One early evening in August 1979, as rain pounded on the Stuttgart train station, three on-leave soldiers lugging backpacks were waiting on a platform to board a train west into France.

The small contingent of fun-seeking travelers consisted of 'Tee', an African-American female soldier who was outgoing but still remained guarded; Jim, an Iowa 'Plowboy' who proudly acted the rural cornball part; and myself, an over 30 Florida beach boy irreparably smitten by love of history.

We three "military intelligence professionals" planned to enjoy some of the well-known foreign land the U.S. Military had generously defended from the end of World War II...and still does to this day.

When the train doors opened, the group hopped on for a smooth hour-and-a-half train ride to Strasbourg. Once there, our intention was to catch a southbound and ad lib our way to the French Riviera.

Our loose itinerary had been cobbled from select tidbits plucked from a dog-eared guidebook on France and advice from fellow soldiers.

Of course, group flexibility was tested right away in an also rainy Strasbourg. The first train south was o630 the following morning. So, we 'bivouacked' through the night nearly five hours on the cold station floor before grabbing that first train.

Our destination was Orange, an ancient town which had served as a residential center for Roman legionnaires after Caesar's Gallic Wars around 50 B.C. As we chugged past well-known Lyon, we saw our last rain on the trip.

Orange was chosen back in Germany as our first stop south, after which, we would began meandering toward the Riviera. The campground provided the usual restroom and shower facilities, plus a restaurant. However, we had been lured there by its hilltop setting above a 2nd century Roman theater.

From the hill, you could look down on a large stage in front of semicircular seating. The rows of seats at the back were tiered abutting the hill. Behind the stage, was a large stone wall with a cut out holding an imperial looking white statue watching over the audience.

That statue also looked down on the three of us during our 50-cent (two francs) walking tour of the theater. Although we were historical latecomers, we too were soldiers in a foreign land.

Our night in the campground was educational. We readily learned Tee's high school French would be essential in our travels. At dinner time, the Plowboy revealed he had packed excessive canned food items...not good for a backpack trek. He was stubborn, which I blamed on his encroaching baldness.

To ease his burden, all three of us dined on Vienna sausages and chili that night. By the 3rd day on the road, Tee and I had assisted in gulping enough canned food to sufficiently lighten his load.

As for me, my two companions booted me from the tent that first night because of my "smelly" feet. Taking it in stride, I eagerly spread my sleeping bag under the stars above the theater. My banishment would not last long and the sea was waiting.

While relaxing under those stars, I reflected on some of the strange looks turned our way. Was it the fact we were American soldiers? Or just Americans? Certainly possible. Maybe, it was the mere presence of such an oddball diverse trio sharing a smallish blue-and-white domed tent.

I concluded our presence probably brought to mind some 'New Wave' French movie previously seen by locals. A film with diverse characters, fraught with excessive dialogue and teeth gnashing, while celebrating freewheeling sexual mores.

That was not us. We were just G-rated fellow soldier/friends on break from protecting France, including its counterculture. In the morning, we bussed south. The days ahead were full of 'fits and starts', while both fun and enlightening.

Our first bus stop was Avignon and the Palace of the Popes. In the 1300s, five Popes resided there instead of Rome. It wasn't super impressive, but seemed a fit for Popes. In contrast, the palace's garden was beautiful. Still, to me, most memorable in Avignon were the ruins of a medieval bridge partially spanning the Rhone River.

Next bus stop was Arles, where numerous famous artists, such as Van Gough and Picasso, chose to live and work. Taken from the Phoenicians by the Romans, The city is known for a huge Roman theater, and a well-preserved Roman arena, smaller but similar to the famous/infamous coliseum in Rome.

While in Arles we decided it was time to hit the beach and transform from tourists status to that of vacationers. We scheduled a morning departure for the Mediterranean coast.

To celebrate our plans, we went to our first inside sit down French restaurant. Consensus was the meals left each of us hungry. Not a surprise, since we were used to German 'gasthauses' which dished out loaded plates of food.

I still wonder how many snails one has to eat to fill up. Nor do I care to find out.

As for the noticeable lack of French smiles in the restaurant, those sour expressions were probably a reaction to our Iowa farmer entering and sitting at our table with green John Deere baseball cap on his head. He was always my favorite 'ugly American' and, I did smile.

Targeting the coast, we bussed from Arles, to Marseilles, to Toulon, to Heyeres. A scenic route and a comfortable ride. There was a 90-minute stop in Marseilles, where the famous "Cote D' Azur" began, ending Monaco.

We debussed in Heyeres and began a walk to our chosen campground. Two or three miles on foot seemed sensible after hours sitting on the bus. Alas, we got there, but it was closed. We walked on, heading toward the sea and any campground.

