Part 6: Hijinks in Northern France

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I never meant to stay in Calais. Not that there’s anything wrong with it. I just didn’t’ mean to stay there. But with my first taste of driving in rain on the scooter, total darkness, a new, non-English speaking country, and 100 miles from my destination --- I decided to call it a day. Besides, this trip is supposed to be enjoyable, not unnecessarily dangerous.
So after crossing the channel, I stopped for fuel, or “essence,” as they call it in France, and asked for directions to the nearest hostel. The attractive young cashier mistook me for a Frenchman, and rattled off several sentences in Francoise before I shamefully admitted that I didn’t understand. We communicated in pantomime, like cave-people, until a cab driver came in speaking fairly strong English. (Honestly my French isn’t that bad, I understand 65% of what people say, my vocabulary just needs to continue growing, and it is)
The cabbie was able to tell me where to find an inexpensive hotel, and I checked in with breakfast included for just €44 (a € is about $1.50). Nervous because I hadn’t had a chance to buy a lock at this point, I parked right outside the lobby window and asked the night security to keep an eye on the closed circuit camera. No incidents.
After a shower, and noting that French TV had a channel fully devoted to soft-core, I got dressed and decided to have my first walk around a French city. First I noted the cleanliness of everything. It was tidy and well ordered.
First I noted the cleanliness of everything. It was tidy and well ordered.
The round-a-bouts contained well manicured gardens, and there was a good deal of open space dedicated to parks and public places.
Though they drive on the right side of the road, they continue the British tradition on parking on either side, and even in some places, right between the two lanes of traffic. I found that to be an original solution, though the driver would be forced to walk across traffic, no matter which side of the road he was heading toward.
The streets are a bit wider than in England in many places, and I assume that at least in Calais, they may owe the inspiration to build some of the new roads and buildings to the Germans…
Like all French cities, they have a massive cathedral that dates back to the 15th century. It was locked up tight, but I did notice something unexpected about this beautiful building - it had the highest concentration of dogshit on its grounds that I have ever seen. I believe that as some sort of ironic joke, the entire town’s dog-owning population uses it as one humongous receptacle. If someone from Calais is reading this, be proud: you win the shittiest cathedral prize.
Speaking of natural processes, I noticed that the city had a public toilet, similar to the one in Iceland. I didn’t know it yet, but this would mark the beginning of my struggle with European public toilets.
Their toilet costs €.20 per use, and I made a mental note of this. Later in the evening, on my way back to the hostel, I was in desperate need to make a significant deposit, and dug out a €.20 piece … only to find … that this facility was not designed to accommodate the particular function that I needed it to. I was about ready to ignore this and squat down anyway, when I realized that I had never been properly stamped into France (the customs officer at the ferry had thought I was British and waved me though like an EU resident - a situation I have yet to straighten out as of 1/12/09). I decided I didn’t want to be deported for improper defecation - and would leave that family dishonor for perhaps one of my cousins to perform.
I wandered the streets of Calais until I found a “local bar,” where I might expect to meet real city residents, rather than people catering mostly to tourists. I found one where the bar man was having a beer and playing pool with his only patron. I entered. “Bonne Soirée,” I said, and then immediately identified myself as an American before facing an onslaught of French I wouldn’t understand. I asked if the bartender spoke any English, and he responded with a comfortable, “Just a little bit mate,” in an overpowering Australian accent. I laughed and said “Oh, you’re Australian, now I feel silly” He looked at me, confused, and rattled off four sentences of incomprehensible French. Apparently the only English he learned was from an Aussie who came to town and opened a pizza shop. I later walked by the pizza shop. Damn Aussies, I bet they’re sold out of inflatable sheep too.

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Photos

statue
I really like this statue

tour de guet
A watchtower in the center of the city

town hall
Hotel de Ville