In 1978, I took an extended road trip through Europe (West Germany to Spain) with an Army buddy. We were doing this on private's and corporal's pay (i.e., very much on the cheap), depending to a large extent on coupons from the U.S. Army & Air Force Exchange System (American PX) that allowed us to buy gasoline at about half the domestic price. The hitch in our plan was that France was not a military member of NATO, so the coupons didn't work in the territory covering about half our planned itinerary.

In retrospect, our solution was just mad. We loaded our Fiat 124 station wagon (about the size of a VW Rabbit, but much wonkier) with all our camping gear nestled around a row of four 20-litre jerrycans full of nice, cheap, German gas, all carefully lashed to the seatbacks and padded with rolled groundsheets to prevent sparks. Obviously, the car was a no-smoking zone.

It was a great trip, accomplished on time, on target and under budget thanks far more to luck than to design. It never occurred to me until years later that Bad Things could well have happened to us, but at the time we both thought we were very, very clever.

When tanking up (!) in Spain, just before launching ourselves back through the Pyrenees, we attracted the attention of a Guardia Civil constable who insisted on "helping" me check the engine (oil, battery and radiator) and the tyre pressures all round. This latter task permitted him to get a good look at the load without actually detaining me, which he would not have wanted to do -- the car had Canadian NATO plates. He was very, very interested in the jerrycans ... And the camp stove ... And the careful disposition of the rolled groundsheets ...

Very helpful fellow. I bet he went and lit a candle to St. Jude at his first opportunity.