Smugglers?

The walk up the Ramblas to the train station in Barcelona was a
short one as Logan and I prepared for our trip back to our army post in
southern France. We stopped for a breakfast of eggs and refried beans.
The eggs were just right, broken into a vat of grease used to fry
french fries. The egg white was crispy and fluffy with a hard yellow.
We were young; Our cholestrol was fine; It was good.

We stopped for cokes to carry on the train and boarded just as the
train whistled and lumbered out of the station. This train went from
Barcelona, through Marseille, Monoco, and on to Paris with stops at all
the towns between.

The train was crowded with vacationing Spaniards and Frenchmen and
their families. All the families had large bags of food and bottles of
thick red wine. All times are meal times with travelers. As we toured
the train looking for a vacant compartment, travelers ate, talked,
drank, and watched the beautiful Spanish country side pass by. Some
vacancies were evident; however we were looking for certain types of
traveling companions, female, 20 to 30, and beauty similar to that of a
Playboy Bunny.

We finally settled in the dining car with two travelers that fell only
slightly short of our expectations on 40 or 50 points. We talked. We
drank our cokes. We laughed. The relationships were going great. The
conductor announced that we were approaching the frontier where we'd
dismount from the train in Spain, pass through customs, and board the
train again in France.

Logan and Nicole were whispering back and fourth. Suddenly, she began
to cry, almost hysterically. Logan was supporting Nicole, almost
carrying her as we exited the train, searching for passports, and
papers of identification.

Logan and I were cool. Nicole and her friend were nervous. I was
relegated to carry Nicole's bags along with my own duffel.

When the customs officials saw our U.S. Military orders, a large chalk
check was placed on our bags along with those of Nicole and her friend.
Customs saw we were together and ushered us on down the track toward
the train while the Frenchmen and Spaniards had their socks and
underwear fondled and answered questions concerning their destinations
and purposes.

We sat in the train club car having a cafe' con leche, talking and
waiting, until all the travelers loaded and the train restarted. Nicole
had a complete recovery. She laughed and talked with us until Logan and
I changed trains in Narbonne. The ladies continued on toward Marseille
and Paris.

Logan didn't know why Nicole started crying. "She just turned it on."
We didn't exchange addresses with them. We didn't know what passport
they held. We didn't know where they'd been or where they were
going.

I've been wondering for 45 years: "What did I smuggle into France?'