Postscript-The Wayward Backpack

Markham and Charles extended their stay in France with two days of poking around in the small towns of Provence.  They had a little incident on their return to the Geneva airport, as recounted by Markham below:

In bed at 10:30 and fell immediately into the deepest sleep of the entire trip.  Around 11 receive a call from Charles telling me that our rescheduled flight actually is leaving an hour and a half earlier than we thought, so we need to meet in the lobby at 4 AM.  Reset my alarm for 3:45 PM.  3:50, awakened by birdsong and the rustle of the fading mistral, I look at my watch, what the heck, why didn’t my alarm go off.  Luckily, I have everything laid out; brush my teeth, slip on my pants and shirt, take a call from Charles at 3:55, grab my bags and head to the lobby with two minutes to spare; still a little groggy.  Charles is waiting and decides to retrieve the car himself rather than rely on the night attendant who seems more interested in what we will take in our coffee which I must admit given my state of semi-consciousness held some interest for me as well. Unfortunately, I have to call an audible on the coffee when I discover that ‘to-go cup’ is not in the French lexicon.  Charles pulls up and we hastily load the car.  I get in the driver’s seat with Charles in the navigation position and we speed down the road toward the motorway.  But not too far, as we soon realize neither of us has a firm grip on the exact route to the A7 which requires negotiating a number of local roads for the first 30 miles or so toward Avignon.  Passing a fork in the road we are somewhat perplexed by the towns listed on the diminutive signage and decide to pull over and get a map out of my day pack.  Navigation instruments in hand we u-turn and speed back to the afore mentioned intersection.  Charles is not exactly his bubbly morning self at this point and I am feeling a bit anxious with thoughts of dashing back and forth across the pitch black of the predawn Luberon  creeping into the back of my mind.  To make matters worse, I had inadvertently left the rear door on the driver’s side wide open which prompted Charles to exclaim with a measurable degree of concern, “ the door is open!”, immediately followed by, “and something just fell out!”.  As would be typical of me, I attempted to pull the door closed while still in transit, prompting an additional entreaty from Charles; at which point I pull over to confirm that my pack had in fact taken to the road of its own accord and I close the door. By this point the anxiety level was downright palpable, but I manage to maintain my somewhat ruffled cool outer shell, whipping the car around and retreating in pursuit of the errant valise.  Not far down the road we spotted the truant grip, looking lost and lonely, adrift in a dark asphaltic sea. Pulling alongside at a wide place in the road, I prepare to make yet another u-turn and a slow rolling retrieval.  Suddenly, as if sprung from the dark depths of hell a panel truck roars up out of nowhere and past us as we gaze on in stunned amazement, a ring side seat to the attempted assassination of my little chicken bag.  Kathunk! (or Whump! as Charles would later recount) and just like that my pack disappears down the road.

........this is no joke, my bag disappearing into the dark of night, taillights fading in the distance as Charles and I sat momentarily dazed.  What the f…?  Where did that truck come from?  It must have been pulled off in the woods just waiting for the opportunity to slaughter some poor innocent luggage.  Fortunately, the young French couple driving the truck turned out not to be so dastardly and they stopped down the way to inspect their new found cargo.  By the time we arrived both of them where underneath the truck attempted to dislodge their unexpected passenger.  I scrambled around the front and underneath to push as they pulled, finally springing the package free, a little road weary and exhibiting a severe case of road rash but otherwise relatively intact all things considered; the worst damage having been suffered by my poor little Swiss riding cap which was carabinered to the outside of the package, it rode the pony to a complete stop, and my loaf of fresh fougasse which had been generally pulverized back into dough.

From that point on things preceded a lot more smoothly.  Eventually, we made our way to the highway and turned up the road into the early morning light toward Geneva. Confident of making our appointed arrival time in Switzerland, but still a little shell-shocked, we rode on in silence for some time.  Then a little chuckle from Charles followed by a bursting guffaw as we were enveloped in a cloud of hilarity; laughing and crying until we were gasping for air.
“Where the hell did that truck come from?”