I, Reluctant Van Driver

While running through the upcoming trip plan with my wife, I realized my initial solo drive had disappeared.

In the original agreement, I was supposed to take an empty van from Quimper to Morlaix: 90 welcome minutes to get acquainted with the vehicle before adding passengers and luggage. Somewhere in the months of organizing, that arrangement had been lost. I would be driving a nearly full van from the moment I got the keys at 10 am.

The van was my wife’s idea, or rather, the whole trip was her baby. Renting two vans to drive our group around Brittany meant autonomy, a stunning remote manoir, and the freedom to explore. It also meant she needed drivers. I reluctantly agreed to be one of them. For four days, I would be responsible for a seven-seater that had, at some point in the planning, turned into a nine-seater. This was despite having spent exactly one day behind the wheel in France in the last ten years and having only ever driven small manual citadines.

The day before pickup, since we were already in Quimper, I went to the agency and paid for self-check-in, my last remaining strategy to steal a little alone time with the van before anyone climbed aboard. While signing the contract, I saw the new problem: the Renault Trafic with its familiar five-speed manual had become a Mercedes Tourer with an automatic transmission. On paper, an upgrade. In practice, a problem: I had never driven an automatic anything, let alone a van.

Seeing my concern, the clerk decided to give me a crash course in driving an automatic van. We met in a nearby parking lot, and I took the wheel. He showed me how to move forward and reverse, then had me drive a short loop around the parking lot. Finally, he helped me back into a parking space, and I was relieved to discover that the van had a backup camera. I felt like a weight had been lifted. It was different from driving a tiny car, but still manageable. I just needed some time behind the wheel.

The next morning, after a quick hotel breakfast, I picked up my keys, dialed in the entertainment system, and took the van for a spin. I drove to the nearby Decathlon.

That initial drive was stressful. I felt like a bull in a china shop as I navigated Quimper’s narrow streets, lined with all the little obstacles French city planners deploy against cars: bollards guarding every corner and posts sprouting from the curb at each turn.

I drove back to the parking lot where the group was waiting.

Doors opened and closed, bags were stored in the trunk, greetings crossed over one another, and several conversations began at once. Within minutes, the quiet van I had just started getting used to had become a small mobile social gathering.

We headed for Morlaix.

My eyes cycled through the road, the map, and the signs. I could barely see from the rearview mirror, not sure why they bothered to install one at this point. The van was powerful, and the automatic driving was comfortable, with one exception: the left foot had to stay out of the game, it had to stay idle the whole time.

Oops, I took the wrong exit on a roundabout.

My mistake did not go unnoticed. And for the next few kilometers, the passengers turned into eight highly educated back-seat drivers. Every time I slowed near a junction or looked twice at the map, someone had a suggestion. I was still learning the dimensions of the vehicle, but I was now doing it in public, surrounded by commentary.

After 75 minutes of slow and steady driving, I was almost at the Morlaix train station when I found myself on a narrow road with a bus coming up on the opposite side taking more space than I was comfortable with. I needed to slow down to a halt, my instincts took over, and my left foot went for the clutch. That’s when I was painfully reminded that this van had an automatic transmission. Instead of a controlled stop, my foot aggressively floored the brakes, and I heard luggage clattering, people gasping, and Kumar’s loosely attached seat slamming him toward the passenger in front of him. Luckily, no one was injured. I apologized, and kept driving. Keep calm and carry on. I would love to say that was the only time it happened.

Five minutes later, we were at the train station waiting for people to arrive. I didn’t know how long we would be waiting. Then I learned that the second van driver was two hours late: the first crisis of the day. We squeezed one more passenger into our van and turned the trunk into a game of Tetris, packing in every suitcase it could possibly hold. Fortunately, a bus due shortly could take the remaining passengers to Roscoff, where the second driver would join us later that day.

After a lovely afternoon on Île de Batz, it was time to head to the manoir, where we’d be staying for the next four days. Once we had dropped everyone off, we needed to pick up groceries before the supermarket closed for the weekend.

I drove slowly and steadily while sensing my wife’s growing anxiety about reaching the supermarket before its 7 p.m. closing time. If we failed, there would be no breakfast tomorrow and, most importantly, no apéro tonight.

We dropped people and their luggage at the manoir, left them to settle in their pre-assigned rooms, and went to the nearest Super U with Djéné, who volunteered to help.

We arrived 50 minutes before closing. I dropped off my passengers — oops, another clutch incident, no injuries — then parked properly. By the time we reached the checkout with everything we needed, closing time had come and gone. The clerk waited patiently while we paid for the last items, and we made it back to the manoir for apéro.

Time to relax.

The next day was about exploring la presqu’île de Crozon, a 90-minute drive from the manoir on narrow, winding roads. On the first day, Suzanna was my copilot. On the second, my wife was, and it didn’t go as well.

I could feel her stress as she constantly texted the caterer or the group chat, propped her phone up right where it blocked my side mirror, and, at one point, pulled down the map without warning to tinker with the music.

She needed me to be her husband and help absorb the stress of running this event, while I needed her full attention as my copilot. Neither of us could play the role the other needed. Where Suzanna had leaned into the navigation with me, weighing which roundabout exit to take, her presence steady and calming, my wife’s attention, by necessity, was everywhere but the road.

As soon as we reached Crozon, we agreed that someone else should navigate for the rest of the trip.

It was an unusually hot day for Brittany. We walked the trails along the cliffs of Cap de la Chèvre, gathered for a picnic, and then continued hiking. After a while, we realized we needed to change our plans and asked everyone to meet back at the parking lot in half an hour so we could head to our next stop.

At two o’clock, not everyone had shown up.

The rest of the afternoon became an improvised shuttle service. The staggered arrivals, the heat, and the different hiking speeds had scattered everyone across the cliffs, the beach, and the nearby town. Suzanna and I drove back and forth, collecting small groups, searching for parking, dropping people near the supermarket, and returning for whoever was still missing. A twenty-minute drive was often followed by fifteen minutes of maneuvering into a narrow parking space. Then another text would come in, and we would set off again.

The next morning, when Sarah mentioned that she needed a few extra ingredients to cook a highly personalized chakchouka for breakfast, I simply offered to take her. Earlier in the trip, any additional drive would have felt like another demand on my nervous system. This time, it felt like an opportunity to bring someone’s idea to life.

On the drive back later that day from a hiking trip in a town whose name I have already forgotten, the thirty-five-minute journey seemed to pass instantly. I followed the road, handled the bends, and eventually recognized the familiar town near the manoir.

Nothing dramatic had happened.

Somewhere between the first violent stop and the improvised shuttle service in Crozon, the van had stopped being a threat. It had become a tool, something I could use to help, improvise, and act in the world.