Danny gets on wheels again.
By now, the RAF had managed to get me and my heavy baggage together at GK. The first task would be the dismantling of the crates round the pram and washing machine. Now my foresight paid off. Only a screwdriver was needed for the job; the screws went straight into a bag for re-use, the slats (all numbered for reassembly) packed down into quite a small volume to be ready for eventual return to UK.
There was a difficulty now. Although the "flat" had been allocated to us, and although the RAF transported all my household stuff across to it (and I suppose there must have been a "marching-in" of some sort), I was still without wheels of any kind, and reliant on the help of my ATC colleagues for lifts across and back. But these were readily forthcoming, for almost everybody had been in the same boat on first arrival, and obviously would be honour-bound to extend that help to the newcomers which they themselves had received.
For some reason that I simply cannot remember (but Mrs D. confirms the fact), the "Twin-tub" could not be operated in the "flat" (blow all the fuses ?). I therefore decided to return it to GK. Again, for some unknown reason, I had to rely on a couple of friends to do this for me as I was otherwise engaged. The "humping" was no problem, but the German border Customs demanded duty on the "importation". No amount of arguing would shake them, so we had to concede the principle. But the tax was a small % (and ad valorum). Never did washing machine depreciate so rapidly ! In the end, they had to disburse (on my behalf) a small % of next to nothing. But the bureaucratic German mind was happy, they had got something in their till, if not much; the correct Forms had been filled in; they were content.
Almost immediately after, the Happy Day came. Automobiles Peugeot wrote. Our car had arrived in their compound somewhere in Paris, if I would be so good as to advise them on the date I would be coming to collect (and show ID), they would bring it over to their showroom and obtain temporary French registration to allow me to take it out of the country.
I had already made all the arrangements at the GK end: got insurance from General Accident, Fire & Life (one of IIRC, only two UK insurers who would touch RAF(G) with a bargepole), and passed the relatively simple examination on German traffic rules and European road signs needed to get a BFG driving licence. (I don't think I got its BFG registration ("LP 97 B") until I could produce the car, paperwork and insurance certificate).
Getting to Paris was no problem. Night (stopping) train from GK, not much chance to snooze as it stopped at every frontier. No Shengen Agreement yet, Customs and Immigration came through the train for passport checks. At last it crawled into the Gare du Nord about 0900. I tumbled out, had a wash & brush up, a café-crême (grande-tasse) and a brioche, and dived below onto the métro. Vague memories of my schoolboy visit 22 years before lingered: I decided to make for L'Étoile, for I'd calculated that I'd have to navigate the rond-pointe to start my journey back, and it might be a good idea to have a look at it first.
Thank Heavens, I did ! For I never saw such a scene of horror. In a sort of nightmare carousel cars were hurtling in, round and out again with no quarter asked or given. Lane discipline was totally absent, horns blared and there were loud cries in an argot which eluded me, but were clearly not terms of endearment. Miraculously all seemed to be surviving this mayhem, but I decided on the spot to chicken-out. Needless to say, not a policeman was in sight. By now the grande tasse was having an effect, but in those days the vespasiennes were still a welcome piece of street furniture.
It was quite a long walk down to the Peugeot showroom, but it was late April (I think), warm and very pleasant and all downhill, as I recall. There I was warmly greeted, a coffee appeared and we settled down to complete the formalities. A minion was despatched to bring our car round to the front. Hesitantly, I confessed my terror of what I had just seen. No problem, M'sieu, they were quite accustomed to this. A chauffeur could be provided to take me out of Paris to the end of the métro line, where he'd hop out and make his way back.
Naturellement there would be a small charge for this service, only 10 NF (this would translate as roughly a £ then, say £20 today). This almost cleaned me out of NF, for I'd earmarked this sum for a modest meal on the way back, but it couldn't be helped. My driver appeared; they handed over the keys and I departed in a cloud of félicitations.
More next time.
Cheerio, everybody,
Danny42C.
Wish me luck !
Last edited by Danny42C; 21st Oct 2013 at 22:14.
Reason: Add Text.