Earl was cleaning out some boxes recently and came across three postcards I’d sent him a decade ago. I’d gone to France to visit some long-time friends and kept him apprised of our activities from time to time.
The first one showed a photograph of Montmarte, the Bohemian area of Paris, and said: “Having a cappuccino in an outdoor cafй. Veronique and I are going to museums and cafes and churches today. We walk everywhere. Tomorrow we leave for Toulon, in the south of France, where she and her family live. She was surprised that I brought so much luggage. Miss you, A.”
The second one revealed the craggy face of a soldier in the French Foreign Legion. Only in France, it’s called La Legion Etrangere, the Strange Legion. Knowing of Earl’s interest in these mercenaries for hire, I wrote: “We are traveling all over the south of France. They drive very fast here — 100 miles an hour is the speed limit. It’s as if a horde of wild mice inhabit the roads. Yesterday, believe it or not, we went to the headquarters of the French Foreign Legion. I signed you up. You report to Algiers. I’ll meet you there. Love, A.”
Finally, the last post card featured Monte Rognosa, a sun-drenched mountain between France and Italy. We had ventured over it, in spite of my fear of heights. I wrote: “Bernard, Eliane, and I crossed this mountain into Italy this morning. I found a house for your daughter and a great cappuccino cafй for us. You are in my thoughts. Love, A.”
This brief travelogue brought back many memories, so I taped the postcards to my office door (which doubles as a bulletin board). The happy part is that Earl and I are still together and have shared many trips in the past ten years. The sad part is that I’ve seen Veronique, Bernard, and Eliane only once since then.
Looking at the French solder makes me think I’ll try to get in touch with them.
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