Driving to Corsica - from My Little Corsica Stories

I wished I was still in the Parc de St. Cloud, wandering around, alone - no one crowding me, just me, enjoying the quiet of the birds and the chatter of old ladies. I had no idea what they were saying, their tongues rolling around at top speed in French. But I missed the comfort of my own grandma and so I thought of her when I saw these women.

I wanted to lie on the grass, the beautifully manicured grass lawns lined with graveled walk ways and statues. But once when I had done that, some of these ladies scolded me. At least that's what the look of disapproval and pointing of sharp fingers made me think they were doing. I smiled and skedaddled, even my red hair and freckles didn't charm them that day.

But now, I was standing between my oh-so-superior cousin Juliette and some Irish girl named Eileesh. On my head I wore 5 straw sun hats my Aunt had put on me for the picture we were posing for. Behind us was my Aunt and Uncle's Citroen station wagon with a mattress strapped to the roof. And I was smiling as big as I could, hoping no one noticed the tears.

I had spent two weeks driving around Scotland with my mom and dad and was now being loaded into this tiny car with these long legged weird near strangers to drive across France to stay on an Island named Corsica. And my mom and dad were flying home to the States without me. I was 10.

There I stood, smiling big for the camera, hoping no one would see my tears.  Finally, after smiling big for the camera and looking brave for my mom and dad and hiding panic from my cousin, we all squished into the car with Vega the family's Irish setter. I had been shown the map, but I had no concept of where Marseilles was from Paris and how long it would take to get there. France was so much smaller than the United States. Once we got onto the Autoroute, I though we would be there soon - it was obvious my Uncle drove fast.

But after driving for hours and hours on the Autoroute, we still weren't there. And then my Uncle decided to take a scenic route. So though hills and along cliffs and around bends we drove. The hot July of Paris left behind for the scorching temperatures of Southern France.

And I was stuck in the middle. Juliette and Eileesh sat on either side of me, taking up 45% of the backseat - each. Their hot, sweaty legs touched mine and their elbows constantly poked me. Every time they shifted, they stole more and more of my share of the seat. At 13, Juliette and Eileesh were tall. They were all legs and arms so I felt like a peanut between two folded up sticks.

We couldn't open the window on Eileeshes side of the car. Vega had to have her head out of the window, but she drooled while she panted - a lot! Without the window closed, the drool would fly out the front window and onto the person sitting next to the back seat window.

But finally I'd had enough. I had taken all the poking and nudging and stealing of room I could take. And as far as I could tell, it would be hours more until we got onto the boat in Marseilles. Normally I was not a whiner or complainer but I just couldn't help it. So during one of our scenic vista leg stretching rest stops, I complained to my Aunt. She was my dad's sister and surely would be on my side.

"Of course, MaryBeth! You sit up front for a while and I'll sit in back with the girls!" her cheerful voice boomed, echoing off the side of the hill and growing louder as it rolled down into the valley below.

I'd hoped for sympathy or maybe she'd tell the girls to give me more room. But not the sole privilege of sitting in the front seat. The looks Juliette and even the quiet Eileesh gave me made me shutter and wished I'd just stayed quiet. I wandered off to look at the view by myself.

We rearranged ourselves, my lanky Aunt climbing cheerfully into the middle of the back seat and me into the front seat next to my Uncle. He looked at me, wondering what to talk to his young American niece about. I smiled, hoping he wouldn't talk to me at all.

After a while, the sleeping Vega got restless and scrambled half onto my lap, clambering claws into my bare legs, pointing his snout out the window, nostrils absorbing the smells of the herbs and dry earth.

This was the day I learned the French words "Il baves" - he drools! And Vega did drool, all over my hands and arms and little skinny white scratched legs. I thought I'd throw up.

When we finally stopped again, hours later to stretch our legs and let the dog run, I gladly climbed into the middle seat in back to endure the steely glances and sweaty bodies of the girls.

And I never whined about the middle seat again.