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Day one. Quickly a village crowd gathered outside our house to gape at the well-publicized World Tour automobile. Mum hugged me and gave the Captain a parting admonition. Sunny Italy. All terribly exciting! A coastal storm raged as we roared out of Nice near midnight. Rooms were like ice. The beamed attic ceiling barely gave clearance. Probably been here since the Crusades. We slept in our uniforms, fought blood-thirsty bedbugs all night in an unfair wrestling match.
We swept into Geneva on bellows blast of snow at sunset with Lac Leman shimmering in mountain beauty. The wind was gale force and I was nearly blown to bits. Astonishment was evident when our strange sight rolled up: armored motorcar, flags, guns, begoggled occupants—incredible—a girl in flying helmet!
Each morning a uniformed page arrived with armload of dailies. The coverage was more than pleasing. Mardi-Gras, …. Carnival fun-seekers filled the streets….
We pressed through the merrymakers, my attire unnoticed in the crush of costumed celebrants. Away Swiss snows, French mud! Away to the road south with sun and scent of orange blossoms! Barcelona—the glorious city—quadruple boulevards, palms, tall ships. The harbor crowded with four-mast foreigner, three-mast coasters. At the wharves the endless Rif War tragedy; pitifully emotional embracing—shiploads of young soldiers destined for sacrifice in Spanish Morocco; peons and poor boys, without even meager knowledge of carnage in their African Rif campaign.