Escape from Old Europe - Degas Returns!
Jun 6th, 2004 | 11:47 AM
#1
Original Poster
Joined: Mar 2004
Posts: 13,323
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Escape from Old Europe - Degas Returns!
The reports of my demise have been greatly exaggerated.
As to the rumors of my posting under a different screen-name, it is simply not true, dear friends. The dire circumstances of my recent peril precluded communications of any form. Tis a long and tragic tale that I have been forced to endure, but my covert adventure is condensed below.
Read it and see for yourself what great cruelty and torment some men are capable of inflicting on innocent American travelers.
It was a bitter cold day back in January when a frigid wind blew hard through the North Georgia Mountains. At dusk, it began to snow and I paused at the barn door after tending to my beloved animals. I was at peace with the world and looking forward to a delicious Hungry Big Man TV Dinner and some energetic every-other-month Hanky-Panky with my angelic "little wife."
Without warning, the shrill cry of an angry raven caused my bloodshot eyes to seek out the tight circle the huge black bird flew in the ashen sky. Closer and closer he came. A cold shiver ran down my massive behind as the raven settled in the gnarled bare limbs of a prized fig tree which I had had planted many years ago outside our modest log cabin.
This set off my lazy hounds to barking and the frosty humid air was soon filled with a deafening roar. On and on it went until all the animals suddenly fell mute. So silent it was that I could hear each fragile snowflake land on the red clay beside my size 14 tennis shoes. We stared at each other for a long while and then I whacked the smug raven up side the head with a rock!
I would learn only later that the raven had carried a dire warning. My failure to heed it soon set in motion a bizarre chain of events that culminated in great mayhem and suffering in Old Europe.
The terse telegram arrived just before midnight. I sat in a rickety old rocking chair beside a dwindling blaze in the stone fireplace, reading the Farmers Almanac and dreaming of a larger okra crop and new catfish ponds. As was my custom, I tipped the messenger a shiny new dime and opened the envelope only after he had departed into the black night.
Simple but powerful words, which I had waited two decades to see, sent me scurrying into the attic to retrieve my 21 inch carry-on suitcase: They were: Camille. Great Danger. French Alps. Bring Lots of Money.
The flight over the pond seemed to take an eternity, even if I had chatted up a bleached blonde flight attendant "of a certain age" and been upgraded to Super Snob Class. But all the great tasting "pigs in a blanket" and baked beans in the world could not ease the awful pain in my huge gut that told me that my long lost lover might be held captive by some foul, viagra-filled beast. Was I too late to save this sweet thing from a fate worse than death?
Wanting to remain sharp and alert for what danger lay ahead, I only drank three bottles of fine wine and seven bottles of low-carb beer on the plane. Desert was a mere gallon of ice cream.
Having been banned from France for winning a large monetary settlement over a defective railing on the Eiffel Tower, I was forced to fly into Switzerland and then slip across the border through a dense forest disguised as a Cuckoo-Clock salesman.
The clever ruse worked. I soon found myself dressed all in black (just like a trendy European), wearing expensive real-leather walking shoes, and discreetly casing out an ancient convent deep in the snowy French Alps. My rigorous field training in the Boy Scouts was about to pay off in spades.
Using my cat-like reflexes and rock-hard muscles to full advantage, I scaled the fifty foot walls with ease. So anxious and excited I was, it took super human willpower to remain calm and expertly search each spartan but very clean room for dear Camille - the lovely buxom gymnast who had once captured my innocent heart with her wide assortment of wild back flips and painful to watch leg splits.
But as I kicked in each door, all I found was frightened old nuns who hissed insults and threw bed pans at me. Ducking and weaving like the great halfback I had once been at the University of Georgia, I soon worked my way down eight floors to a spooky, spider web-infested basement.
It was in this foul, putrid place that I would see just how cunning the French government can be when it comes to settling old scores.
A soft voice called to me, a familiar voice that had whispered passionate words of devotion, a sensual voice that had taught a silly country boy the beguiling secrets of love in a faraway foreign land. I walked forward as if in a trance. Could it really be precious Camille?
Too late did I see the tape recorder on the floor and the twenty burly agents of the feared French Secret Police that stood leering with murderous smiles in the darkness.
Where is the money they demanded! Hand it over and it will go easy for you, they hissed in very arrogant voices. I knew immediately they had all once been snotty waiters in Paris!
Not a chance in Hades was I going to make it easy for them. I fought like a madman, and using my eight black belts in various martial arts, sent 15 of the filthy dogs to the hospital. But fate was hard set against me. I was eventually subdued after much blood letting and broken bones. To my credit, I escaped twice on the long ride to Paris, but was betrayed by former Vichy informers who had sold their sorry souls for a few dirty silver coins.
