THE CURSE OF FRUGALITY

THE CURSE OF FRUGALITY A MEMOIR Deep into an afternoon in August 1954, all the other tourists had disappeared. “It’s August 24th!” I yelled to both my friends still engrossed in viewing ancient ruins, and standing thirty yards distant on a cobblestone sidewalk. I shouted again, “Guess what today’s date is? Oh, don’t bother. Listen, on this exact date nearly 2,000 years ago, this whole city, was buried in volcanic ash.” As our visit to Pompeii drew to a close, we all turned west, and shaded our eyes as the sun began its relentless descent. Our fabulous forty-day European sightseeing excursion consisted of a honeymoon couple and myself as chaperon. In another two weeks, the happy couple and I would part company. Pompeii was our last major stop before heading north in our small rented four-horse-power Renault sedan. Our tour plan included a hundred-mile drive north of Rome to Grosseto, where we expected to stay over night, relax, have brunch and take a few peeks at the city’s Gothic Cathedral and Museum of Etruscan antiquities. From there, we’ll make a quick stop at Pisa to survey the surrounding landscape from the tower’s top and after an early supper, head for the Alps and cross back into France. Curious about how I ended up escorting a newly married couple around parts of Europe? The idea for this grand tour evolved two-years earlier, well before love intruded into a twenty-four month struggle of scrimping and saving every dollar that Jack and I needed to complete this travel adventure. We completed all the minute details and had booked third class passage on the ocean liner, Liberte, pride of the French Line. I was tossed for a loop when lover-boy, Jack, fell head over heels for Jacqueline, a visiting French girl from Lille, who had spent time with relatives in Brooklyn. The lovers decided to fly to Europe and get married in France just about the time I would be stepping off the Liberte at Le Harve. A rented Renault awaited me at the dock. I drove east one hundred miles and arrived in Lille a day after the wedding. The following morning our light-hearted trio, carrying a minimum of baggage, climbed into the Renault and headed east to Brussels and Amsterdam before crossing back into France. We spent two weeks in Paris and then on to Orleans, Tours, Poitiers, Angouleme, Perigueux, Toulouse, Carcassone and Beziers. This long excursion required three stops to fill the gas tank. At each service station, I kept shaking my head, “I can’t understand it. At home, it’s only thirty cents a gallon and here we’re paying ninety.” After three weeks on the road, we drove into Marseilles at twilight, expecting to get a much-needed night’s sleep. Then began a futile four-hour search for two hotel rooms. In desperation, Jacqueline asked a policeman to suggest a place where we might stay overnight. He gave us a surprising and unique suggestion, “This summer, people are sleeping in their cars everywhere around here. There’s only one place where you might find some empty rooms is down in the harbor area. Just go to a few brothels and they might have some empty space.” That’s how the three of us ended up, undisturbed, in a whorehouse for the entire night. The next morning, after starting east toward Italy, we stayed three nights in Juan-les-Pins, a small beach resort on the Riviera. Just before crossing the border into Italy, I stopped to fill the gas tank at ninety cent per gallon. Now turning back to Italian adventure, we lingered a little too long in Pisa and were surprised when the sun slipped below the distant hills. With myself at the wheel, we traveled north after sunset. During the ten days we spent in Italy, our little group was overjoyed that the Renault required only one refueling. Why? … It was simple economics. The least expensive gas in sunny Italy was sold at Supercortemaggiore stations for $2.35 a gallon. Since our funds were running low, we were determined to make it back into France, even with the fuel gauge swinging back and forth at the quarter-full mark. By 10PM, our Renault had passed through Turin. I stopped every few kilometers and stepped out to closely examine the darkened directional signs leading us eighty kilometers west to the nearest Alpine crossing. The Renault struggled up the gradually rising road leading to the nearest Alpine Pass. By that time, the temperature crept persistently lower. Close to midnight, our lightly clothed group, shivering from head to toe, reached the custom’s post at the Col du Mont-Conis Pass, which sat high atop of a 10,000-foot high peak. The two Customs Officers, wearing heavy overcoats emerged from the brick built post and were in no mood to linger outside in order to scrutinize our luggage. They were looking forward to returning to the warmth of their heated building and some hot coffee brewing there. After a few questions, a cursory passport check, and no baggage inspection, we were passed through and the officers retreated inside. Our lightly clad trio began a treacherous descent down the mountaintop toward France with only a low, thin, metal railing on the right side to protect any car from flying off the narrow road into eternity. In inky blackness, I slowed the Renault to fifteen miles per hour while nursing the fuel gauge and braking continuously around hairpin curves. Though the air was cold, my forehead was bathed in perspiration, but not from the fear of the treacherous slopes. Quick glances at the fuel gauge revealed a needle bouncing wildly right and left past empty. Within ten minutes the engine, coughed its last and died. The noisy engine quieted into eerie silence. A split second later, we were left with only the alarming sound of whistling discordant Alpine winds, filtering through the tightly shut windows. In the rear seat, Jack and Jacqueline sat wide-eyed, clutching each other and praying. The rolling car gathered speed as it careened around the hairpin curves in total darkness. I burned those brakes for almost a full hour. As the Renault descended, I gripped the wheel with such intensity that all of my ten fingers were totally racked with cramps. My right foot sat on the brake for the entire downward spiral as I slowed the car to five miles per hour, while fighting to steer around those sharp curves. In the back of my mind, was the ever present thought of brake failure or the loss of the headlights. At long last, as the narrow road finally flattened out, I was able to guide the Renault into a tiny French village. On the right, I spotted a quaint inn, one of the few buildings located in Lanslebourg. I stepped on the brakes once again and the auto gently rolled to halt to the front of the inn leaving us exhausted and breathless at our good fortune. When we finally came to our senses and looked ahead to the front of the building, the car rocked with laughter. No more than ten feet ahead, outlined by the headlights, a lone gas pump locked up for the night offered a welcome beacon … and a subtle reminder of the ‘Curse of Frugality’.

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