Along the way, we came upon a carnival. Ferris wheel spinning with colored lights in the air. Sounds of music and people at play were evident. We passed it by, seeking a campground and the coast. Sampling some French common man junk food would have to wait.

About a mile past the carnival, we changed our minds and decided to bed down. Our campsite was a smallish ditch in a grassy field. Sleeping bags were unrolled under the stars and a sliver of moon. My last pre sleep memory was faint carnival music wafting above. Perhaps, a taste of French surrealism.

My morning memory was rising sun over France and strong need for coffee. We rolled our bags and resumed plodding south. Shortly, we were at the entrance to a welcoming campground. Visible beyond was the famed Mediterranean Sea.

Within an hour of arrival, our tent was pitched, 'cafe and croissants' were wolfed down, and three pairs of fatigued feet waded into the water.

I imagined Roman Legionnaires who had tossed their sandals aside to give tired feet a reward for hard work done. In reality, I was a barefoot Florida boy whose feet missed the Gulf of Mexico and/or the Atlantic Ocean. Still, the Mediterranean was a worthy 'temporary' substitute.

That first swim was amazing. However, the 75 cent bottle of wine we bought to celebrate our triumph was red rotgut. Three francs wasted on a dreadful tasting liquid with the bouquet of compost. Plowboy and I were unable to finish the bottle. For the benefit of our fellow man, we poured it out before trashing the bottle.

Midmorning brought the 'spectacle' we two guys had quietly anticipated. As the sun warmed up, bathing suit tops went down. It was the first topless beach for both of us. As, I recall, our natural curiosities were satisfied in just under an hour.

As a practiced beach bum and a Cocoa Beach high schooler in the 1960s, I was a bigger fan of bikinis and well-drawn tan lines. Still am.

For a day and a half, Jim and I enjoyed swimming, sunning, and sly intermittent peeks at passing beauty. I'm sure Tee never tired of watching us watching.

We moved further east to the St. Raphael area where the beach was prettier to the eyes. There were rock formations in the clear water that served as diving platforms and sunning tables. Another day of swimming, light on tourism and heavy on lazing around.

Once again, a morning departure. We boarded an eastbound train to Menton near the border of Italy. Staring out windows, we passed well-known locations: Cannes, Nice, and Monaco with Monte Carlo.

I strained my eyes looking for Princess Grace as we rolled through Monaco. Spotting what was once America's beautiful Grace Kelly...AKA Amy Fowler Kane in the movie "High Noon" would have been the highlight of my trip.

However, not setting eyes on Grace Kelly did not dampen our last two days in France. In addition to more water time on a smaller beach, we took a bus ride from Menton to the Monte Carlo casino. Awesome place. Of course, none of us broke the bank.

Italy and its Riviera began a few miles east. A quick train ride took us into the coastal city of Ventimiglia. Exiting from the train, you could look up and see the old quarter of town on terraces.

A short walk got us to our campground. Fairly big, it had bungalows, parking for caravans, and uncrowded tent areas. The owners were very friendly. We set up our tent under actual grapevines. I still remember a view of the night sky with stars twinkling through the leaves and their unique windows.

The local beach was small and covered with water-smoothed rocks. Walking into the water, there was an immediate drop off, but not so deep. One notable difference at the beach was that the Italian ladies 'wore' their bathing suits. In addition, likable food was plentiful and not expensive. We happily stayed for two days.

It should be noted, our Iowa farm boy had volunteered to handle Italian communications on the trip, but when he pulled out his phrase book it was very stiff...likely not opened since he bought it in Germany.

Evidently, his Italian trip prep had consisted of pinching ocassional female soldiers back at our barracks. He had calmed his victims by simply stating he was practicing Italian for our trip. Plowboy, always with a twinkle in his eye, was forgiven.

He gave me the phrase book and steered clear of local females.

Leave time diminishing, we moved east to San Remo, known by some as the Italian Monte Carlo. There a was a well-known casino in the town. We gambled and yes, lost again.

We thought we had more time for Italy before returning to Stuttgart. Our plans were changed by an impending nationwide train strike. Perhaps most disappointed about our early departure was the hodgepodge of San Remo males who repeatedly sought time with Tee.

We successfully found a train route to Genoa, through Milan, through Zurich, on to home base, Stuttgart. When we stepped off the train, the sun was shining.

My pre-trip thoughts on France were shaped by Lafayette's support for our young country (gratitude); the contrast of two revolutions - one a conflict of armies, and the other, a profusion of public beheadings (disgust); and the famous image of a crying Frenchman after the German defeat and the beginning of occupation (empathy).

Not really important. We had a great time and that was important.