We were in Southern France about to ascend Mount Faron to visit the museum dedicated to Operation Dragoon, the invasion of southern France that followed a month after the Normandy Invasion. It took me but a single glance at the conveyor chains that pulled the perilously dangling and swaying compartments up the side of the mountain into a vanishing distance to rule out that mode of ascent. The French attendant assured me that an easy and safe alternative was to simply drive my car to the top of the mountain. Pas de problème, he assured me. So off we went in our rented Mercedes.
At first, it was no problem as I zipped up the side of the mountain on a wide, paved road, my view reassuringly blocked by houses lining the side of the road opposite the mountain. Even when the houses gave way to a railing, giving me a view of the Mediterranean from a progressively higher vantage point, I was able to keep my heart rate and respirations under reasonable control. But when the railing disappeared and the road narrowed to barely accommodate the right wheels of my wider than ideal voiture, it was all over. My heart pounded in my chest, my palms were sweaty, and my thoughts focused solely on the time and place when we would become another airborne statistic as the mountain spit us into the void of space. I pulled over against the mountain into the last spot wide enough for the cars behind me to pass. I told my wife, “I just can’t do it. We’ve got to go back. I’m sorry.” Then I looked back to see a very prominent sign that read simply, Interdit. There was no going back.
As my body trembled in abject fear, my mind raced through options. We would simply spend the rest of our lives in this little cut out on the side of Mount Faron. It could be a good life. We’d have a wonderful view. Passersby could give us left-over food from time to time; some water now and then; news of the lower world. Perhaps we could acquire a tent from someone. Our lives would simply take on a different, higher, dimension. “It could work”, I shouted. My wife shattered my dreams with two words that still awaken me from deep sleeps on stormy nights: “I’ll drive!”
As my wife slipped behind the wheel, I buried myself, curled up, face down, under both our coats, on the back seat. Her next words nearly sent me over the edge (figuratively speaking), “Where’s the clutch?” There was none. My wife had not previously driven this car. Then came the price. “If I drive us to the top without going off the edge, you’ve got to promise to let me sample all your deserts from now on with a smile and no complaint!” I had unknowingly married a heartless succubus!
à suivre....
