Tener Riggs Eckelberry Sr.

Having raced through my last 3 years of Harvard as a returning veteran, I was anxious to get on with a career. We veterans felt compelled to rush things — accelerated curricula, marriage, and job — as we thought that the War years had left us seriously behind. But, behind whom? We were all behind, our whole generation! What an illusion.

Looking back on those early years in New York, it is hard to think about anything but good times. None of us had much money, we were all starting at the low end of careers, but life was cheap, and lots of fun was to be had with classmates and other Ivies who were like us. My job at the Grace Bank paid less than $200 a month, and Renée made about the same in the Macy Executive Training Program. Every morning we would leave our tiny basement apartment in Jane Street (rent $57 per month) in the Village (where else in those days?), and walk to the subway, where we would wave goodbye from either side of the platforms, Renée going uptown and I going downtown. We ate simply, and drank mostly beer. A great treat was to go up to 74th Street for Sunday dinner at Renée's mother's, who would fill us up for the week with a standing rib roast. Afterwards, we would generally go to the movies at the Museum of Modern Art, a very cheap afternoon. On Sunday mornings, we often played touch football with Harvard friends, in a public park in the Lower East Side slums; no security worries in those halcyon days.

We had married very young, full of delightful romantic and idealistic dreams. Practically all young people in post-War America felt the same: it was a grand time to be young and living in America.

In 1951, I answered an ad in the Wall Street Journal that got me a job in the Overseas Division of Procter & Gamble. At the time, only two and a half years out of college, I was working in the market research department of the big advertising agency McCann Erickson, having recently left Wall Street where I had been a trainee at the Grace Bank. I had had high hopes of a business career overseas working for Peter Grace in one of his vast South American holdings; unfortunately, Peter was just going through a review of investment opportunities in North America, at the same time curtailing new investments in South America. There was a rumor going around at the time that Peter had been stung by some remarks of Yale classmates, to the effect that he had never really been challenged in business, that profits were too easy South of the Border, and that he appeared to shy away from the tough challenges of the North. This psychology may have played a part, but I think Peter's intelligence in the field gave him the first warning of the social unrest that was eventually to make investments in Peru and other countries in South America extremely risky. In this, he was very prescient. Interestingly enough, I worked in the Statistical Department, grinding out 80-column analyses of US companies, some of which Mr. Grace eventually purchased. Anyway, I learned how to read a balance sheet, an acquisition that has served me well all through my professional life.

In any case, I didn't see myself in a Wall Street setting, so I took the advertising job, as Madison Avenue was exciting, and furthermore, McCann had a big international business. Looking back on this phase of my rather hesitant career in business, it really wasn't terribly well thought out, but I had to do something, since I was already married, just a few months out of Harvard.

At McCann, we worked out of the most prestigious offices in Rockefeller Center (where, 25 years later, I found myself in the same building, running the US operations for the French group, CGE). I was part of a young group of researchers which meant, in the ad business, analyzing data in the markets of the clients' products. The work was interesting because we could actually relate sales results to advertising and sales promotion campaigns. TV was just beginning to have a commercial impact, and we eagerly awaited the monthly Nielsen figures.

The Department was run by a very attractive and personable Yalie, Don Armstrong, who had been a conscientious objector during the War. However, his "substitute" duties had been hardly less dangerous than anything we had experienced in combat: he had volunteered to replace forest rangers who were in the Service, and had repeatedly risked his life parachuting into Western forest fires. The experience made him a chain smoker, and the recurring drama in the Department was his repeated attempts (mostly unsuccessful) to break the habit. Of course, we all smoked in those days, to a greater or lesser extent.

At the time, McCann was known as a serious intellectual agency because Marion Harper, who ran it, believed in a scientific approach to advertising, hence his emphasis on our research efforts. We even had some noted sociologists working with us, including the famous Professor Herta Hertzog, the author of a number of distinguished papers on human behavior and motivation.

We all had to undergo repeated Rorschach and other personality tests, as captive subjects.

It was all very stimulating, but it wasn't going to lead to a big career in the ad game. It became evident to all of us that the only juicy position was that of Account Executive.

I did make one life-long friendship at McCann — Bill Bryan, whose path I crossed a number of times in the future. Also, I helped get a job in our Department for Sue Solomon Cardozo, who ended up years later as the château-based wife of a French marquis (and whom I still see from time to time in France).

In any case, since I was bent on an international career, the P&G opportunity was most welcome.

Very quickly, in response to my reply to the ad, a gentleman called from Cincinnati, setting up a date in a hotel room. When I met him, without further ado, he had me take a short written test. When he read the results, he smiled approvingly and told me that I would be contacted shortly by a Mister Harold Staff, Vice President of the Overseas Division. I couldn't believe that I could be hired on the basis of a short test, but it turned out that way. When I met Mr. Staff (this time in a better hotel — the St. Regis, I believe), it seemed that he was just making sure that I was presentable, and gave the impression that the job was mine. From then on, things moved quickly. Employee forms arrived, a medical examination was arranged, and an offer was made, subject to, one, my giving notice to my current employer by a certain date, and two, a final interview with Mr. Staff — to meet my wife. This seemed to be very important to P&G, as I learned later. Apparently, a number of American wives didn't take well to the international scene, and their husbands' careers suffered as a result. Renée, however, easily passed the test.

At this, our decisive meeting, Harold Staff outlined my next steps. He told me that I was to be trained in Brand Management, the key career path in the Company, and especially important in the new Overseas Division, where products were constantly being launched in new markets. However, salesmen were traditionally jealous of the "Brandmen" who called the shots for them. At P&G, the Sales Department was a service, carrying out policies and strategies that were designed by others. Salesmen were basically tools (although vital ones) to meet demand created by massive advertising which was under the control of the Brand Managers, who in turn managed the budgets of the advertising agencies.

Therefore it behooved the potential Brandman to have the respect of the Sales Department, which could only be acquired by showing that he could sell, too.

So the bombshell was dropped. I was to spend the summer (of 1951) selling P&G products as a retail salesman in Queens. At the end of this "Sales Training," if I didn't make a complete mess of the assignment, I would be sent to Toronto, to be formed as a Brandman and future key executive in one of the overseas subsidiaries. Toronto was the headquarters of P&G Canada. As a quaint sign of the mentality of American business at the time, Canada was considered a very foreign culture.

As a sumptuous dinner (he was a bon vivant) drew to a close, Mr. Staff gave me a final sendoff, which had both a sweet and a sour taste. He said: "Tener, you won't see me again for several months, but always keep in mind that you are in the Overseas Division while you are out selling soap. But, if you have any problems, take them to the local Sales Manager."

It was to be several months before I had any further contact with anybody in P&G outside the Sales Department of Queens, New York. I suddenly felt a bit isolated.

Meanwhile, we had left our Jane Street cellar for a fifth-floor walkup on lower 2nd Avenue. Climbing up those steep stairs with grocery bags at the end of a working day was tough, but it was an improvement over a situation in which a Murphy bed, when pulled down, took up 90% of the space of our living (and only) room. We were now in a typical old-fashioned New York "railway flat," consisting of one long room running from one end to the other. The landlord was a creepy abortionist who lived on the ground floor, and there was a genuinely mad woman on the second floor. Since we were on the top floor, we had the roof to ourselves, but the City was so polluted in those days that one was covered with soot after a half-hour sunbath. I used to chat with a charming gentleman across the space between our two apartment buildings, but that pleasant diversion ended when he was arrested for spying for the Russians.

