With Passport and Pen

From Chapter 4 The latest story of romance and adventure began the day we left Amsterdam and caught Paree Fever. We picked up a hitchhiker in Belgium. A Brit, he’d waited three and a half hours for a lift and was jubilant at our stopping. He spoke his best London University French when we needed car attention and left us with a bottle of red French red wine. One glass made us sufficiently dopey to sleep mid roaring traffic on a Paris street, to the amusement of two gendarmes. The following night, after we had drunk the second half of the bottle, I decided it was essential to get back to the campsite. I tried to rouse Annette so she could drive. “Let’s get going to the campsite,” I said. All I got was a silly look and sweet words of abuse. I didn't want another night on the street, so I moved Annette over. Sober as a judge, and I guess as reckless as a dodo, Ian, I proceeded to drive us back to the campsite. Why I ever thought I would manage to do this successfully, I don’t know. Although I had an international licence, I had never owned a car. I had done only a little driving in Australia and none in Europe. When the country policeman in Binnaway passed me for my licence in my second year of teaching, he warned me not to drive the next day. If I did, he would probably book me. On this evening, however, armed with just my international licence and a heap of over-confidence in my driving ability, I set off through the Paris streets. I got caught in a stream of traffic going left, and somehow, there seemed to be no alternative but to go left with it. Knowing full well that we were going away from the campsite and had very little petrol, I quickly pulled over. There we locked ourselves in for the night and flaked in a section of Paris that I'm sure I would never find again, try as I might. In the morning, Annette announced that if she didn't find a “toot” pronto, there'd be fun and games. In desperation, we knocked on the door in a block of what looked like housing commission flats. That is how we met two more very kind and generous strangers. Monique, a young woman who lived with her mother, spoke fluent English (a thousand to one chance in our favour.) She showed us to the bathroom and made us a coffee. She then invited us to stay for lunch. We went with her to the supermarket, had a lovely warm wash and changed our clothes. We finally sat down to a delicious lunch prepared by Monique's mother, the sweetest of dear old ladies. I thought it was Christmas, eating fresh eggs and tomato salad and drinking red Bordeaux wine. When golden brown chips and steak followed, I was so much agog I nearly choked on it all. Steak! When travelling with the boys in France, I had complained about the price of sausages. After five months away from home, the very word steak was music to the ears, but French almonds and Cognac followed. All this, after thinking from the look of the house, lunch would probably mean a cheese sandwich. Before we left Paris, we enjoyed meeting Monique again when we had coffee in a sidewalk café on the Champs-Elysees. It is interesting now to reflect that we might have had none of this enjoyment. It was all the result of a bottle of red wine and a driving licence for someone who almost certainly didn’t deserve to have it. The fun we had with Monique was just the beginning. In Paris, we had a lot more excitement as we visited places of interest, or sometimes just managed our lives and watched the world go by from the car. I’m writing this letter as we sit in the car on our street, otherwise known as the Champs-Elysees. You would have been doubled up with laughter, if you’d seen us here last night getting ready for the Lido. When we drove past at half-past six and saw a parking spot right outside, we thought we'd better snatch it up quickly. Otherwise we might have a long walk in the pouring rain later. The fact that we still had to get dressed was the least of our worries. We figured that with the rain pouring down, the windows would soon fog up. Motorists would be busy watching the slippery road ahead, and pedestrians would be hurrying out of the weather. We could easily dress and make up for the evening. I must confess, though, I was beginning to have second thoughts when Annette’s strapless bra refused to come together after the first few tugs and pulls. We had a special auto hair-set and applied makeup with the condensation on the windscreen. Everything turned out beautifully in the end, and at nine o’clock, we were ready to step out of the car, balls of style, in only slightly laddered stockings. The last thing before leaving, we turned off the trannie, much as you pull out the iron. We then stuffed some biscuits into our handbags. They were to keep us contented mid the aroma of Lido dinner dishes. At ten past nine, we were just in time to get the last two seats at the bar, all later tourists having to stand the whole time. As I stood on the rung of my stool and leant against the bar, I had the best position in the room for seeing the show. This Lido postcard gives you the countdown. 9.40 pm: Have a good while to wait yet, sitting at the bar, glass of Champagne in front of me. Drinks this way are seventeen and a half francs (twenty-six shillings), so we must sit on one all night. 10.10 pm: Bubbles are slowing down. Two Americans are also watching their bubbles disappear...