WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31
London’s landscape and culture became somewhat familiar by the end of this week. We loved the city and dreamed of living here. Sad about departing, we were also feeling the rush of adrenaline that came from thinking of France.
But first we had some errands.
RUSHING RUSHING RUSHING
Chloe was determined to try one more agency, Hive Management, and so we were up early and rushed to the Tube. Faced with a delay, and with a ticking clock, we aborted our mission and did what was wise, returning to our East End Airbnb and collecting our bags. Our plan was to meet friends from Vancouver for lunch at Victoria station before our bus departed. Excited to see them, nonetheless, we arrived half an hour late. They were angry, and out and out resentful that we kept them waiting. Not only were they not happy to see us, they couldn’t leave quick enough and not half an hour had passed when they said their goodbyes. We were already out of sync with judgmental Vancouver…and happy about it!
Running late again, we rushed to the bus station, dragging our oversized, weighty bags in and out of people on the busy sidewalk. The station wasn’t nearly as close to Victoria Station as we thought it would be, and I was sweaty by the time we found the departure gate. The waiting area was packed, some people stretch out on the ground next to their luggage, a thickness to the air, a few flies buzzing around. We learned our rushing was unnecessary; the bus was running late.
Nearly an hour passed before we found ourselves at the end of the line up to get on the bus. Our seats, near the back, were cramped. I luckily had the aisle, and a good podcast. Chloe was jammed in but didn’t complain. It helped that our fellow travellers were friendly.
CROSSING THE CHANNEL TO FRANCE
Crossing the border was so simple, it felt incomplete. The bus stopped in a large parking lot and we walked to what looking like the entrance to a small mall. Before entering, we showed our passports, they were scanned, then we found ourselves in a duty-free zone. Everyone rushed to the bathroom. After ten minutes, everyone exited through a door right next to the one where we’d entered and returned across the tarmac to the bus.
Just before reaching the English Channel, the bus drove into a container, like an elevator, that was pulled through a tunnel under the Channel. We dropped 380 feet below sea level and covered 38 kilometres in the next, very tense 35 minutes. The bus engine turned off after we entered the brightly lit container. No air moved and it quickly became stiflingly hot. Rather than the familiar forward motion, the bus swayed. All very unnerving. Many people looked anxious, fidgeted, stood or tightly gripped objects in their laps. I was saved by a clever and witty interview of Malcolm Gladwell by Adam Grant at the 92nd St. Y.
Later that night, I learned that the tunnel took six years to construct, opening in 1994, and cost £9,000,000,000.
A DUNKERQUE PARKING LOT
It was nighttime when we reached Dunkerque, France. The trip from London took five hours. I thought the bus was going to stop five minutes walking distance from the Hotel de al Plage where we were booked; instead, we pulled up to a small bus stop in a large parking lot in what appeared to be an industrial park…in the middle of nowhere. The lot was barely lit and completely empty of people or cars. Five of us disembarked. Two walked off confidently down the long, wide driveway away from the carpark. And one man quickly made a phone call as he stood near the small bus stop.
My phone service worked, surprisingly, and just as a small shuttle bus was pulling up to the stop, I reached a taxi service. The man who was waiting and talking on the phone entered the bus. Realizing I couldn’t communicate with the cab driver on the other end of my phone, I jumped on the bus, Chloe behind me, and pushed my phone in the bus driver’s face, hoping he spoke English and could explain where we were to the cab driver on the other end. Instead, the bus driver shut the doors, explained (in French) that the bus was free, and off we went. I tracked our movement on my phone, watching as we moved further from our hotel. But the driver knew what he was doing. He dropped us at the train station, where many cabs awaited passengers. Unfortunately, the cab wasn’t cheap, €14.
HOTEL DE LA PLAGE
The manager at the Hotel de la Plage waited up to let us in and didn’t seem happy about it. Immediately the smell of the hotel brought back memories of France from many years ago…mustiness combined with a perfumed cleaning agent. The hotel was run down and dank. Grime had settled into corners and on handles. Our room had two twin beds and was the size of a small cargo container. Once our suitcases were opened, there was no way to walk around them to get to the tiny bathroom in the corner. The bathroom was raised one step above the bedroom floor; the small plastic door didn’t fit properly, allowing the sewer and mildew smells to seep into the room. The room, like the hotel, had a sea motif design. In our room, the flooring was a bright cerulean blue that curled from the floor up the wall about three feet. The bathroom door, the tiny shelf that acted as a desk, and the door to the hallway were aqua green.
Starving, we headed to the beach where restaurants lined the boardwalk and found a bright place that looked much like a diner. Through the large windows, we watched many college age students, couples and small groups with children promenading along the beach dressed in Halloween costumes.
