Work in progress
Last Days in the Army
Let’s take a step back. My year in the army was mercifully crawling to an end. July seemed to have at least fifty days in it, and we were no longer counting down the days but the minutes until la quille—that blessed release into civilian life. Freedom, in other words.
The brass, of course, kept the suspense alive until the very last possible moment. Then, suddenly, like a divine proclamation, the message arrived: Pack your bags. Hand in your rifle. Tomorrow you’re going home.
And just like that, twelve long months were behind me. A lot had happened in that time.
First, I had gotten engaged.
Second, I was in the best shape of my life—army life does wonders for the waistline if not for the soul.
Third, I had decided not to return to the USA, at least for now.
Fourth, we had set a wedding date for early September, and thanks to my fiancée Carole most of the arrangements were already made. Invitations had gone out, my parents were insisting on a second celebration in France one week later, and everything was falling into place.
And fifth—perhaps the most exciting for a young man—I had a brand-new Citroën GS2, a wedding present from my parents. The car was already with me in Annecy, parked just across the street from the barracks, waiting like a loyal steed ready to gallop.
Finally, it was time. Last assembly, last salute, last “France thanks you for your service.” We exchanged addresses with the few friends who had passed the mysterious army test of becoming “keepers.” This was long before mobile phones and email addresses—paper, ink, and hope did the job back then.
Then I jumped into my Citroën. Free at last.
My destination: the south of France.
The joy of freedom was so intense I think I sang the entire way down the Route Napoléon—probably out of tune, definitely too fast. I arrived in Cavalaire at dusk, and the car smelled faintly of burnt rubber. I must admit: I had treated those tires rather enthusiastically.
But it felt so good.
Three glorious weeks of sunshine lay ahead of me, and to top it all off, Carole was already waiting in the apartment. Could life get sweeter? I seriously doubted it.
Yes, decisions awaited us—where to live, what came next, the practicalities of starting a life together. But for the first few days, none of that mattered. It was just the two of us, the Mediterranean sun, and a couple of Ricards.
Freedom never tasted so good.
Decision Time
As all good things must, our holiday eventually came to an end, and the small matter of real life insisted on being addressed. The decision was made—calmly by Carole, reluctantly by me—that we would start our new life in England. For a while, I reassured myself. After all, we needed a place to live, and a job wouldn’t hurt either.
We left the south of France toward the end of August. The summer of 1976 was legendary—Europe seemed trapped under a giant magnifying glass, the sun blasting down without mercy. Our first stop was Paris, or more precisely the suburbs, at my parents’ place, where I retrieved a few essential belongings, namely civilian clothes. We said our goodbyes, knowing we would all reunite at the wedding in just a few weeks.
Before long, I found myself once again on the ferry from Calais to Dover. This time, though, there was no turning back. I had committed. Driving on the left side of the road with a left-hand-drive car is an education in itself, but nothing I couldn’t handle with a bit of concentration and a few deep breaths.
Carole’s parents welcomed us with warmth, patience, and the excellent manners one can only hope for from future in-laws. There was plenty to sort out: wedding details, the reception, guests, accommodations—etcetera, etcetera, the mountain of logistics that accompanies the simple word “marriage.”
We also needed somewhere to live, and after some searching we found an elderly yet serviceable apartment to rent in Streatham. Streatham Common South, to be exact. At the end of the road stood a magnificent Young’s pub—almost reason enough to sign the lease on the spot.
A huge comfort in all this was that my old friend Chris lived only a few kilometres away. I had always considered his parents as family, and knowing they were near made this leap into English life feel a little less daunting.
The wedding – Part 1
The wedding – Part 2
Settling in
A job
First move
Second move and first house
The first child
The second child
The third move
sauvageraie.fr 