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,
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