The Cold War was in its most intensive period, and I was almost caught up in it. At lunch one day at the Harvard Club (in those days, cheap, if you had the huge Chef Salad, along with which you could stuff yourself with free popovers), my classmate, Charlie Winchester, talked me into applying for a reserve commission in US Army Intelligence. The reason was to learn about the kind of realpolitik goings-on that you couldn't read about in the papers. It also was good pay for attendance at classes only one evening a week. I duly applied and was interviewed by an impressive lot of senior officers, passing the test to become a Second Lieutenant (Intelligence). In the event, the classes turned out to be boring and banal. As I remember, we spent a lot of time on Map Reading.

Then the Korean War broke out, and there were serious rumors to the effect that we would be put on active service and sent to Korea. This seemed a real possibility, especially since our commanding officer was a gung-ho type, ready for immediate action.

Fortunately, P&G stepped in and saved me from going back to war a second time in the space of a few years. A letter was sent to the War Department requesting deferment for me because I was already practically overseas (a weasel), and Renée was pregnant — with Riggs. It worked, but I kept my commission for many (unpaid) years.

We bought our first car in 1950, a little Morris Minor, on the never-never. It was a real bonanza, especially since we could drive out to the Lawrence Beach Club on weekends, sponging on Lola Marshall's membership. Correction: we had an antediluvian Packard for awhile, which took us to Lake Placid for our honeymoon in 1948, but shortly after, it became moribund in a blizzard on the way back from skiing in Stowe. The Morris Minor, although very small, was a peppy convertible, and we raced around the City and Long Island with great élan.

Things were better in almost every way. Renée's career had moved upmarket, to designing fancy windows for Lord and Taylor. We started to entertain more, burdening our guests with those five flights. For some reason or other, going back down seemed to be troublesome as well, and quite a few of our guests ended up spending the night on our sofa.

However, my work was hardly peaches and cream. My first meeting with my new boss — a P&G veteran who was so loyal to the Company that he shampooed with Ivory Soap (until P&G came out with Prell, never a great seller) — who told me that the Company would always stand behind me when I would be accosted by shopkeepers, and I took this to mean a fairly frequent occurrence. I was given a black Ford sedan, a route list of customers in Eastern Queens, a price list, and a hearty sendoff. I was not allowed to use the Ford on weekends, and mileage was strictly controlled.

I soon realized why the shopkeepers — half of them were German-Jewish deli owners — hated P&G. Because detergents, especially Tide, the market leader, were essential goods, they had to stock them. Moreover, they had to overstock because the Company periodically distributed coupons to all their customers. So the trick was to force them to buy large quantities to meet the promised coupon demand, and a good salesman could blackmail them into ordering more than they really needed — causing them to discount the merchandise that was always left over after the promotion period. The stuff became "Loss Leaders," and smart shopkeepers, especially the bigger ones, successfully used the technique. They were our allies, but in lowdown, small-store Queens, they were not numerous. There was only one small supermarket in my zone and it was serviced from headquarters!

I was required to count every item in every store and tie the tally in with orders. I had to count and record everything manually. "Loading up" the trade was the key to salesmanship and promotion, and I was not particularly good at it. I was shown no quarter, no favoritism, and I frankly hated the work, but I did a creditable job. It was a very hot summer, and of course neither the car nor the stores had any air conditioning. I was motivated by the prospect of the experience ending soon, and the anticipation of my overseas career.

It was the year when P&G launched its first liquid dishwashing product, Joy. We had to stack the bottles in every outlet, and my worst memories are of cleaning up messes of Joy spilt on grocery store floors, under the sullen eyes of proprietors.

Finally, the long summer drew to a close, I mailed in my last sales report, and we prepared to leave for Canada. The great adventure was about to begin.

We had been living in Caracas, where I was running the advertising and sales promotion for Procter et Gamble de Venezuela, having been transferred several years earlier from Puerto Rico. The manager was an Englishman named Ray Greenley and the marketing director was an old friend from Canadian training days, Jim Carrillo. One evening in the late winter of 1957, I arrived home from a longish business trip, possibly to Havana for a regional meeting, possibly to a distant city in Venezuela — I've now forgotten where.

Renée greeted me with sensational news; she had been authorized by Ray to tell me that I was to be posted to Paris to take up a post as a member of the team that was opening up the French market following the acquisition of a French soap manufacturer, Founier-Ferrier. She had already excitedly started making preparations such as packing. In those days, in posts like Caracas, life was very easy for expatriates — everything was done for you, either by servants, or the local Company employees. She had obtained a good offer for our red Ford convertible, had cancelled parts that we both had signed up for in a play at the local Dramatic Club, and had even started looking up flights. She was as thrilled as I was.

There was something of a hurry involved; I don't remember why. In any case, I was to proceed on alone, with the family coming later. Riggs was five, Marc was three, Nicholas had only been born the year before — and Renée was pregnant with Anthony. We had a very capable French governess, thank goodness.

I had, I think, about a month in which to receive my replacement, another Englishman named John Asher, and prepare my final reports. I found a very pleasant Frenchman to give me some "brush-up" lessons. Despite having studied French both in school and at the Université de Besançon, I realized that I needed help in order to do business in France. He was very good for conversational French; it was he who taught me to end phrases on an up-note.

After a stop in New York to see family and do some shopping for a still-unconsumerized France, I landed alone in Paris in April. My hotel was the Lotti, which had been recommended by a cousin of my mother-in-law, Lola Marshall, a Colombian lady who was called Hélène de Vengochia, widowed and living in Paris. The Lotti was a great discovery, as it was my first exposure to a really stylish establishment of the older class of hotels. (I later became a frequent client and, forty years later, some of the same staff were still there.) On a holiday in France two years earlier, we had stayed at the Trémoille, a very good hotel, but not quite in the rank of the Lotti.

Hélène, the owner of an enormous banana plantation near Cartagena on the Caribbean coast, did her business — mostly with United Fruit, with whom she was always fighting about prices — out of her grand house on the Avenue Foch. She was known affectionately as "Banane." She was to be of great help to us, especially during a medical crisis. More of that later.

Paris was grey and windy, but I was so excited to be there that I had barely checked in when I started out on a long walk that took me all over the City, and thus came down with a nasty cold. Fortunately it was a Saturday, so I could recover a bit on Sunday, when I was to meet my new boss for supper.

He was Burke Smith, who was number two in the Marketing Department of P&G Canada where I had had my "Brandman" training. Of course, I knew he would be in Paris, and I was already a bit apprehensive about working with him, since I had learned not to fully trust him in my three years' experience with him in Toronto. Burke was a "politician" and a definite apple-polisher. Furthermore, I never thought he had great business talents. However, I had made up my mind to get along with him, and our first meeting that Sunday evening went well. I had no idea then that our stay in Paris would not last two years, nor that we would be back six years later for a longer stay.

The next day, I started work in the recently-opened headquarters of Procter et Gamble de France. They were located in the old Founier-Ferrier offices in one of the seedier parts of Paris. We were on the Rue Richard Lenoir, named for a model worker during Napoleon III's period of good social works. It ran from the Bastille and formed part of the traditional march of the trade unions and the extreme left political parties. Since the Communists were very active then, we were often told to stay home when a big demonstration was planned, as the police feared violent reactions against the offices of an American company. Thus we had frequent extra holidays!

