapping around centuries-old buildings jutting into the street.

Could I really get to all directions from here?

Still, there is something deeply comforting in the idea.

There are escape routes. You aren’t hemmed in.

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If I think of it in terms of decisions, the sign suggests something even bigger: that I have not just many choices, but all choices.

And that can feel like freedom. Or pressure.

How do I choose? How do I know what is best?

I have been living with these interpretations of Toutes Directions for weeks. Until last weekend, when the Blue Car broke down and my own direction shifted.

That Friday of the Blue Car’s troubles, instead of continuing on as planned, I discovered that my hotel had one of the best restaurants in Amboise. Because it had been quite a day, I treated myself to dinner that night. I got dressed up—finally putting that dress and heels to use—put on lipstick and walked across the courtyard into a softly lit dining room.

A sip of wine led to conversation with an American couple at a nearby table. A few minutes later, I was getting my dog fix (I am missing Leo) by chatting with French diners and their Weimaraner, Taboo. It’s one of the things I love here: dogs are welcome almost everywhere.

Over two and a half hours, I lingered over three courses, ending with a cheese trolley offering more than twenty selections. It took real discipline not to ask for one of each.

The next day, I went to Château de Chambord—never part of the original plan. The rain had cleared, and climbing the double-helix staircase, said to be inspired by Leonardo da Vinci, I emerged onto the roof terraces. Wind in my hair, sun on my face, I wandered among intricate stonework, elaborate roofs, and sweeping views of the grounds below.

On Sunday morning, I stopped at Fontevraud Abbey, another unexpected addition to my itinerary. Founded in 1101, it became one of the most powerful monastic orders in Europe. It is also the resting place of Henry II, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Richard the Lionheart.

And then, one more surprise.

After I published last week’s essay, friends messaged me to say they are now living in Blois, just a short distance away. I spent time with them in their apartment overlooking the Loire, a visit that would never have happened if the Blue Car had behaved itself.

I began to see Toutes Directions differently.

It is no longer a promise that I can go anywhere, but rather reassurance that I don’t need to get it exactly right. All directions are worthy of consideration—if I can let go of my fixation on the “right” one.

All roads have some meaning.

The Blue Car was fixed by 9:15 a.m. Monday morning and I got on the road to head south for a bit. But my plans changed again. Now, a week later, I found myself in the Black Forest of Germany, earlier than planned. After five weeks of moving through small towns and cities, constantly navigating, I needed something else.

Quiet. Stillness. Space. And the familiarity of nature.

For the past few days, I have hiked forest trails, breathed cold, clean air, and taken in views from higher elevations. I have also spent time reading, writing, and reconnecting with friends, and with what I need next.

It is not the visit I originally imagined here deep in the forest, but it is exactly the experience I need.

I am beginning to understand that flexibility and a large comfort zone go hand in hand. A small comfort zone expands when I can shrug and say, Okay, I’ll take another direction. It is the fixation on the one “right” direction that creates tension. That shrinks the world with indecision and worry.

Almost any direction can become the right one if I am open, attentive, and willing to let the road lead. Even if it is not the one I originally chose.

Standing at those small intersections, looking at signs that promise Toutes Directions, I am beginning to believe something simple:

The direction matters less than the willingness to take it. And the commitment to finding meaning and joy in whatever unfolds.

Not that every road leads everywhere.

But that wherever I go, there will be something worth finding.

Susan

Blue Car Road Trip Miles: 1034

From the Blue Car Europe Series