Eventually, we roll into Reims and have a very European experience. See, when you ask someone if there’s food/shopping/entertainment near by, if it’s more than four blocks away, they say “No, there’s nothing close,” as if more than 4 blocks is just too far to walk on foot. It happens all the time. We’ll ask if there’s somewhere to eat nearby, and people will say “Sorry, there’s really nothing close." Then low and behold, we stumble upon a strip of restaurants, clubs, and bars literally a kilometer long a whopping five minute walk away. I don’t get it.
After weighing all my options for far, far too long, I grab some Thai food against my better judgment. The French aren’t really known for their liberal use of fiery heat. So when my dish arrives as a basic but spicy red curry with chicken and basil, I’m pretty happy.
We pass out in a boarding house. I don't know what else to really call it. It’s a five-story building with a couple hundred apartment-style rooms. The elevator announces that some of the establishment's renters are railway workers. This select group of clientele apparently work all night and sleep during the day, so we're asked to "not run down the hall banging pots”. I have a funny thought of James bedecked with his four bags trudging down the hall jangling like an old prospector, disturbing the slumber of every door he passes. Maybe I should get him a tin cup to make the dream a reality. I already know he loves peaches and gravy.
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