Monte Carlo Casino: Disneyland for rich people

By the time, me and my much-loved little, red auto reached the house, I had come to what seemed to me a simple and reasonable decision. I would leave France next day, or as soon as I could get space on an air ferry, and tour Cornwall instead. It was ridiculous, certainly, after all the time I had spent dreaming of a French holiday, and it was sad, when I loved the scene and the sunshine and the atmosphere of Frenchness so much...

A man was standing by my auto when I came out of the diner.A young man of about twenty, fair, suntanned, carrying a rucksack.As I opened the auto door, he spoke."Hi! Traveling alone?" he asked.
"Yes, why?"
"I'd hoped for a lift, but I guess a young lady on her own isn't so hot for the idea."
I turned the ignition key."Don't worry, there'll be other cars along soon with men at the wheel."He stepped back."O.K.Forget it," he said." I'm only going to the nearest village."
I watched him walking alone, limping a bit.I started the auto, drove up to him and called through the window.
"Have you hurt  your foot?"
"Only a blister."
I threw open the passenger door."I' ll take you."

"Yes, mademoiselle?" It was positively the same man.He was carrying a bag of tools."Can I give you a lift?" The words came out unthinkingly, for want of anything else to say.He waggled a hand in refusal."Ah, it's not necessary, mademoiselle."(How does he know I'm a mademoiselle?)" I'm going to catch a car.I'm going to Saint-Tropez, mademoiselle." His shrug indicated that I couldn't possibly be going so far.What an agreeable coincidence, I thought..."Ah.One must be very careful, mademoiselle.You don't know me."He smiled, and I smiled in return.He shrugged his shoulders and walked round the car to get in."You are very kind , mademoiselle."
"Not at all." I was aware of the irony of refusing a lift to a stranger and deliberately offering a lift to another.He sat with his bag on his lap and his hands resting on it, silent and relaxed.I found myself self-conscious, nervous of changing gear clumsily.Open country stretched straight ahead...

In fact, I was in love with everything at that moment.The most banal things were a joy to my eyes.A notice proclaiming sortie , the new smell of a foreign country, the bleached and faded blue overalls of workmen, the sharp glaring  outlines of buildings in the sun. " Anything to declare? " the customs man asked.He had a black mustache and a surly expression. "Rien que mes espoirs,"  i said gravely. " Nothing but my hopes." His face didn ' t flicker. " Take good care of them, madam, " he muttered.I started my auto and drove carefully out into foreign country.Suddenly I noticed two strange young men...Next time I " ll tell their story.

When the little red auto finally stood on the tarmac at Paris,  I felt like laughing aloud.The fact of being on French soil, of being at last abroad, was delight enough.Since I had a habit of examining my impulses,I suspected that my elation might be partly the result of fatigue, a kind of intoxication of exhaustion.I had driven the little car five hundred miles, mostly through the night, in order to reach the south coast and the airport, and I knew, it was foolish.On the long trip through England I had even put my foot down and watched the speedometer needle flickering round seventy.I was in love with the little car, absolutely besotted.I would cheerfully have driven nonstop to China.The sun was higher in the sky than it ever rose at home, and this surprised and delighted me.I had never imagined five hundred mer miles of latitude could make such a difference.