Held deep in the secret chambers far beneath the Bastille, I endured great torment and hunger (the menu was positively bland with not a coke, burger or American fries to be had) until I was suddenly released and flown back to the USA.
I suspect it was the very graphic and compromising 8x10 color photos that I had placed in a Swiss bank vault that resolved the issue. I had the sneaky frogs over a barrel and they knew it deep in their garlic-laced souls.
Living well is the best revenge. And once things die down, I intend to slip back into France and dig up that ransom money!
Until then, I hope to engage in a little fun-filled banter with some old friends who I have dearly missed.
As to the rumors of my posting under a different screen-name, it is simply not true, dear friends. The dire circumstances of my recent peril precluded communications of any form. Tis a long and tragic tale that I have been forced to endure, but my covert adventure is condensed below.
Read it and see for yourself what great cruelty and torment some men are capable of inflicting on innocent American travelers.
It was a bitter cold day back in January when a frigid wind blew hard through the North Georgia Mountains. At dusk, it began to snow and I paused at the barn door after tending to my beloved animals. I was at peace with the world and looking forward to a delicious Hungry Big Man TV Dinner and some energetic every-other-month Hanky-Panky with my angelic "little wife."
Without warning, the shrill cry of an angry raven caused my bloodshot eyes to seek out the tight circle the huge black bird flew in the ashen sky. Closer and closer he came. A cold shiver ran down my massive behind as the raven settled in the gnarled bare limbs of a prized fig tree which I had had planted many years ago outside our modest log cabin.
This set off my lazy hounds to barking and the frosty humid air was soon filled with a deafening roar. On and on it went until all the animals suddenly fell mute. So silent it was that I could hear each fragile snowflake land on the red clay beside my size 14 tennis shoes. We stared at each other for a long while and then I whacked the smug raven up side the head with a rock!
I would learn only later that the raven had carried a dire warning. My failure to heed it soon set in motion a bizarre chain of events that culminated in great mayhem and suffering in Old Europe.
The terse telegram arrived just before midnight. I sat in a rickety old rocking chair beside a dwindling blaze in the stone fireplace, reading the Farmers Almanac and dreaming of a larger okra crop and new catfish ponds. As was my custom, I tipped the messenger a shiny new dime and opened the envelope only after he had departed into the black night.
Simple but powerful words, which I had waited two decades to see, sent me scurrying into the attic to retrieve my 21 inch carry-on suitcase: They were: Camille. Great Danger. French Alps. Bring Lots of Money.
The flight over the pond seemed to take an eternity, even if I had chatted up a bleached blonde flight attendant "of a certain age" and been upgraded to Super Snob Class. But all the great tasting "pigs in a blanket" and baked beans in the world could not ease the awful pain in my huge gut that told me that my long lost lover might be held captive by some foul, viagra-filled beast. Was I too late to save this sweet thing from a fate worse than death?
Wanting to remain sharp and alert for what danger lay ahead, I only drank three bottles of fine wine and seven bottles of low-carb beer on the plane. Desert was a mere gallon of ice cream.
Having been banned from France for winning a large monetary settlement over a defective railing on the Eiffel Tower, I was forced to fly into Switzerland and then slip across the border through a dense forest disguised as a Cuckoo-Clock salesman.
The clever ruse worked. I soon found myself dressed all in black (just like a trendy European), wearing expensive real-leather walking shoes, and discreetly casing out an ancient convent deep in the snowy French Alps. My rigorous field training in the Boy Scouts was about to pay off in spades.
Using my cat-like reflexes and rock-hard muscles to full advantage, I scaled the fifty foot walls with ease. So anxious and excited I was, it took super human willpower to remain calm and expertly search each spartan but very clean room for dear Camille - the lovely buxom gymnast who had once captured my innocent heart with her wide assortment of wild back flips and painful to watch leg splits.
But as I kicked in each door, all I found was frightened old nuns who hissed insults and threw bed pans at me. Ducking and weaving like the great halfback I had once been at the University of Georgia, I soon worked my way down eight floors to a spooky, spider web-infested basement.
It was in this foul, putrid place that I would see just how cunning the French government can be when it comes to settling old scores.
A soft voice called to me, a familiar voice that had whispered passionate words of devotion, a sensual voice that had taught a silly country boy the beguiling secrets of love in a faraway foreign land. I walked forward as if in a trance. Could it really be precious Camille?
Too late did I see the tape recorder on the floor and the twenty burly agents of the feared French Secret Police that stood leering with murderous smiles in the darkness.