My work involved the usual brand management, dividing up the product lines with a very pleasant Glaswegian whose name I have forgotten. I had two young French trainees to help me, as well as a rather fey (but pretty) secretary whose English was still rather basic. (Finding bilingual employees in those days was very difficult. Our best recruiting was among young people who had worked in the offices of the Marshall Plan.) It was my first exposure to that very disconcerting way French secretaries took dictation — by looking intensely at you at all times.

Almost from the first day I was very sick, a bad case of amoebic dysentery that I had obviously picked up in Venezuela. The symptoms included very high fever, chills, diarrhea, and occasional blacking-out spells. It not only affected my work in a physical way, but it was demoralizing because the French medical corps had no cure for it. I spent hours being badly diagnosed and subjected to weird treatments such as Renée having to drive me halfway across Paris in the middle of the night to be tested in a laboratory — the idea being that the best time to examine me was when I had a high fever (which was often at night). Gradually I got better, but it wasn't until the Fall when I could be treated in the Tropical Disease Center at Columbia Presbyterian in New York that I finally got rid of the last amoeba.

This was only the first one of a string of bad luck happenings that we had that year, of which more later.

Renée and the boys finally arrived, and we started the hopeless search for an apartment. The housing situation in Paris at the time was desperate. New building was discouraged because of the rigid price controls on rents coupled with a huge demand by returning prisoners of war. In the meantime, we hardly suffered, being lodged in the top suite of the Lotti, where the children's porridge was served by a fully-uniformed maître d'hôtel.

And we were very excited by the sights of Paris and thoroughly bemused by the strange habits and attitudes of the French. It was a magical experience, only tarnished from time to time by the arrogance of French fonctionnaires and concierges. The Fourth Republic was in its death throes, as the Algerian War dragged on relentlessly and uselessly; inflation was rampant, and there was a huge, thriving black market. Governments came and went with breathtaking frequency, each new one put together based on the best chance for an American loan. The Communist Party was the biggest bloc in the Parliament, always making trouble when it could, and de Gaulle wasn't any help by criticizing everything from his country seat, an overhanging political threat to every patched-up coalition government.

Since we weren't affected by the situation, we could experience it with fascination and great curiosity. Renée had a new friend who was our explainer of the politics of the day; she was a French-Russian who reported on the French fashion scene for Women's Wear Daily — for which Renée was a correspondent in Caracas.

We could have greatly benefited from the breakdown of public finances, if we hadn't been too honest (or too naive?). We were paid in dollars which, as a matter of Company policy, I was supposed to exchange at the official rate into francs. However, there was no way for anyone to know if I had bought francs at the black market rate — a 40–50% advantage. I never did.

A small bit of help came in the form of the Allocations Familiales, which a little man delivered every month in cash into her eager hands. P&G had put us smack into the French welfare system.

We finally found temporary lodging in a ground-floor apartment on the Avenue Carnot, one of the "spokes" of the Place de l'Arc de Triomphe, now Place de Charles de Gaulle. Relieved to have our own quarters, if only for a time, it was a big change from the servant-filled luxury of the Lotti. It was here that there occurred our second stroke of bad luck. One day I was called at work by the emergency services of our quartier — each section of Paris has an emergency service — to report an accident to one of my children. I raced home to find a message from Renée to the effect that Marc, horsing around, had put his arm through the dining room window, severing the main veins and arteries in his wrist. I met them at the famous Children's Hospital in Clichy, where they were waiting anxiously for a surgeon. Time was of the essence, as we were advised that the hand would have to be amputated if nothing was done within the hour.

Terrible moments. Finally Marc was taken in hand, and we were simply told to contact the hospital "plus tard." As there was nothing we could do, Renée and I just wandered around, very disconsolate. I remember that we went to Banane's, where we were given brandy and sympathy. (I don't know who was taking care of Riggs and Nicholas; in any case, they weren't with us.) Next day we got the good news that an emergency operation involving a radical technique of fitting plastic tubing into the wrist muscles had averted amputation. Later we learned that the details were written up in medical journals; evidently there were just minutes to spare. Our relief was enormous.

Of course Marc was not very happy as he was in great pain for some time, and he had to endure the conditions of a large ward, which were almost medieval at the time.

After a time, we finally found a permanent rental, a large third-floor apartment on the Rue des Renaudes, a rather somber street in the 17th. It was thankfully near one of Paris's lovelier parks, le Parc Monceau, where we consistently broke the rule against stepping on the grass. It was also very central, only a métro stop from l'Arc, and a direct connection for me on the Château de Vincennes line.

So many discoveries! Some annoying, like the Monday shop closings and the difficulties of communicating with places outside France. I remember that we often went to the Jewish quarter on Sundays — the only place to buy milk! If you wanted to send a telegram or make a long-distance call, there was only one Post Office open in all of Paris on Sundays and holidays. Of course you could always try to dictate a telegram in English to a monologue operator, but that involved giving her an example in French of each letter: "f" for fromage, "t" for train, etc.

On the other hand, there were many convenient features, such as le pneumatique, a system of underground vacuum tubes that delivered mail within hours anywhere in Paris. If you posted a "pneu" before 10 am, it would reach its destination before 2 pm. Also the trains were, as now, excellent, and the métro was convenient and efficient — when they weren't on strike!

For the most part, our social life revolved around the American colony. There were the traditional institutions staffed by (usually) congenial and internationally-minded people — the banks; Morgan's, run by Bunny Carter; the First National (later Guaranty Trust); the American Cathedral on George V, where the boys were christened, the vicar being the quintessential Episcopalian Sturgis Riddle; the Travellers' Club, and the college clubs, the Harvard Club being particularly active. Interestingly, virtually all members of the Harvard Club of France, both Americans and French, were graduates of the College, not the Business School, which later became synonymous with the University in French circles.

I remember: Brad Nichols and David Carter at Morgan's; Reggie Kiernan, resident physician at the American Hospital, who later befriended and lodged a penniless Sue Cardozo; Alex Vagliano at White and Case (later to become head of the International Division of Morgan's); Al Crosby and his partner in an insurance brokerage, Sam Prey, with his (Sam's) forbidding vineyard-rich French wife; Charlie Torem of Coudert Frères; Gardner Pierson, our resident playboy and loyal client of Mme. Claude's services; Clem Wood, married to Jane Wood, and living in Mme. de Staël's lovely old house at 1 bis, Place des Vosges (Jane was in Renée's class at Radcliffe); Eddie Morgan and his partner in an automobile dealership, Digby Neave (they had to go out of business when de Gaulle chased out the US Army); the Minots, Joe and Laura at the Embassy; and others.

We made some attempt to enter the French social world, without much success. At the time, Parisians were not very hospitable to foreigners. Also, we were very ignorant of French social protocol. We organized a cocktail party at our apartment once, inviting the few French couples that we had met through family connections, but only one person, a bachelor, turned up. (He turned out to be Jacques d'Uzès, the first Duke of France, down on his luck and hustling. Later, he got into the money again by marrying Peggy née Bancroft.) The reason: we had not confirmed our telephone invitations in writing!

Lots of sightseeing in Paris and the surrounding countryside on weekends. I still remember Sunday excursions that ended up for tea at that delightful inn at Montfort l'Amaury. Riggs was at the École Active Bilingue, the perfect school for expatriate children. Anthony was born in June at the American Hospital in Neuilly. Now we were a family of six.

