About 20 minutes after heading south towards the Mediterranean, traffic on our four-lane roadway stops abruptly. The bus we have just passed pulls up on our right and an officer is standing in the middle of the roadway, waving the morass of motorists through – until we reach the head of the pack. He points at us, then motions towards an unpaved turnout where a handful of squad cars are accompanied by a dozen police officers.
We pull the white, droptop XK into the dirt lot, twist the rotary shifter into Park and within seconds we’re being berated by a young officer with “CADET” embroidered across his upright baseball cap. Our French is about as good as our Klingon, so after realizing we don’t speak the native tongue, he snatches our documents and leaves us to stew.
A few minutes pass, at which point an older officer approaches and asks in perfect English, “Do you know why you are here?” We tepidly shake our heads as he informs us we were doing 60 km/h in a 40 zone. Our wallet recoils in horror as we remember the advice given to us earlier in the week: “The police in France are very strict about speed limits. The fine can run upwards of 1,500 euros (a little over $2,000) and it is payable on the spot.” Just as thoughts of frantic phone calls, maxed-out credit cards and the atrocities that await us in a Parisian jail cell begin to flood our minds, the officer cocks his head sideways, realizes we’re a pair of dimwitted Americans and simply says, “Please be more careful.”
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