View From d'Isle
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Combien de l'argent avez vous?
by Jean d'Isle

n last week's article, having seen the Midnight Sun, our intrepid band of four headed South in the rented Ford Taurus, wending our way through the fjords of Norway. My memories of this leg of the trip are of the stark, pristine landscape and all that waterfront property with not a house in sight -- apparently undiscovered by California real estate developers.

With about two weeks on the road behind us, we had been through Germany, Denmark, Sweden, Norway and Finland; and in the two weeks remaining we would pass through another ten countries by the time we reached our final destination in Spain. It seemed like life had become a continuous search for food, lodging and gasoline, with matters complicated by a wildly fluctuating dollar. Tradesmen and innkeepers were reluctant to accept payment in dollars which might be worth considerably less the following day. So we tended to accumulate a variety of foreign currencies during our trip southward.

We didn't spend every waking hour on the road -- opportunities for sight seeing were just too numerous. We explored windmills in Holland; visited castles and cathedrals along the entire route; enjoyed a scenic cruise down the Rhine; and even popped into the casino in Monte Carlo for a couple of unproductive pulls on a slot machine ("Oh, yes. We've gambled in Monte Carlo," sounds kind of cool).

Time tends to blur the unpleasant experiences of a long trip like this; but some events never fade. I recall in particular an incident in southern France that reinforced my view that the French deserve each other. Admittedly, I had a negative predisposition toward the French, based on the ill treatment my family received in Paris six years earlier when the French had decided to evict NATO from their country and it apparently became a matter of national pride to see who could make things the most difficult for transiting Americans. (An aside: this is the same enlightened country whose leader insists that nuclear testing in the Pacific islands is their right, and that the greatest threat to mankind is not the bomb or even AIDS but the "major risk for humanity" is the domination of the English language on the Internet). Now, six years later, I was trying to sneak across their country when they got me again.

We had just crossed into France from Italy and had stopped for a noon meal at something resembling a motel restaurant. As we pulled back onto the highway, with no other vehicles in view, a rock came crashing through the windshield, showering us all with tiny shards of sharp glass (European-built autos did not have safety glass ). After pulling to the side of the road to assess the damage and check for injuries (some small cuts), I looked through the blank space where my windshield used to be and -- voila! -- a sign advertising "windshields replaced." Coincidence? I think not. I had visions of a grubby little Frenchman hiding in the bushes with a pile of stones and an automobile recognition book. "Ok, Pierre, we're trying to move Taurus windshields today."

Pulling into the repair facility, I was quickly sized up and told how lucky I was that they happened to have a windshield that would fit my car. "Combien de francs avez vous?" (asking how many francs I had). By incredible coincidence, my total remaining French francs matched the cost of the windshield. (I'm reminded of the cartoon of the auto mechanic totaling up the bill and coming up with a figure that matches the guy's license plate number.)

Leaving France behind us and vowing never to return, we pushed on into the Pyrenees to the little republic of Andorra, a 190 square-mile enclave straddling the French and Spanish border. Reputed to be a mecca for shoppers, my wife could hardly wait to shop all 190 square miles of it. All prices were posted in French francs and Spanish pesetas but had to be converted to dollars to see if you were really getting a bargain. We did the math the old fashioned way, with pencil and paper, and discovered that everything, even the gold, was really cheap. While my wife was out shopping and I was minding children, I ran the exchange rate computations again and found we had made a gross error in our calculations. Things were not cheap. So off I flew, dragging two children, looking desperately in every store on the main street, hoping to find my wife before she spent us into bankruptcy saving money. Fortunately I located her before major damage was done.

After almost 30 days on the road, we entered the country of final destination, Spain. The terrifying tunnels of Norway and the nasty Frenchmen in the bushes were behind us. Sunny Spain was just over the next rise. Actually, what was over the next rise was a member of the Guardia Civil, enforcers of Franco's laws and liberal dispensers of traffic tickets. I was motioned to the side of the road where I was approached by the grim-faced officer. I stood accused of crossing a double line somewhere "back there." In spite of a reasonably good grasp of Spanish, I was unconvincing in my protest. I finally just asked how much the fine would be. "Cuantos pesetas tiene usted?" he asked. Déjà vu all over again.

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Jean d'Isle is a retired naval officer living in Hawaii.During his military career he served in a number of overseas assignments, including Germany, England, Spain, Viet Nam and Puerto Rico. Following his retirement, he was an adjunct faculty member of Hawaii Pacific University and is currently under contract with the U.S. Navy at the submarine base in Pearl Harbor.

Jean's column, View From d'Isle, is a regular feature of VegSource On-Line Magazine.