In August, bad luck struck again, twice. My parents came to visit us after a big to-do in London for the American Bar Association. Dad had not been back to France since his War, and wanted to visit some of the places where he had served. Off we went — Mother, Dad, and Riggs — with me driving our little Renault. It was in the middle of the traditional August holidays. We went west, passing by Langres and Verdun, and on the way to Dijon, Riggs was struck by an attack of acute appendicitis. We tried to find a médecin de garde in several towns without success when, finally, a Gendarme located a doctor who was on duty in Châtillon-sur-Seine. Riggs was rushed to the local hospital, which was actually a hospice maintained by nuns in a lovely 16th-century building. Riggs was operated on successfully, evidently in the nick of time.

Then it was decided that Mother would stay in the town and look after Riggs during his convalescence, while Dad and I would drive back to Paris — where Renée had just come down with a bad case of the grippe asiatique, a virulent strain of the flu. Double whammy!

I had to return to work, so Dad had to stay with Renée and the boys. In the end, everyone recovered, the real hero being Mother, who had to cope with the nuns and the doctors with only schoolgirl French. At the end of the month, my parents sailed back to New York on a ship whose name I can't remember. Mother kept talking about her hospice experience for a long time afterwards.

Meanwhile, at the office, conflicts were developing, and I was at the heart of them. We in the marketing department opposed some ideas of a man called Goudreau, a French-Canadian who was the Sales manager. He was full of schemes based on an assumed, but faulty, knowledge of the French consumer. For example, he was very keen on an entirely new marketing strategy based on Price. He reasoned that our products could be sold as answers to the inflation that was rampant at the time. We thought this was wrong, since our products were new to the market and therefore should be sold on the basis of their quality and convenience. For example, we were introducing synthetic detergents which were better than the old kind of washing powders, and their superiority could be demonstrated through mass sampling and advertising. Unfortunately, I got little help from our advertising agency, Dorland, who, like all the French agencies at the time, acted mainly as a buyer of space, with very little creativity and zero research.

I am simplifying the argument, and I am not sure today if I was right. However, because I was so vociferous in defending my views, I made a powerful enemy in Goudreau. I had underestimated his influence in the higher ranks, and I was to pay for being really stupid. Furthermore, my great mentor in my Latin American career, Harold Staff, was no longer around as he was not involved in Europe. I really missed his support and, more importantly, his advice. How much my bad health affected my work, I honestly can't say, but I have no excuses to make.

From that time, I believe that Smith felt his operations would be better off without the troublemaker — who was also accident-prone. And there was more to come. One day in October, I was told that Dad had been killed in an automobile accident. Although I got the first flight out, I missed seeing him alive. Of course this meant more time away from work, as I had to take care of all the paperwork that he left behind, as well as helping Mother with the funeral. I also spent time in New York for tests, as I still had amoebic dysentery (see above).

Meanwhile, the political situation in France was fast deteriorating, as the Army was preparing to resist all attempts to end the War in Algeria and give the Algerians their independence. The military had powerful allies in the Chambre, and in influential business circles: the big colonial fortunes in Algeria were in danger. Senator Jack Kennedy caused a wave of anti-Americanism when he made a speech in favor of an independent Algeria. "Pour qu'il s'en mêle?" There was great tenseness in the Paris air. In September, the Battle of Algiers was won by Massu's paratroopers, accompanied by much bloodshed.

Despite the problems in the office, I was making some progress, like the successful introduction of Spic and Span, a floor cleaner. The French boys in our factory showed great ingenuity by making a perfect product using a cement mixer! The Cincinnati people were horrified when they learned of the experiment because the American product was made with very sophisticated and costly equipment. However, the French product was approved for immediate sale after embarrassed testing in the US labs.

I don't remember where and how we celebrated Christmas — probably at home. The boys were enjoying their new life; Marc and Riggs had completely recovered, and baby Anthony was spoilt by all. Was Nicholas jealous? I don't remember. In January, we all went skiing in Méribel Les Allues, a practically unknown station. We went with the Hunts — John, my classmate at Harvard, his wife (name forgotten; they were later divorced), and their two children. Conditions were primitive, but it was great fun. Unfortunately, Renée's leg was broken badly when a crazy French skier hit her when she was riding up on a T-bar. She was treated by a vet, the only doctor available. Another incident of our annus horribilis.

John Hunt's situation in Paris was interesting. He ran the Paris office of the famous Congress for Cultural Freedom, an ingenious attempt to fight the Marxist intellectuals by employing the talents of well-known democratic writers and artists, by publishing and exposing their works. The monthly review, called Encounter, was filled with really good stuff. The whole thing was a great success until it was learned somewhat later that it was partially financed by the CIA. That disclosure led to eventual closure, despite the fact that a respectable number of "our" intellectuals were eager to continue. John always maintained that he didn't know the sources of the funding. In any case, he was in great danger that winter as his office building was bombed several times. Plastifié. Maybe his apartment was, too. I don't remember.

As things got worse in Paris and my own career seemed to be on a slow-moving platform, Renée and I took Riggs on an Easter holiday in Italy. Carefree, we drove down to the Coast on the Route Napoléon, which runs from Grenoble through Provence to Nice. Then, along the Côte d'Azur and the Italian Riviera to Rapallo, at the head of the lovely Portofino peninsula. It was our first exposure to Italian charm, hospitality and food. It was there that Riggs learned to ride a bike. I remember watching him from our room, riding around in tight circles in front of the hotel.

In May, the Algerian crisis reached its peak. The Army had taken over in Algiers and threatened to make trouble in France. Two parachute divisions were ready to invade the capital and take over the weak Government. Jules Moch, the Interior Minister, issued arms to private citizens. Any gathering of more than three persons was broken up by the Police. Once Renée and I were separated by the Seine, with no way of communicating.

There was a strong public demand for de Gaulle to step in and take over the Government. The Army, mistaking the General's real intentions, called for him as strongly. After all, wasn't he a soldier?

Calm was finally established in June when de Gaulle made his coup d'état, lightly covered over by the pretense of Republican procedures. Everyone was relieved. He was at first Prime Minister, then elected President at the end of the year.

After we left in that summer of 1958, we missed the real fireworks — the two years of events that finally led to Algeria's independence. We heard the famous speech that de Gaulle made in Algiers, "Je vous ai compris," which was interpreted by the pieds-noirs and the Army as his acquiescence in a continued French presence in Algeria, when, as it turned out, he was only playing for time — as he had realized that independence was inevitable. In 1960 and 1961, when we were in Belgium, Paris was the scene of constant bombings and assassinations by the secret army of the die-hard Generals.

Sometime in the early summer, I was offered a transfer to Brussels, to carry out the same functions as in Paris, working for Procter & Gamble of Belgium. It was obviously a lateral, even downward move, but I was delighted to accept. I knew that the Belgian company was very prosperous, growing, and well run by a Dutch Jew called Martin van Creveld. It would mean leaving the Paris that we had learnt to love, but I could see no way to move upward there. In fact, I think I was already contemplating leaving P&G, if the right job offer came up.

So, another move — and another story to tell.

When I was running the Procter and Gamble business in Puerto Rico, where my third son, Nicholas, was born, I had an interesting encounter with a local caid.

Carlos Munoz was small, like many autocrats. In fact, he was a great admirer of Napoleon Bonaparte, and had an important collection of Napoleonic souvenirs and relics.

