Before shipping my Alfa stateside to join me for the winter, my trip to India paid off big-time when two Indian friends visited me in France. One, Man Mohan Suri, was the inventor of the Suri transmission for diesel locomotives, the kind of guy who thought nothing of driving a car across a sub-continent without a clutch pedal. He didn’t offer to demonstrate this with my Alfa, but did give me valuable pointers on shifting gears.

The other visitor was the winner of a grueling international cross-country road race (driving his Indian-built Triumph), starting or ending in a place with a name like Dakar. He taught me how to double-clutch and straighten out curving roads like real race car drivers did.

So it was with great anticipation that one morning in Beverly Hills, hearing my Alfa awaited me at the docks, I went to claim it.

The car hadn’t suffered at all from its journey and I was soon on my way toward those hills and canyons which were the best parts of West LA, Brentwood, Beverly Hills and Hollywood.

Never had driving a canyon road felt so right. (Of course, this was back before the LA rush hour was a round-the-clock phenomenon.) Deep in Alfa bliss, I’d gone some distance up one winding road before happening to glance in my rear view mirror...to see a patrol car glued to my rear bumper.

I pulled over. The officer parked behind me and strolled the stroll up to my window, surely admiring the neat blue car that had so suddenly sped into his purview.

"I didn’t want to scare you by turning on my siren," he told me. "By the way, you drive very well."

"Thank you, officer," I said, recalling that L.A. cops, polite as they are, always give tickets when they stop you, whether you are speeding to a fire or not. "Is that all? Can I go now?"

"Not really. I clocked you doing 40 in a 25 mile zone."

"Oh?" I wondered if I dared point out that 25 mph is the same as 40 kmh and plead conversion confusion.

"A child was killed on this road last week."

"Oh." Nailed.

Taking out his pad, the officer explained that driving 15 mph over the speed limit was reckless driving, and if he ticketed me for that I’d lose my license. "But you drive well, so I’ll only ticket you for ten."

"Thank you, officer."

"And I’ll have to fine you for driving with foreign plates.

"But," I cried, "I was told I’d have thirty days to get California plates!"

He shook his blond, handsome head. "The police give you thirty days. The sheriff’s office doesn’t give you ten minutes. I’m with the sheriff’s office."

Well, hi ho, Silver. I was lucky they hadn’t deputized a posse.

Reality check: This was not France.

Handing me the traffic summons, the officer told me to have a nice day. I told him to have one too.

As it turned out, I lacked a certain paper, so was granted an extension until I could get it from France. This took nearly three months, during which I kept my Swiss plates. I couldn’t help but note that other owners of imported cars had to content themselves with round or oval alphabet stickers on their rear ends saying D or I or F. Whereas I had living, breathing, foreign plates, front and rear.

God can be so understanding toward Alfa owners.

Having a small car in a world of behemoths, and driving by rules I’d made up during my ticket-less years abroad, I did complete some maneuvers that still amaze me. For instance, needing to visit the huge main police station in downtown L.A., and spotting a rare parking space on the opposite side of the fairly narrow street fronting it, I made a U-turn (requiring three agonizing reverses — about that turn radius, Alfa!) and backed into it.

As I was climbing out, a woman walked up and said, "I did that once and cops descended on me from every direction. You did it right in front of the main police station and no one batted an eye."

I guess my infraction was so inconceivable, it threw the LAPD into a state of denial.

I was finally issued my California plates just before returning to France. Required to have only one plate, in back, I stuck the other ultra-chic yellow beauty above the dashboard so it could be seen through the front window. Then, one day in Paris, I hung a right and found myself facing the wrong way in front of about eight lanes of cars stopped at a light.

What to do? What else. I reached right up and turned the plate around so that no one would see a Californian was the idiot.

I’d owned the Alfa six years when I sold my old French farmhouse and bought one further out. The road leading to it, full of rocks, was mainly used by locals to haul out timber. I had no choice but to trade my car in on a small truck.

I felt terrible giving up my true blue friend, even though its clutch was about finished. The Renault dealer came to see the Alfa and told me his son had made him promise to make the trade because he wanted it. He asked me to take him for a ride, and I was happy to oblige; I drove it so that he couldn’t tell it had no clutch left. Well, what could a new clutch cost a car dealer? At least the Alfa would have a loving home.

The day I visited French customs to prove the car had been out of France for six months each year for the past six years, I brought every bit of "proof" I could muster. This included papers showing the car had been sous douane for three months while I was in India, and had spent three months in California. I also brought my passport, full of stamps which included those from the trip around the world I’d treated myself to upon publication of my novel. (My argument: I’d been out of France; why not the car too?)

When I entered their domain, the customs inspectors were ready for me, rubbing their hands and gleefully twirling their moustaches; my chances didn’t look good. But never underestimate a double-clutching Alfa owner. By the time I left, those same functionaries were limp, had yielded to every argument, and were just glad to see me go away.

And so the Alfa passed on to its new life. I hope it has been a happy one. It really deserved it.