French Fable - Vive l Armee Rouge

French Fable

It was the rainy summer of 2002. An old American friend of mine—since our days as UN Military Observers in Cambodia in 1992—was getting married in Southern France. The invitation had arrived well in advance, and I’d been preparing steadily. But, as dictated by Murphy’s Law, chaos struck just before my departure. A VIP visitor landed in our Belgrade office, and as the Security Officer, I was obligated to shadow him across the former Yugoslavia until he safely jetted off to Geneva.
When the dust finally cleared, I had just one day left—ONE day—to make it from Belgrade to a tiny town in Southern France. The wedding was set for 10 a.m. the day after tomorrow at the Mayor’s office in Domm, near Bordeaux. No pressure, right?
But there was a catch: a massive strike in France had paralyzed airports and railroads. The odds of me ending up stranded in an airport chair somewhere in Europe, missing the wedding entirely, were higher than I cared to admit.
Desperate times call for desperate measures: I decided to drive.

Nineteen hundred kilometers.

One way!

I had a European visa, a car, and the kind of sheer determination that only comes from years of military discipline—or sheer madness.
At 4 a.m. the next morning, after finishing the VIP’s paperwork, I threw my best suit into the car, filled the tank, and hit the road. Darkness cloaked the Croatian border, but by the time I passed Zagreb, daylight had broken. Rain began in Slovenia, upgraded to a biblical downpour in Italy, and only relented when the Alps finally came into view—an almost divine intervention.
Things went sideways near Turin. I stopped for fuel, only to encounter a gas station attendant deeply offended by my request in English. “Italia!” he barked. “Parle Italiano!” The language barrier might’ve been forgivable, but my detour into Turin’s industrial slums was not. I got lost for nearly an hour, navigating through desolate factory gates, black-market corners, and jumpy Italian police officers who seemed to have itchy trigger fingers. Suffice it to say, Turin and I did not part on good terms.
By the time I passed through the Mont Blanc tunnel, night had fallen, and the rain had returned with a vengeance. I was 200 kilometers from my destination when I made a rookie mistake: I left the highway, sure I’d find a gas station in one of the nearby villages.
Big mistake.
Huge.

The first village’s gas station was closed. So was the second. And the third. By the fifth, my fuel gauge was screaming for mercy. The pitch-black darkness, relentless rain, and creeping fog turned the countryside into a horror movie setting—one where the protagonist runs out of gas and is never seen again. I half-expected French peasants with pitchforks to find my cold, lifeless body the next morning.
Radio stations mocked me with their cheerful French ads and festive music. My phone had no signal. My fuel was nearly gone. This was it. Endgame.

Then, through the fog, I spotted a dim light ahead, shining like a beacon of hope. I drove toward it on fumes and found myself in a tiny village. Only one house was lit: a rustic, old building that seemed to double as the local restaurant. Music and wild singing spilled out from behind its doors.

I knocked. No answer. I fumbled for a doorbell but found a soaked rope instead. When I pulled it, a loud, medieval-sounding bell echoed inside. The singing stopped abruptly. Slowly, the door creaked open, revealing a low-ceilinged room with six men and one woman at a table. Judging by her apron, she was the owner. Judging by the bottles on the table, everyone else was drunk.

“Excuse moi!” I said, exhausting 50% of my French vocabulary. “Problem!”
They stared at me, water dripping from my rain-soaked self onto their floor. I tried again. “Petrol. No petrol!” For added clarity, I threw in some German: “Nicht benzin!”

That did it. Their expressions shifted from intrigue to barely concealed hostility. “Aleman?” one of them asked, narrowing his eyes. Quick thinking was needed. “No! No! Rus!” I blurted, channeling my best French accent.
“Rus!” Their faces lit up. I was immediately dragged to the table, handed food and wine, and treated like a long-lost nephew. But I wasn’t here for the party. Using every gesture and scrap of Latin-rooted vocabulary I could muster, I explained my predicament. They nodded in understanding, and a hulking man in the corner offered to guide me to a fuel station “10 kilometers down the road.”
We set off, my heart pounding with every kilometer as I prayed the car wouldn’t die. Thankfully, we made it. The station, however, was another disaster. It was an automated pump that rejected my credit cards with stubborn French arrogance. My guide explained (in broken English) that the machine only accepted local gas cards for tractors. Defeated, I handed him cash, and he paid with his card. Crisis averted.
When we returned to the restaurant, I was welcomed like a hero. The big guy recounted my story to the table, drawing roars of laughter. I refused to drink—much to their suspicion—but eventually earned their trust after flashing my Russian passport. I even bought a bottle of vintage wine (1992!) to thank them, placing it on the table with grand ceremony.
As I left under a chorus of “Vive l’Armee Rouge!” I couldn’t help but smile. Against all odds, I made it to the wedding—armed with stories, a bottle of wine, and a newfound appreciation for French hospitality.