He had a virtual monopoly on the Island's media. Besides owning the biggest newspaper, El Mundo, he controlled the two radio stations, and the first and only television station.

We had a great interest in television advertising because of the inevitable successes of those romantic and never-ending serials appropriately called Soap Operas. At that time all the P&G advertising for the whole Caribbean region was handled by a brilliant agent called Obeiero Carvahal, who operated out of Havana. His creativity was legendary and he had a special gift of attracting Latin housewives to our products.

We were always running several daytime serials on Munoz's TV station. However, they became more and more expensive to run, as Munoz took advantage of his monopoly by continually raising his prices.

What to do? Well, Obeiero had a brilliant idea. At the time, a couple of bright Puerto Ricans out of New York had started a competing television station. Although their ratings were not great, they were growing. What they needed, of course, were some popular programs.

Here's what we did. We convinced the actors and actresses of our best serial to switch to the new station. They were delighted to do so, because they didn't like working for Munoz, and we offered some incentives to make the switch. What this entailed was an overnight change from one station to the next. This involved creating the identical scenery and background music, and the exact continuation of dialog from the preceding day. It was exactly the same program, only on a different station.

With the cooperation of all concerned, it worked! There was a blank half hour on the Munoz station, and our continuing serial on the new station. Of course, the situation was very confusing to the audience for a few days until we spread the word around by loudspeakers in every urban area. After a week, ratings for the serial were almost as high on the new station as on the old.

The new boys were ecstatic and started making pitches for more P&G business.

What about Munoz? He waited until the next morning to call me, obviously furious. When I was preparing to go to his office, the Obeiero man (I've forgotten his name), who had organized the scam, advised me strongly not to go. He was afraid of violence, which I discounted, but I took his advice, and let him go in my place. We prepared his visit with a schedule of reasonable prices that we could agree on for the future, assuring Munoz of lots of continued business, but sharing a smaller part of the TV audience with the new station. (I think we also asked for new newspaper ad rates.)

I eagerly awaited our man's return. Was Munoz going to sue? Was he going to make sweetheart deals with Colgate, our competitor? Would he make life miserable for me and my family on the Island?

Well, we won. Munoz, obviously worried about our giving more and more business to the new station, and realizing that fighting P&G wasn't worth it in the long run, agreed to the new price schedules. However, our man became a bit dramatic, putting several revolver bullets on my desk, claiming that he had dissuaded Munoz against violence. I didn't believe it, but it made a good story.

A week later, Munoz and I had a fine dinner together — with Napoleon Brandy.

In 1962, I was asked by my President, Justin Dart, to travel to Nigeria, where I was to meet John Bowles, President of the Rexall Drug Division, coming from Los Angeles, in order to study the viability of manufacturing proprietary drugs locally, a project proposed by the Rockefeller Institute. At that time, I was running the Dart Group's European business out of Brussels.

John and I duly met up in Lagos, and started to make our contacts in the business and government worlds. It became rapidly apparent that the real power in the country was in the Muslim North, where the Sultan of Sokoto had his palace in Kano. It should be explained that Nigeria had only recently gained its independence, but the power base that the British used — the great Hausa and Fulani tribal lands — continued to control the country. In fact, the Sultan, with his tribal chiefs, virtually ran Nigeria. The British had always counted on the tough and reliable Northerners as colonial partners as well as for soldiering in their wars in Europe. The coastal tribes were considered to be too soft and corrupt. (They were right; look at Nigeria today.)

Our agent was a very clever Egyptian Jew, a refugee from Nasser. It was through him, and aided by goodness knows what "influence money," we duly met the Sultan, a very impressive figure in a huge desert palace guarded by mounted Touaregs carrying scimitars. Business was discussed in the Sultan's perfect English in a dining room dominated by a large picture of the coronation of King George V, which his grandfather had attended. The business discussions went well, and we were told afterwards that there would be follow-up sessions with certain Government civil servants in Lagos, the capital.

That evening, I was offered not only one of the Sultan's bedrooms, but one of his wives, as well. (I did not take advantage of the latter courtesy.)

But this story is not about my adventures in Nigeria, so I will proceed back to Brussels where I filed my report. (The project was eventually abandoned.)

While I was in Lagos, I had run across an old friend and college classmate, and we swapped stories of our respective careers. At the time, he was a Foreign Service officer, attached to the US Embassy. Back to him later.

After several months, I received a call from our Embassy asking if I could receive the Naval Attaché, no reason given. Of course, I agreed, but was very surprised when the smartly-uniformed officer appeared in our offices in less than a half hour. Rather officiously, he asked me to shut my office door, and stated that his visit was of the highest importance. I was intrigued, especially since the first sentence that the man uttered was: "Mr. Eckelberry, you should know that over the past weeks, a careful investigation into your life and background has been conducted, and I am pleased to say that you now enjoy TOP SECRET status."

This took me aback and I started to be a little concerned. I asked him why such an investigation had taken place without my knowledge, and he replied: "An agency of the US Government has determined that you will be a key player in an important intelligence operation, and it is hoped that you will accept to help, as A LOYAL AMERICAN CITIZEN" (my caps, but the emphasis was his).

He explained that there was a great need for intelligence in the higher circles of the Lagos elite, as there were rumors of a separatist movement brewing among the Igbos of the Southeast in the Province of Biafra, where all the oil fields are found. There were reports that the French — de Gaulle's government — were helping to foment this movement.

My friend at the Embassy in Lagos remembered our conversation in which I described one of our European businesses, Tupperware, and the system of home parties. From this, he developed the idea of gleaning secret political information from the gossip of wives of Government officials, as they attended Tupperware tea parties! He would act as our unofficial agent in Nigeria and organize the parties. Having sold the idea to Washington, he had requested that I be the first to be informed, and to eventually persuade my superiors in Los Angeles to cooperate in the scheme.

My first reactions to this rather bizarre scheme were negative. I pointed out that Tupperware was designed for use in the preservation of food in Western fridges, and that the humid African markets had never even been considered commercially. Furthermore, I had my doubts that Justin Dart would be part of a spy operation, and a strange one at that.

My naval friend understood my reluctance, but simply asked me to meet, very informally, certain gentlemen from Washington the next time I was in the US. It was hard for me to say "no" to such a non-committal request, and I admit that my curiosity had been aroused.

As it happened, I was due to go to LA just one week later (did he know this?), so it was arranged that I would meet two gentlemen in the Gramercy Park hotel in New York. In those pre-jet days, I usually broke my trip with a one-day stopover on the East Coast.

(To be continued)

Sure enough, two pinstriped Ivies turned up at my hotel exactly on time. They repeated what the Naval Attaché had told me, with somewhat more emphasis on the importance of the project, and the need to act quickly. They also added that the Government would cover any losses that we might incur.

I was even more incredulous: two obviously senior figures promoting an important Intelligence operation based on the gossip of African ladies at Tupperware tea parties? Anyway, I told them that I could do nothing without the approval of my President, Justin Dart. As I was on my way to Los Angeles, I promised to speak to him about the scheme. Then they told me that they had taken the precaution of clearing him also for Top Secret status.

Anyway, I took down some key phone numbers and, with my notes in a secure place, I flew to LA and, after meetings about normal activities, I took Justin aside and told him of the plan. He gave it some time, and then came back to me with: "Tener, let's do it — if it will help the CIA in some way. However, there are two conditions on our side. One, we should not be involved in the Intelligence part; we should have no knowledge of what they are doing, and what the results might be. It will be a normal commercial transaction. Secondly, I have to work through the President of the Tupperware Division, so clear him if they have to." (I think they also cleared his secretary, too; in those days, they were very keen on carrying out big personal investigations.)

