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The Diesel Disaster

“Let’s get some fuel here on the highway before we get into the city of Nice.” Dad said, sensibly.

I wanted a drink and to stretch my legs, as we’d driven 2 and a half of the 3 and a half hours from Stresa, Italy towards Nice, France -- which was to be our next destination.

“You get the fuel and I’ll help Mom over to the Ladies Room.” I said to my Dad.

I’d parked directly next to the Diesel pump and all he had to do was to pull the pump lever and top off the tank. As I approached our car and joyfully swung my leg inside, I was suddenly rushed by the fuel station attendant.

“No! No! No! Signora…!! Non avviare la macchina…!! Don’t start the car!

Don’t start the car…? What? Why? I thought, looking at him with so much intensity that the poor man took a step back.

“Perché…? Why...?" I said out loud, feeling the panic rising in my throat..."Is there a bomb?" I said, half joking.

Well, sorta. It turned out that the equivalent of a bomb was slowly mixing in the fuel tank of our leased 2019 Renault Talisman station wagon...in the form of Petrol (gas) and Diesel fuel playing dangerously in the same tank. Now, I’m no mechanic, but I know enough to know that mixing these fuels is a dangerous game. So I sat back in the driver’s seat and said to myself, Really…? First, the battery and now this…? Did I offend the Gods…? Am I being punished for going abroad when my hometown needed me to be there to help with Hurricane Florence clean up…?? WHY is this happening...!!??

At that moment, I pulled out my phone and called my husband. My rock, my sensible other half...the man who is my anchor, as I am his Kite. He’ll know what to do, I thought. When he finally came on the line, all I could do was laugh and cry all at the same time… “You’ll never guess where I am right now, and what’s happening…” I said, between sobs. He didn’t even have a chance to respond before I sat right down on the dusty pavement like a toddler and wailed, “I WANNA COME HOME…!”

“Calm down” he said, soothingly. “You’ve wanted to go on this trip for almost a year...you’ve saved money and leave time all year to do this, and you’re just overwhelmed right now. You know you want to get to Normandy to see those WW2 landing beaches and the Normandy towns that helped our GIs… Just take a breath.”

As I knew he would do, he said just the right thing. But I just sat there saying nothing for a minute. He was right. I wanted to put my hands into the sand where our Allied troops bled and died for my right to drive around free in ‘Fortress Europa’, making petrol and diesel bombs in my own car if I wanted to do it. Which I didn't...but I was free to do it, all the same, because of those young men; and I wasn’t gonna stop until I got there. So, I finished my conversation with him, dried my tears, and came back to my Dad; who’d done the dastardly deed, and apologized for losing my temper with him. “Everyone makes mistakes…” I said. “This one is a biggie, but keep it in perspective, everyone is safe and you’re cellular phone bill will be your penance for this mistake.” I joked, trying to make him feel better.

We arranged with the leasing agent to be taxied down to Nice Airport, about an hour away, where a rental car was waiting for us. We then drove the 10 minutes to our hotel, where we collapsed like a deck of cards in a storm. At some point, we’ll be heading to Vence, about 30 minutes up the road, and then we’ll have to take the rental car back to the mechanic in Italy, pick up the Renault, drive both cars back to the Nice Airport, and then, head back to Vence, where my Mom will be resting in bed, as she’s done for much of the trip. But she’s happy to be convalescing from her heart attack and surgeries in Europe...

Today, in Nice, has been really lovely...I’ve had a chance to just ‘chill’, and to read a bit and sit out in the cafe which is a part of this hotel. But, until we know whether our car can be fixed, we may just be touring France in a delightful Honda Civic.

Which uses regular gas.

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