The winter I wrote FINIS on my novel was the coldest this California girl, one Alfa Giulietta, and most Europeans had ever endured. I wrote it in my Left Bank hotel room, snuggled under the covers to keep warm until the heat came on again at five.

The day before Christmas, needing to buy some gifts, my Alfa and I cruised half of Paris looking for a parking space. The one length of curb unclaimed by cars that day abutted the patently oversized pedestrian crosswalk in front of the Bon Marché department store.

The only gendarme in sight was about 20 feet away, his back toward me, directing traffic like an orchestra conductor. I parked the Alfa in the crosswalk, snuck away, and returned two hours later. The officer was in exactly the same place, doing exactly the same thing.

Tossing my parcels into the car, I climbed in, eased shut the door, and, with my eyes on the cop, turned the ignition key.

The Alfa responded with its usual happy start-up noises. Instantly the gendarme’s arms froze in mid air, one gloved index finger raised. Then the elbows retracted and the short, stocky officer turned. Slowly he walked toward my car, savoring every step.

"Vous savez," he said, leaning close, "that you have parked in a pedestrian crosswalk."

"Ah, oui, oui," I confessed, shaking my head disapprovingly at my unforgivable transgression.

"And you were gone two hours." His moustache twitched slightly.

"But, monsieur," I cried, indicating my purchases, "look at what it cost me!"

"C’est bon," he nodded. "I will let you go this time, but never do it again." Then he blew his whistle and, with graceful but commanding movements, stopped all the cars and all the pedestrians. Then he turned toward me, touched his cap in a little salute, and in front of hundreds of disbelieving French eyes, bowed me and my Alfa out of the crosswalk and on our way.

That bitter-cold winter decided me to go south, buy the obligatory old stone farmhouse in Provence, fix it up, and settle down.

On our days off — i.e. when the workmen failed to show up — the Alfa and I would go revving over the curving roads leading to Cannes, Nice, and St. Tropez, or into the lower Alps.

Shortly after moving to the countryside, my car let me know it hated going out after dark. Every time we drove any distance at night, its headlights would go off. Once I had to hire a taxi to drive ahead of us over the dark hills — until I realized the headlight switch in the steering wheel still worked. So I paid off the driver and drove the rest of the way pressing that. Bad Alfa!

Still, the Alfa wasn’t all bad. One afternoon, leaving a coffee shop at the Old Port in Cannes, I paused to open the top for the long drive home. We hadn’t gone very far when the Alfa simply stopped. Luckily, a man appeared, rolled up his sleeves, and soon had it running again. Learning that he was a car mechanic, I reached for my wallet to repay his kindness, only to find that my purse — with cash, passport and U.S. driver’s license — was missing! I recalled setting it down on the sidewalk when I opened the top. I raced back. On the curb was my purse, untouched. Good Alfa!

Another day, returning home from Cannes over the winding, hilly road, I saw coming in the opposite direction waves of cars and trucks carrying wide banners written in French. Assuming the hoop-la concerned some local festival or protest, I paid no heed.

Further on, around a bend roared a couple of burly motorcycle cops. Seeing me, they made frantic signals, but didn’t stop to explain. I slowed down to a crawl. Seconds later more cops appeared. Seeing my car, their eyes grew large and they waved even more desperately. Advancing at a dead creep, I hugged the side of the road.

I mean, how far over did they expect me to squeeze? The road had no shoulders. Another couple inches and the Alfa’s right front wheel would drop into a three-foot-wide drainage ditch, on the far side of which rose a steep, rough hill. This was an Alfa Romeo, not a Land Rover.

And then I saw IT coming: The Tour de France or its close cousin — a dense swarm of racing bicycles rounding the bend up ahead, filling the road from ditch to shining ditch. Seeing my car, the lead cyclists’ faces turned into masks of sheer horror.

So that’s what this was all about!

Well, allons-y! I jammed my foot on the accelerator and the Alfa left the road, cleared the ditch, and made a four-point landing on the hill.

Eat your hearts out, Land Rovers; Alfa’s can fly!

Are southern French winters really warm? Not when spent in uninsulated stone houses with flat fireplaces. By late November I was eagerly accepting invitations from Indian friends to visit the sub-continent. Getting out of France would solve another problem: While away, I could place the Alfa sous douane — locked down by French customs — and put off paying duty on it a little longer.

The following winter, having heard of a good deal in shipping cars to the U.S. and back, I decided to go "home" for a few months and have the Alfa join me there. It would again foil French customs collectors, save me having to rent a car, and we’d look oh, so chic-y poo on Rodeo Drive.