During the May 1968 student strikes in Paris France, friends and I were trying to make our way from Spain up through the south of France to the port of Nantes, to meet the departure date of our ship back to New York City.
The strikes snow-balled, bringing all of France to a halt. Travel was unpredictable, including our method, hitchhiking, as fuel supplies and cars dwindled.
Late in the day after we’d stood for hours on the side of the A63, a young married couple with their little daughter stopped for us and urged us to stay over with them. Our good fortune was compounded: At home they prepared an elaborate meal in the typical French Sunday dinner custom. The meal included caviar, which was new to us and exotic. They also insisted we accompany them to a nightclub where we found the stage show much more exotic than anything we could have imagined. The couple watched in a sophisticated, appreciative way, while we blushed and averted our eyes.
(We were just naive Canadian teenagers of that era.)
We did arrive at our departure port just in time and after several days of abject sea-sickness on the Atlantic docked in New York to find the city in a state of terrible grief and mourning. Bobby Kennedy had been killed and his body returned to New York City for June 8 services.