After an interminable length of time, we arrived at the summit. As my wife exclaimed, “Piece of Cake”, I slowly emerged from my cocoon and entered the rarified air at the top of Mount Faron. The first thing I saw was a Sherman tank from the original invasion of 1944. I could not imagine how it had gotten up there. Had some brave soldier actually driven it up that narrow path?
As we approached the ticket counter, I made a startling discovery: only francs were accepted, no other currency, and no carte de crédit. And I had only American money. If I had to beg, that’s what I’d do. No way was this nightmare ascension going to end with us looking at the outside of a museum and one lonely Sherman tank. So I begged. As the line passed, an occasional benevolent Frenchman dropped a franc or two into my cap. When I had enough monnaie, we paid the admission and entered.The first item to greet my eyes was a huge painting of Winston Churchill. He had vigorously opposed Dragoon, almost coming to blows with Eisenhower over the operation, and yet the museum had been dedicated to his honor. Talk about French paradoxes.
The museum was small but interesting and contained a theater that showed actual footage of the invasion that I am unaware of being available elsewhere.
The hour or so we had spent in the museum had reassembled my psyche into working form. Then we stepped outside and fear again clutched at all my vital organs. It was black as night! How could that be? It was barely six heures. Someone reminded me that daylight saving had ended and so it was in fact an hour later.
We reassumed our positions in the Mercedes, desert tasting assurances were reaffirmed, and off we eased down the dark side of the mountain. It was a long and anxiety ridden ride, this time shared by my wife who told me once we had safely reached the bottom that she could not see where she was going and had to hug the side of the mountain to make appropriate turns. She was never able to see the outer edge of our path.
As we were getting out of the car at the bottom of the road, and just before I kissed mother earth in passionate thanksgiving, my wife asked me what the blinking light on the dashboard meant: les freins ne marchent pas! We had just completed a round trip to heaven and back in a car with faulty brakes. My belief in angels was solidified.
