I had never written in a car before, so apart from
reading road signs and admiring the countryside,
I decided to put my time to good use.
The ever-changing and awe-inspiring countryside was not a waste of my time, but arguing over French road signs was, so I let Tom drive, navigate, and work it out for himself.
“What's that say? What’s that!?” he yelled as we passed junctions on B roads.
“I have no idea,” I didn't even look up.
“What's that you say?” he yelled as we passed by at 60 km. “You need to read these signs as they come up, not as you pass by!”
I had a stubborn pilot at the wheel, and I didn't care if we got lost but refused to argue over directions with him. If you have a credit card, you can find a bed, even if it's a hovel.
The Romans had the right idea. Build the road straight, and you arrive at the end.
We had a touch station car radio and the choice of music was becoming another problem. He wanted classical music on from 9.00am until 5.00pm, and I wanted something, anything, from my generation. The driver takes the wheel, and also somehow takes the radio controls, and each lift of the arm towards that radio is an act of war.
I pressed the 'scan button' and all the stations changed automatically, and continually, through the entire wavelength. You only had 3 minutes on each station, but as most of them were French, and I liked French music, it was no problem as it wasn't one long, depressing tone.
After three hours of no war, he asked.
“What’s with the radio? It keeps changing the goddam music!”
“Satellites. They’re moving, it’s cloudy, and we keep losing the signal as we go around the bends,” I explained.
“Ahh,” he sighed. He drove on and peace was maintained.