Yes, I was. We all were. Our plan was to camp just outside the cities which we wanted to visit, starting with those in France with their Roman ruins, and with so much history to take in, both ancient and modern: Nîmes, Arles, Marseille, Aix-en-Provence, Toulon, St. Tropez, Fréjus, Cannes, Nice, Monaco, Monte Carlo. So much to see! We intended crossing the border into Italy just past Menton. Then it was onto Genoa, Pisa, and Viareggio before driving inland to Florence (who knew that Florence was called Firenze, in Italian?!). Next stop Rome for several days, and onwards as far south as Pompei and Naples. After that, we would cross to the eastern side of Italy and travel the coastal route north alongside the Adriatic Sea, to Rimini and to Venice. Finally, we would drive through Milan and on to the French border. The last leg of our journey would find us back at our departure point in central France, at Marianne and Paulette’s parents’ house. I would need to leave France soon afterwards, but I concentrated on the wonderful experience we would have in Italy, one that I could never have imagined possible when I was living in Rhodesia.
We were excited. I chastise myself these days for perhaps being somewhat selfish, too, in that we never once gave a thought to how tiring such a long trip might be for Paulette, the only one of us who could drive. Her tiny 2CV was to be our method of transport. To be fair, she was just as keen on our trip as we were.
Within no time at all, we were checking out the family camping gear. We had a four-man tent, sleeping bags, a propane stove, a small foldable table and four chairs, plus whatever we needed in the way of pots and pans, utensils, and dishes, to self-cater our meals. We could put the tent and most of the camping gear on the roof of the car, thus giving us much-needed space inside. We would be packed in tightly, though.
A few weeks later, after the strike had finally ended and we had returned briefly to Murat to collect our personal belongings, Paulette, Marie, and I headed back to Paulette’s parents’ house. Marianne joined us there.
None of us would be coming back to Murat the following year, which was a relief to us all. Paulette was applying for another teaching position elsewhere in France, where the conditions wouldn’t be as harsh, and Marie was heading to university. Marianne was going back to Clermont-Ferrand, into her second year at university. She was now engaged to a fellow student, a Moroccan man from Fez. I was going back to Africa, to take up the third part of my second year at university, where I would be with students a year younger than me. It had been a hard year for me living in France, but I congratulated myself on being bilingual, at least. I felt so much more mature than when I had arrived. Travelling alone no longer frightened me. I had even gone on my own by train to Switzerland during one school break, and had toured around, staying in youth hostels, and enjoying the experience. I was no longer the same person, I felt.
As soon as the summer holiday period arrived, we young women loaded up the 2CV and set off in a cloud of excitement. We could hardly wait to experience a new country, a new culture, and a new language. We were on a high! Four weeks of green countryside, bright sunshine, blue skies, golden beaches, ocean waves, and, above all, no classrooms and no students to worry about. Murat was over and done with, for ever. Hurrah!
Italy, here we come!
