CELE-BRAKE-SHUN
Our old tin lizzy, Mathilda, gets her twice a year check-ups just as Gary and I do. We have great confidence in Wonka's Car Service Agency, maybe more in him than in our doctors. Wonka never pushes us, makes time to explain what we must do to keep Mathilda healthy, fine, for yet a few more years. She's only eight, has almost no dings, good tires, a new battery and only 20000 miles. Why trade in? We don't
This year we aren't driving to Florida in December. Instead we are flying to Martinique with our two best friends, Stephen and Lille'
Bouchard. I've bought new shorts, jeans, swim wear and am really excited about the whole deal. Gary is so-so, laid back, freshens his wardrobe with a bare minimum of items. He is content. I cringe at most of his clothes but manage to hold my tongue.
Bouchard. I've bought new shorts, jeans, swim wear and am really excited about the whole deal. Gary is so-so, laid back, freshens his wardrobe with a bare minimum of items. He is content. I cringe at most of his clothes but manage to hold my tongue.
Our flight is as smooth as Merano glass. La Corniche, the hotel recommended by our travel agent, can't be cleaner, more comfortable. We have a lovely view, casinos in walking distance, the calm ocean at our toes. The one thing none of us like is the presence of pets in restaurants. At Le Cockoteel, a chicken, held by a very thin chain, walks across my foot. It's owner oblivious.
Before entering the attached casino, there is a charming bistro with entertainment. Stopping in for a glass of wine and wonderful camembert cheese and meet the new sensation, Neil Sadaka. We have never heard of hi, stay an hour as we know he is going places. The casino has very strict rules gaily colored on the glass entry doors -'Formal Attire only.' Our travel agent has alerted us so we are A Okay.
All gamblers look elegant except one dark skinned gentleman playing 21. He wears a T shirt and a baseball cap. I pretend I have dropped something and glance under the table, am not too shocked to see his Bermuda shorts. I am offended, angry, complain to the casino Director, where I learn the man improperly dressed is Joe Louis and the director learns that I don't care if the guy is Jesus Christ. He tells me to mind my own business. Behind Monsieur Louis is an attractive woman and I tell her what I see and feel. She happens to be Mrs. Louis and is quite upset because nobody tells them anything. I do not tell her the sign on the door could have bitten them. In any case, she is sweet, apologizes and the next evening Louis is suave in his well-fitting tux.
My traveling friends and my husband did not appreciate what I did.
The next morning, after a really delicious French breakfast, (with no pets visible) we rent a car for a scenic drive. My Gary will drive one way and Stephen will get us back to our hotel. We can barely tell the blue ocean from the blue sky. The varied colored houses are picturesque. Our cameras click away. Gary points out the upcoming hills, slowly carefully, tests our brakes. They seem fine. Within a mile the paved road ends. The already narrow road shrinks to barely let us climb. Going forward does not seem possible. Backing out IS impossible. Stephan gets out and paces the small area around our car, believes that with extreme care and his directions, maybe, maybe Gary can back up by inches by using the small projection out over the water. It's dangerous. None of us want to die but somebody has to drive. Gary stays inside. Stephen will talk to him. Lille' starts walking down to warn other cars not to come up the hill. I pull myself tight to the wall and barely breathe. One slip, one mechanical failure and we three die.
All gamblers look elegant except one dark skinned gentleman playing 21. He wears a T shirt and a baseball cap. I pretend I have dropped something and glance under the table, am not too shocked to see his Bermuda shorts. I am offended, angry, complain to the casino Director, where I learn the man improperly dressed is Joe Louis and the director learns that I don't care if the guy is Jesus Christ. He tells me to mind my own business. Behind Monsieur Louis is an attractive woman and I tell her what I see and feel. She happens to be Mrs. Louis and is quite upset because nobody tells them anything. I do not tell her the sign on the door could have bitten them. In any case, she is sweet, apologizes and the next evening Louis is suave in his well-fitting tux.
My traveling friends and my husband did not appreciate what I did.
The next morning, after a really delicious French breakfast, (with no pets visible) we rent a car for a scenic drive. My Gary will drive one way and Stephen will get us back to our hotel. We can barely tell the blue ocean from the blue sky. The varied colored houses are picturesque. Our cameras click away. Gary points out the upcoming hills, slowly carefully, tests our brakes. They seem fine. Within a mile the paved road ends. The already narrow road shrinks to barely let us climb. Going forward does not seem possible. Backing out IS impossible. Stephan gets out and paces the small area around our car, believes that with extreme care and his directions, maybe, maybe Gary can back up by inches by using the small projection out over the water. It's dangerous. None of us want to die but somebody has to drive. Gary stays inside. Stephen will talk to him. Lille' starts walking down to warn other cars not to come up the hill. I pull myself tight to the wall and barely breathe. One slip, one mechanical failure and we three die.
When finally the car is turned just enough to scrape down the mountainous hill, we find Lille' standing in front of a small red sign that has a lot of graffiti on it, manage to make out the French-translate it
' DANGEROUS- NO CARS.'
' DANGEROUS- NO CARS.'
Dumb tourists, we return the car, hire a driver, and have quite a story to tell when we get back to the United States. Next year–Florida!
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