This is an excellent example of the old-style patriotism, of which, alas, much has been lost. Whether the idea was crazy or not, Justin felt we had to cooperate, as good citizens — as long as we didn't lose any money.

So the project was carried out, with one minor hitch. In those days we had two Tupperware factories, one for the Common Market and continental Europe, and the second one in the UK for the old Free Trade Association, which took in former British colonies such as Nigeria. It was the latter factory that was asked to produce and ship Tupperware to Lagos. The problem was that the English manager was not part of the "cleared" group, and therefore, quite rightly, balked at the very idea of Nigeria as a possible market. I remember him being so strongly against such an absurd order, that he had to be ordered personally by Justin Dart to go along with us, with no questions asked. He told me that he hated to go over people's heads, but this was too much for him to take.

Well, I still don't have any idea of the actual Intelligence results. However, the big surprise was the commercial success of the project. Not only did we make a profit on the shipments, saving Government money, but the Nigerian lady traders found the hermetic containers perfect protection against the African sun. Until this day, I am convinced that the English manager must think we were marketing geniuses.

I hope they learned something. But the Biafra war that followed a few years later was one of the most devastating conflicts in African history. The new Biafra Republic had so few resources that at least a million people died of malnutrition. The central Government used all the modern weapons, including bombers, to defeat the rebels. There were perhaps 100,000 military casualties.

So the oil was "saved" for the West.

Incidentally, it was the assassination of my friend, the Sultan of Sokoto, which was the immediate cause of the war.

Since then, Nigeria has been a very rich cesspool of corruption, which, in my opinion, could not have developed to such an extent without the connivance of the major oil companies.

When I was in charge of the Privatization program in Cameroon, one of the state-owned companies on our list was a very large rubber plantation in the southeast of the country. It had been started many years before by Unilever, who pulled out of Cameroon after disagreements with the then government. After a decade of abandonment, it was rehabilitated by the State, with massive loans from the World Bank, the French Development Agency, and the British Overseas Development Corporation. The management of the rehabilitation and the operations of the new plantations was awarded to a French group, which, although it was not in the rubber business — in fact it was a bank — was able to find suitable talent to do the job. And they were successful in eventually producing rubber suitable for the world market. Production levels were low, however, and costs were too high for the owner, the Government of Cameroon, to ever see a profit.

When the Company became an official target for sale to private investors, we carried out the usual investigations and evaluations, in order to prepare a prospectus for interested bidders. I personally made a number of trips to the plantations, and became familiar with the Management, which was all French. In the course of our work, we found that the French had three key management contracts. One was for the actual running of the plantations, for which very high fees and salaries were charged to the Company. A second was a very lucrative license to supply all goods and machinery at non-competitive rates, which gave the French large profit margins in Paris. Number three was an exclusive marketing contract which meant that the French Group sold all the rubber to themselves, at their prices. This meant, in effect, that the owners and creditors never knew what the true volume of sales were.

I had been fortunate to have met a second-generation Chinese-Indonesian while I was doing some World Bank work in the Ivory Coast. I remembered that he had expressed an interest in investing in the African rubber business. (He already owned a small plantation in the Ivory Coast.) So, as part of my mandate was to seek out potential bidders for our target companies, I contacted him, and suggested that he come and look at the Company.

Before continuing the story, let me describe this extraordinary man. He had huge businesses in Indonesia, but his finances were all in Singapore. He had made his original fortune in being one of the first Indonesians to obtain licenses for the first families of Japanese consumer electronics. As an aside, his negotiations in Japan cost him a lot of his liver function, as they tested his capacity for Sake. As a result, he couldn't touch alcohol — but he was the largest purchaser of the most expensive of French wines, Pétrus. (He also had a standing order for the first new-model Bentley.)

To make a long story short, this man became very interested in the deal because he could see the possibility of vastly increased production, proper cost controls and, most importantly, sales opportunities. (Singapore is one of the great rubber trading centers.)

Of course, I encouraged him to do his investigations of the Company, and to present a business plan which would justify his eventual bid. All of this took a long time, and we had other interested parties to deal with. The French would bid of course, and with their inside track in the business, were confident that they would be the winning bidder, no matter who else was around.

I had to be very careful to give every appearance of fairness and transparency, but I was personally determined to see that the French lost their sweetheart contracts. I was aided by a fellow Minister in the Presidential Palace who was also disgusted with French business dominance in Cameroon. He was a Northern Muslim, the most honest group in the country.

Well, to cut this story short, my Indonesian friend won the bidding with the highest offer and the best plan. The French were totally overconfident, and put in a bid that simply called for continuing their arrangements. Their surprise at the result was so great that they leaned on the French Government in Paris to put maximum pressure on the Cameroonian President, and his people. No good; justice won, although I will never know what deals the winner made to assure victory. As he often told me when I offered to help with introductions: "I am also from the Third World, so I know how to handle myself with these people."

An epilogue: I had to clear up some post-privatization matters, so it was handy for me to travel to Singapore at his expense. And he insisted that I bring along Patsy and have a holiday in Bali on the way.

More African adventures to follow.

It's a rainy day, and everything is always closed on Mondays, so here's another African anecdote.

When I was hired by the Government of Cameroon to advise on Privatizations, financed by a World Bank loan, I started my work in a small office in downtown Yaoundé, reporting to a civil servant who had no clout in business in the country. He was also very wary of my future activities, since I arrived with quite a bit of experience.

In addition, it was well known that President Biya made all the decisions, even small ones, in the running of the economy.

So, a very wise decision was made. I was appointed Special Advisor to the President, with an office in the Presidential Palace, and the official rank of a Minister. Since this was the first time a white man became a part of an African Government (except Leakey in Kenya, I think), this caused quite a sensation. The agreed rules allowed me to maintain an open, transparent connection back to the Bank in Washington, at the same time working with the President's staff openly and freely.

No increase in salary, but many perks such as a car and driver, business expense write-offs, etc. At times it was a bit embarrassing, such as my required presence in the official box for parades (of which there were many, Africans loving them). The only white face, and Patsy leering at me from the section reserved for wives of diplomats.

Did the idea work? Since it has stopped raining, I'll tell you what happened another time.

When I got Patsy, I got Frits, a smallish bastard terrier of great charm, energy, and obedience. Some of you knew him before he died seven years ago. This is his story.

During the last phases of my assignment in Yaoundé, I had to make a trip to Singapore, combined with a holiday in Bali. Patsy was back at Vaucluse with Frits, and at the time she had nobody to care for him in her absence. (Our house guardian had seven cats.) However her sister, Sytje — who died at 93 this year — agreed to take him. So Patsy drove him down to the Costa Brava, where Sytje lived, left him off, and joined me in Zurich, to fly together to Singapore.

When we returned, Patsy to Vaucluse and me to work, the happy memories of our holiday were suddenly tarnished. Frits had disappeared!