Where is the money they demanded! Hand it over and it will go easy for you, they hissed in very arrogant voices. I knew immediately they had all once been snotty waiters in Paris!
Not a chance in Hades was I going to make it easy for them. I fought like a madman, and using my eight black belts in various martial arts, sent 15 of the filthy dogs to the hospital. But fate was hard set against me. I was eventually subdued after much blood letting and broken bones. To my credit, I escaped twice on the long ride to Paris, but was betrayed by former Vichy informers who had sold their sorry souls for a few dirty silver coins.
Held deep in the secret chambers far beneath the Bastille, I endured great torment and hunger (the menu was positively bland with not a coke, burger or American fries to be had) until I was suddenly released and flown back to the USA.
I suspect it was the very graphic and compromising 8x10 color photos that I had placed in a Swiss bank vault that resolved the issue. I had the sneaky frogs over a barrel and they knew it deep in their garlic-laced souls.
Living well is the best revenge. And once things die down, I intend to slip back into France and dig up that ransom money!
Until then, I hope to engage in a little fun-filled banter with some old friends who I have dearly missed.
Jun 6th, 2004 | 01:30 PM
#5
Original Poster
Joined: Mar 2004
Posts: 13,323
Likes: 0
Its great to be back.
But not a word of this must get out to the "little wife." She is a trusting soul and still under the impression that I had only lost my ticket and was waiting in France for a Delta frequent flyer seat to open up.
I hope she doesn't look in my infamous cookie barrel and see that the $500,000 is gone.
But not a word of this must get out to the "little wife." She is a trusting soul and still under the impression that I had only lost my ticket and was waiting in France for a Delta frequent flyer seat to open up.
I hope she doesn't look in my infamous cookie barrel and see that the $500,000 is gone.
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Jun 6th, 2004 | 01:58 PM
#11
Original Poster
Joined: Mar 2004
Posts: 13,323
Likes: 0
Dear Scarlett, the soothing thought of your sweetness and warm posts was what allowed me to endure the terror in the secret chambers. Like a dazzling beam from a powerful lighthouse, you helped guide me home.
JetLag, please excuse my bad manners. I guess it was like walking into a movie that was half over.
I have been known to file trip reports and stories from time to time. Been out of the loop for many months.
The thread below introduces Camille and explains how she changed my life forever. Guess you need to read that one first to make full sense of Escape from Old Europe.
http://www.fodors.com/forums/threads...p;tid=34463344
JetLag, please excuse my bad manners. I guess it was like walking into a movie that was half over.
I have been known to file trip reports and stories from time to time. Been out of the loop for many months.
The thread below introduces Camille and explains how she changed my life forever. Guess you need to read that one first to make full sense of Escape from Old Europe.
http://www.fodors.com/forums/threads...p;tid=34463344
Jun 6th, 2004 | 03:23 PM
#13
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 19,359
Likes: 4
Like the others, I am pleased to see the return of such a creative poster. I was trying to share some of his tales with my DH and encountered some difficulty.
I tried clicking on "degas" and retrieved some recent messages but mostly those bemoaning his loss. I searched on "Degas" found a message and clicked on it...but got the big zero egg nada from fodors. None of the fabulous travel sagas.
What gives? Please say the Degas archives aren't gone forever! What I am not getting about the search function??
I tried clicking on "degas" and retrieved some recent messages but mostly those bemoaning his loss. I searched on "Degas" found a message and clicked on it...but got the big zero egg nada from fodors. None of the fabulous travel sagas.
What gives? Please say the Degas archives aren't gone forever! What I am not getting about the search function??
Jun 6th, 2004 | 04:48 PM
#15
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 19,359
Likes: 4
Scarlett, You are right...that did the trick and, voila!, the Degas stories appeared!
Still...when you actually click on the Author: Degas, it yields nada. Who knows. The Degas Archives are accessible for sharing and that is a good thing.
Still...when you actually click on the Author: Degas, it yields nada. Who knows. The Degas Archives are accessible for sharing and that is a good thing.
Jun 6th, 2004 | 06:18 PM
#19
Joined: Jan 2003
Posts: 34,738
Likes: 0
Crimes against humanity!!
If you had only gotten word out, we could have either broken you out , maybe on our motorcycles or at the very least, the Girl in the Red Dress could have tied a coke around Pups neck and sneaked it in to you~ ((&
)
If you had only gotten word out, we could have either broken you out , maybe on our motorcycles or at the very least, the Girl in the Red Dress could have tied a coke around Pups neck and sneaked it in to you~ ((&
)
