Pont Séjourné viaduct, Fontpédrouse, Pyrénées-Orientales, France

We woke up in our pine-nestled campsite next to Spain's border with Andorra in the Pyrenees, to the sound of mountain silence, which is to say: the occasional bird call, a rustle of wind through pine needles, and Chetak squeaking every time Odyssean Journey rolled over in their rooftop tent. The air was crisp, almost alpine-sharp, and it smelled faintly of woodsmoke and damp moss. Shehzadi, our ever-stoic Toyota Tundra, had a light coat of dew. It was the kind of morning that feels borrowed from a postcard.

Coffee was brewed, stretches were stretched, and sleepy grins passed between our two overlanding couples. The Vagabond Couple and the Odyssean Journey were back on the road. Today’s mission: leave Spain behind (temporarily), enter the fairytale micronation of Andorra, fuel up, caffeinate, and then keep pushing toward France. Because that’s what you do on the Silk Road—follow the stories wherever they lead.

The drive from our campground to Spain-Andorra border was short but beautiful. Trees thinned out as the road climbed and curled, revealing knife-edge ridgelines and sleepy little towns clinging to cliffsides. And then—just like that—we were in Andorra.

If you blink, you might miss it. Tucked between Spain and France like a misplaced gem, Andorra is only 468 square kilometers of raw mountain drama. Peaks like Coma Pedrosa (2,942 meters) and Pic de l’Estanyó offer jagged silhouettes against the sky, while deep valleys protect medieval villages that look frozen in time. The country has been around since 1278, governed as a unique co-principality shared between the Bishop of Urgell (in Spain) and the President of France. That’s right—Andorra has two heads of state, which sounds like the start of a political sitcom but somehow works.

Gas Station at Sant Julià de Lòria / Aubinyà, Andorra

We pulled into Sant Julià de Lòria (or possibly Aubinyà), the first town with a proper fuel station and topped off both Shehzadi and Chetak. Andorra is a duty-free zone, so fuel prices were almost suspiciously low. We half expected someone to come running out yelling, "You can’t do that here!" But no—just a polite nod from the cashier and a perfect croissant sitting under a glass dome by the register.

Sant Julià de Lòria, Andorra

Next stop: a little roadside café with a patio facing the mountains. We sat down for strong coffees and hot pastries as the Pyrenees towered over us like sleepy giants. Andorrans are a hardy bunch—descendants of shepherds and smugglers, monks and mountaineers. Their folklore includes stories of witches who ride the night air, giants who formed the peaks with their fists, and snow spirits said to bless or curse travelers depending on their mood.

Politically, Andorra keeps things quiet. It’s not in the EU, though it uses the Euro. It doesn’t have its own military, but you won’t find much crime. The people are warm, the towns are clean, and the culture is a blend of Catalan soul with mountain practicality. There’s a certain calm intensity to Andorra—it doesn’t shout. It hums.

After a couple of blissful hours sipping espresso and watching clouds crawl over mountaintops, we packed up and crossed the border back into Spain. No questions. No stop. Just a few signs and a gentle glide through some well-maintained lanes flanked by sleepy government buildings.

A bit later, we were staring at another sign. This one said: France.

Cue the fanfare. Three countries before dinner.

The French motorways greeted us like old friends. Wide, smooth, with views that had us wanting to pull over every 30 kilometers just to gape at the scenery.

We hit a couple of rest stops—nothing glamorous, but comfortable. Navigating French gas stations as Americans in a San Antonio-born Texas pickup truck can feel like deciphering a gourmet menu—except instead of steak frites, you are choosing between sans plomb (unleaded gasoline) and gazole (diesel - deadly for Shehzadi). The first shock? "Essence" doesn’t mean ghost stories—it’s French for gasoline. For your gasoline-drinking vehicles (not Diesel!), look for SP95 (regular unleaded gasolene, 95 European octane) or SP98 (premium unleaded gasoline, 98 European octane), which are the French cousins of your familiar 87 and 91 octane back home.

French Gas Station at a rest stop along A7 Motorway

Meanwhile, E10 (10% ethanol) lurks like a sneaky diet version of gas—cheaper but might make your truck miss its all-American carbs, so we avoided it when we could, but went with "sans plomb 95-E10" when we couldn't. Shehzadi seems to be happy with either variety of E95, which had a green handle everywhere we filled Shehzadi up.

Diesel is called Gazole in France (or sometimes just "Diesel"), sometimes confusingly flaunting a big green handle or sign instead of  yellow or orange, because oui, Europe loves diesel. WARNING: If you accidentally grab the Gazole nozzle for your gasoline (petrol) beast, or sans plomb nozzle for your diesel beast, prepare for a très expensive oops and a truck that runs like a dead baguette-fed snail. And don’t panic if you see "carburants" instead of "gas"—it’s just French for "fuel", not a new type of croissant. Bonne chance, and may your mileage be magnifique!

Aire de Latitude 45: Rest Stop on France Motorway A7

One of the more curious ones was Aire de Latitude 45 named after Latitude 45. It’s exactly halfway between the Equator and the North Pole. There’s a sign and a small monument to mark the spot, and while the café coffee wasn’t exactly Parisian, the sentiment was sweet. We took a moment to stand there, straddling hemispheres, feeling geographically symmetrical.

But the crown jewel of our drive came in the form of the Pont Séjourné.

Chetak and Shehzadi at Pont Séjourné

This towering viaduct sits near Fontpédrouse in the Pyrénées-Orientales, a region that sounds like it should have its own perfume line. The bridge looks like something a Roman emperor would build if he had a flair for the dramatic and a thing for symmetry. Spanning the Tet Valley, the viaduct is part of the famous Ligne de Cerdagne railway, better known as the Yellow Train (“Le Train Jaune”). This iconic line winds through the Pyrenees like a thread through embroidery, its bright carriages popping against a backdrop of cliffs, forests, and snow-capped peaks.

Built in the early 1900s, the Pont Séjourné is an architectural love letter to stone masonry and sheer willpower. Named after Paul Séjourné, a French engineer known for his arch designs, the viaduct stands 65 meters high and stretches 236 meters long. Watching the Yellow Train snake across it feels like watching time itself inch forward. Locals call it the "Canary in the Mountains." Tourists just call it magic.

Folklore here runs deep. Some say the train is guided by mountain spirits who ensure safe passage. Others tell tales of a lost village deep in the valley, visible only from the train's highest point, when the light hits just right. Whether that’s true or just clever marketing, we couldn’t say. But we all swore we saw something shimmering far below as the train chugged across.

Shehzadi and Chetak at our campsite in Faramans, France

As the day wound down, so did we. After nearly 500 kilometers and three border crossings, we pulled into our next campground (Camping des Eydoches at 515 Av. des Marais, 38260 Faramans, France) just outside the metropolis of Lyon. It was quiet, green, and kissed by the last rays of the sun stretching across the mountains. We set up camp, opened a bottle of local wine, and let the calm wash over us.

Shehzadi rested beside Chetak, two steel beasts cooled down and ready to sleep. The stars blinked into view one by one, and the mountains folded in around us like a lullaby.

Tomorrow, we visit Lyon's famous Silk Museum and cross into Switzerland. The Matterhorn waits. And so does the legendary village of Chandolin, where Ella Maillart once lived and wrote about the world.

But tonight is just ours. Stars above. Camp below. Stories in between.