Patsy called me, in tears, to tell me that her sister had lost the dog, or rather that Frits had lost her. Coming back from a Sunday stroll, Sytje suddenly realized that Frits was no longer with her. Patsy immediately hopped in the car, drove frantically to Spain where the two sisters, with the help of the Guardia Civil, the local SPA, and even the media, looked for him in vain. When Patsy phoned me for the bad news, we agreed to get another dog right away — the classic remedy for canine loss. So she chose Max, a handsome two-year-old of mixed breed, partly Labrador, and brought him out to Yaoundé to be with me for my last months of work there. He rapidly acclimated to tropical life, bounding all over the golf course and digging for all and sundry underground animals, of which Africa has some strange ones.

The months went by with no sign of Frits. We had almost, but not quite, given up hope, and we stopped phoning Sytje.

Patsy had never seen the North of the country, an absolutely fabulous region with geological formations similar to those stone pillars that you see in American westerns, peopled by a race of herders and hunters, the Hausas. These tribes are strong, self-sufficient, and contemptuous of the corrupt Southerners. The first President of independent Cameroon was from there, and ran an honest government until assassinated. Another story.

Anyway, we flew to Maroua, the capital of the North, and did some sightseeing. We had a very nice young guide who fortunately spoke French. He took us to a small village where a famous seer lived, a sorcerer who divined the future by the magic manipulations of land crabs. I had no interest in what seemed to me a tourist gimmick, but Patsy thought it would be pleasing to our guide if we went along for a séance or two.

We were led down a steep hill to a small hamlet where goats and chickens were running loose. The sorcerer greeted us in a very courtly way, and sitting in front of a large jar which was filled with mud, volunteered to answer any questions we might have. Patsy's first question was: "Is Frits alive?" The seer picked up a crab and put it in the jar, among small sticks, closed the jar and spoke some unintelligible words, over and over again. Then he took off the cover of the jar and looked at the position of the crab. His answer was: "Yes, your dog is alive and has enough food." Skeptical, but encouraged, Patsy's next question was: "Where is he?"

Same routine with crab, the sticks and the strange incantations. Answer: "He is between 25 to 30 kilometers from where he disappeared." Patsy insisted: "What direction?" Answer: "Turning left to the North."

This was the end of the séance, as the sorcerer appeared tired, so we left him a fee via the guide and, not believing a word, but fascinated by the experience, went back to Yaoundé.

Patsy went home, and I stayed on for a few more weeks to wrap up my contract.

One day I got a call from Patsy announcing the great news. Frits had been found and, thanks to a lot of SPA detective work, returned to Sytje. Patsy raced to Spain, greeted, but was not immediately recognized, by Frits. He had spent six months on a terrace in Girona with several cats, and looked like Raggedy Ann. A woman had simply picked him up while Sytje was walking him, thinking he was a stray, and then six months later, decided that she had had enough of a dog, and turned him in to the local SPA.

Una Loca!

I won't go into the rehabilitation of Frits (who was already responding to Catalan), but end the story with its extraordinary revelation. The woman's place in Girona was exactly 24 kilometers from Sytje's house, and you turn left to go there. Unbelievable but true; the crab sorcerer had been spot on!

More African, and other adventures, to come.

Even before we had settled in the Southwest, I had always wanted to follow the Trail of the Cathars, that mysterious sect that split from the established Church in the 12th century, and spread widely over much of the south and southwest of France. The trail runs roughly from the Mediterranean at Perpignan, west to Foix, in the foothills of the Pyrenees.

The reason it is called the Trail of the Cathars is because there is a series of castles that were the refuges of this heretical sect that had been persecuted and repressed in the lowlands of the Languedoc and Roussillon regions. There are five large castles, all impressive, all sitting very high, and now in ruins. They are called Aguilar, Termes, Quéribus, Puilaurens, and Peyrepertuse. (There are many other castles in the region, of lesser importance.) To them must be added Montségur, the last bastion of the Cathars, in which, after a terrible siege, the leaders were all killed by the armies of the French and other nations who had been ordered to annihilate them by Pope Innocent in the only Crusade that ever took place in Europe.

Who were the Cathars? They were ordinary people who not only rejected the rites of the Christian church, but also the basic relationship between God and men, as taught by the Church. They believed in a world of strict dualism, in which Evil is everything that is material, and the Good, which is only spiritual. They were puritanical in their everyday lives, believing that they must conquer the Evil of the real world through purity of conduct in order to reach the state of spiritual perfection. They were secretive, highly organized in clusters of communities all over the region. Interestingly enough, they were often protected by the local nobility who were sometimes Cathars themselves.

They were viewed by the Church of Rome as a great danger to organized society, and by the State because they represented a threat to its power and unity. Thus the Crusade of 1208 was launched with great force of arms under the banner of a great and cruel warrior, Simon de Montfort.

There is an anecdote that illustrates his religious fanaticism. In the midst of a repression, one of his lieutenants complained that it was impossible to distinguish between Christians and Cathars. Simon replied: "Kill them all, God will recognize his own!" The ones that the Crusaders didn't kill in battle were mostly tortured and killed by the Inquisition unless they converted to the Church.

So this is the historical background that provided us a pretext for a great walk with fascinating cultural and historical aspects combined with absolutely stunning scenery — always dominated by the snow-capped Pyrenees.

With a friend and frequent walking companion, Simon Cole, I planned to take the trail during the summer of 2003. It would take a week or a bit more. Unfortunately that summer turned out to be the hottest summer in the last three hundred years of recorded European weather. Hundreds of old people died of heat exhaustion.

And this leads me to the "Medical Miracle."

During the winter of 2002–2003, I developed extreme pains running from my lower back down through my right leg. I became so pained that I couldn't sit in a chair, especially a car seat, without getting up after 20 minutes. Naturally I turned to the French medical profession, starting with our family doctor and on to hospitals and special clinics. Scans and other tests were made, with the final consensus coming out as very acute Sciatica made worse by a dislocated disc. I was given a regime of medicines, some physiotherapy, and a lot of advice. What came out at the end was a prohibition of walking (hiking), and only one form of exercise — swimming on, and only on, my back. (My advanced age was a big factor.)

Naturally I didn't take any of that very well, but I was told that I had had the best medical counsel in France. So that was that. Or was it?

The date with Simon, along with two other walkers, one British, one French, was coming up in three weeks' time. I was sick at heart with the prospect of missing the great walk that we had planned for so long.

Finally I decided to disobey the doctors, friends, Patsy, and go anyway. I thought to myself, what the hell, this may be my very last walk but I was determined to do it, come what may. Foolhardy and stubborn.

So, very painfully, with 15 kilos of pack on my back, we started out in Fitou, the big Roussillon wine center (check your maps), the beginning of The Trail of the Cathars. The first two days were fairly easy through vineyards and low rolling hills. Although I was in pain, it wasn't serious enough to fall behind the others (all of whom were younger men). But the heat started to slow us down; the temperature rose to 95–100 every day, with no let-up.

The first castle we climbed to was Aguilar, perched on a crag rising to 1,300 feet. This was my first big test, and although I passed it, I was behind the others. Strangely enough, I sensed somewhat less pain, an encouraging sign.

Then the next day took us to the spectacular ruin of Quéribus. 2,300 feet high, you climb vertically up zigzagged paths to reach perhaps the best view in the region. It was such a difficult climb that my companions persuaded me to only go halfway up. But even that was stretching myself and my poor back. That night we must have downed at least six beers each — fatigue and the intolerable heat. Quéribus, because of its impossible situation for attackers, was one of the last Cathar castles to fall to the crusaders.

The next day took us over very rough terrain to the enormous ruin of Peyrepertuse. This castle submitted to Simon de Montfort in 1217, but Guillaume de Peyrepertuse resisted once more and sheltered both Cathars and local lords deprived of their lands by the crusaders. The final surrender took place in 1240 after a three-day siege. It is over 300 yards wide at the top and covers a very substantial lower building. I did climb this one, motivated by Simon who played a trick to keep me going. He would say: "I think the top is just around the next bend," this being repeated over and over kept me going. But I was in real agony. Now I really regretted the extra weight that I had loaded my pack with.

The next day, after a long and restful night, I really started to feel less pain, and I was game for the next castle, Puilaurens. This giant of a ruin is perched 2,300 feet high on a rocky spur. It has a "Disneyland" look, with crenellated walls and turrets. I did climb it, as usual falling way behind my ever-patient fellow walkers. I was very proud of myself, but very, very tired.

Puilaurens was one of the few properties of the French king, because of its strategic defense position against the traditional enemy, Aragon.

The following day was one of complete rest and relaxation. We swam in the cold waters of the Galamus Gorge, what a relief from the incredible heat. I was definitely feeling better.

Now, with no more castles to climb up to, our last two days were spent in walking rough, but very scenic paths. All at once, in a flash over some beers at a country inn, it came to me that, one, I had done it (!), and two, I was feeling much less pain.

So now comes the "Medical Miracle." Within one week of returning home, I had no more pain whatsoever. And this has continued up to this day.

What happened? My family doctor was dumbfounded, and neither he nor the consultants that I had seen could explain it. Was it the extreme heat combined with my climbing movements? The action of my backpack against my lower back? Did it have something to do with willpower? The mystery remains.

Since then I have made a number of walks in the Pyrenees, always with my pal Simon Cole. We have explored the High Aragon region of Spain, and we completed the Cathar path, visiting the Castles of Puivart (well preserved) and Montségur itself.

I'm very grateful for this wonderful period of walking in my life, especially since now I cannot climb mountains because of my heart condition. This doesn't stop me from taking long walks, as long as they are on reasonably level ground. For example, he and I plan to walk along the banks of the Loire next year.

I have a small picture book called "The Castles of the Cathar Country," which contains lovely photographs of all the castles, with short texts to go with them. I will mail it to the first volunteer who could possibly reproduce the pictures, or maybe circulate it among the various family members.

Suggested reading: The best short history of the Albigensian Crusade is by an English historian, Jonathan Sumption. You may have trouble getting it, but it is definitely in print. Great history and great reading.

I'll be thinking of other adventures!

After sex, walking is my favorite pastime, so here goes another walking story. I won't promise that it will be the last!

A few years ago, probably after a silly row with Patsy, I decided to go off by myself for a week's walk in the Aveyron. This is a region at the western limit of the Massif Central, and is one of the most beautiful of France. Its name comes from the river that is one of the four that have their sources in the snows of the Massif and all join the great Garonne and thus end up in the Atlantic at the Gironde Estuary. The others are the Dordogne, the Tarn, and the Lot.

The main pilgrimage trail to Saint Jacques de Compostela in Spain runs through the Aveyron. Some years ago, with some fellow walkers (like me, not all genuine pilgrims), I followed this trail, of which the high point is the 11th-century abbey of Sainte-Foy at Conques, one of the great pilgrimage destinations in the Middle Ages. The new abbey is now part of a lovely Gothic cathedral. We were very lucky that day; there were no rooms in the few local hotels, so, thanks to my friend Charlie Tantet, a true Pilgrim, we were lodged with the monks in the Abbey — and very comfortably. When I admitted to being a heretic (Protestant), the Abbot was especially hospitable! Maybe he saw a potential convert in me.

The northern part of the Aveyron is rolling pasture land through which the river cuts very deeply, making for gorges and canyons of wild beauty. The towns are mostly perched on the cliffs above the river, and have maintained their medieval character, which attracts the usual tourist with his green Michelin Guide. On my drive, I saw a really extraordinary sight: a petrified waterfall. This was near Villefranche-de-Rouergue, if you want to look it up. I drove along the northern edge of the river to prepare for my first walk, which is a well-known one called the Gorges de l'Aveyron, a 13-kilometer steep hike down to the river and along the riverbed to finally climb back up to the starting place. Like all the main trails in France, it is well-marked with the familiar red and white stripes on trees and stones. I checked into a small family-style hotel in the market town of Rignac, spent a quiet night, and started out the next morning for the beginning of the trail, about two miles away.

It was a beautiful Fall day, and I was in great form (I thought). The trail led slowly at first along the ridge of the river, and then became steeper and steeper, as the gorge narrowed. The going was tough, more than I had counted on. Then suddenly about noon, I felt my heart beating rapidly and irregularly. From past experience, I knew I was in trouble! I tried to use my cellphone, but it was apparently in a dead zone. Then I came across a small rocky clearing, where I could get a signal. I reached the St. Hilaire Clinic in Agen where my heart doctor has his office. Very faintly, I heard the voice of a secretary who said that Dr. Denisi was on holiday in Corsica. Her only advice, before we were cut off, was to slowly get back to my hotel. The poor girl was in as much panic as I was. (Later, when I was back home, she admitted that she could have had the Gendarmerie locate me immediately with their GPS. That is what I should have done, as well before the signal was lost, but my first instinct was to call the Clinic.)

So there I was, struggling up the hill, all alone, in great pain, and very worried. I kept shouting at the top of my voice, but there was no one in earshot, except for flocks of birds that I frightened away. After awhile, I stopped shouting, as it increased my pain.

Then presently, I remembered seeing a small hamlet off to the side of the Trail. Here was my chance for a farmer to take me to town. With great difficulty, I made it to the hamlet — to find it totally deserted!

What to do? On the off chance that there might be some sign of life around, I circled the little square, and, lo and behold, I heard the sounds of barking dogs. They were two large Dalmatians, and they led me to their house, and a very nice lady looking out of an upstairs window. She saw that I was in serious trouble and took me into her garden, laid me out and gave me water and, I think, a pain-killer. Explaining my situation the best I could, I asked her to drive me to town. She said that she didn't have a car, but she would call her husband, who was a doctor!!

Now how about that for luck?

In a few minutes, a car drove up, and this doctor took me in hand immediately. Back at his office, he did the usual things in such emergencies, bringing the heart rhythm back to somewhere near normal, and put me to bed. Unbeknownst to me, he had promptly called the Clinic in Agen, where they put him through to Dr. Denisi, who was still on a beach in Corsica. He also called Patsy, of course, who had not been worried since everything happened the first day. She wanted to come and take me home, but in my condition, that was a no-no. So next morning, an ambulance arrived from Rodez, the capital of the Aveyron, with three drivers. Why three? The third one was there to drive our car back home! You can't beat the French for that kind of thing.

I was not only fortunate to find a doctor, but he was a gerontologist as well. Originally from Paris, he and his wife decided to beat the stress of the big city, build a practice in a small town, and restore an old country house — which, by the way, was absolutely charming, showing great taste.

Back at the Clinic in Agen, I was about to pay the price of my folly — three days in Intensive Care — and over a weekend, too. Then I had to go through a long series of tests before being discharged. The good news was that, despite all the strains on my heart, it had suffered no damage. But I had to eat humble pie not only for Doctor Denisi, but of course big helpings for Patsy; so the moral of the story is its title: "Never Walk Alone."

And I learned my lesson for good.