A Trip to Scotland Part 2 of 6 by KimB

[Editor's Note: This story is a many part story written by KimB.
The series will be published weekly]

At last I was headed north from to the Pas de Calais. In those days there was no Chunnel and the only way to get to England from France was either by airplane or ferry. Ferry suited me just fine. I drove through the northern fields of France which are flat and unlike the rolling hills of the Loire Valley. The day was clear and the sun out, and even if it was February, the scenery was beautiful. I had many adventures but some I will save for another time and will continue with this particular one as I traveled to Calais.

Begin: A short digression about foreigners in France.

First, if you are not born in France and your family has not been in France for centuries, you may hold citizenship, a french passport, speak the language flawlessly, be honored by the French with their most prestigious French Literature Awards but you are not French. Their views are different about what makes someone French and its not just a piece of paper. In Bordeaux, where I was living, the French people there are not consider be be true French, they are considered to be English. This is because a long long time in past history, Henry II of England married the Eleanor the Queen of Aquitaine (Bordeaux). The lands passed to the English Crown and many wars were fought over them. Their sons, Richard LionHeart went on the Crusades in the Holy Lands and John Lackland gave us the Magna Carta. After many wars, the lands passed back to the Kings of France and they have remained part of France ever since. Lots of movies have made that period popular among Americans: The Lion in Winter, Becket, Robin Hood and others. The French however still consider the Bordelais to be English.

If you are not French, there isn't much chance of “passing” as a french person. Your style of dress, the way you walk, the way you eat, the way you talk all mark you as a foreigner. You can always spot another foreigner a mile away. So, after you learn this, you can stop pretending to “be french” and just enjoy yourself. Which is exactly what I did.

End: A short digression about foreigners in France.

As I drove north to the Ferry, I spotted a man hitch-hiking his way north. In those day, it was really pretty safe to hitch-hike and motorists could pick people up without qualms or worries. I could tell he was a foreigner a mile away and since there were really no tourist stops between Paris and Calais, I figured he must be British and had come to Paris for the day and was in need of a ride to the Ferry. Unlike the USA, distances in Europe are rather compact and even by car, Paris to London is only a few hours drive plus the hour or so on Ferry. People all over Europe can take day-trips to any major city for an outing; it was not uncommon.

I pulled over and asked in French if he wanted a ride to Calais. He gratefully accepted also in French and got in the car. We continued to talk for quite some time in French. His French was excellent and I wondered how long it would be before he would say sometime about me “not being french”. Our chat continued as he explained he was a school teacher in England and had come to France to pick up some literature to use in in classroom. I decided I would break the ice and I told him: “I speak English, I am an American.” That was sort of a “whoops” moment. He turned to me, stunned and speechless for a moment, then he blurted out in a loud voice (with a proper British accent): “I'm going to tell you right now, I can't STAND YANKS!!!!” then a short pause, “Do you want me to get out?”

Well, I was a bit stunned to say the least. I had met many people who did not like Americans and for all sorts of reasons but I had never encountered anything quite like this. First I wondered if I'd made a bad error picking this guy up and then I wondered how this adventure was going to end? I thought a moment and said. “I'm sorry you don't like Americans. I am going to the Pas de Calais Ferry; if you want a ride to the Ferry you are welcome to stay. If you want to get out I will pull over.” He thought for a good while and asked if he could continue to the Ferry.

We traveled on for a bit in awkward silence and then I quietly asked him “Why he didn't like Americans?” Slowly, he began to explain. A short synopsis is: he'd never met a nice one and they were all bullies and greedy to boot. I said to him, “I'm sorry you never met a nice one but we are not all the same you know.”

We completed the half-hour or so drive to the Ferry in silence where I parked the car and he got out. I never expected to see him again. I headed to the ticket counter to arrange the Ferry Ride to Dover. I had some funds for the trip but I had not planned on the cost of taking the car to England and back. It was too expensive and I would have to leave the car behind and continue on foot. So I grabbed my bag and guitar, locked the car and got on the Ferry.

It was evening and the water was crystal smooth. The sunset colors flamed and danced over the smooth water and I went to the front of the boat to catch the first glimpse of England and to write in my diary. I could hear English accents all around and it was so strange to not hear French. I saw my first Scotsman, an elderly man in full kilt, as he headed to the canteen totally unaware of how shocked I was to see “live man in a skirt!” It was like landing on a foreign planet: they spoke English but I didn't understand anything.

I sat writing my thoughts in the diary when I heard: “There you are! I've been looking all over for you!” I looked up and it was my surly passenger walking towards me with a friendly look on his face. He sat down and said, he'd noticed that I couldn't bring my car and he knew I wanted to go to Scotland too. He was traveling to the north of England and had found some truck drivers willing to take a passenger. They were French Truckers and were going to haul lamb from the North back to France. If I wanted he would introduce me and I could pick which ever trucker was most amenable to me and he would ride with the other one. I agreed of course.

We went down together and met the truckers, both were very nice. The truckers were friends that ran the route every week and needed some company on the long ride to The North. I selected one and we all chatted together in French until we landed in England then we got in the trucks and headed out on the road.

My sight-seeing plans were a bit askew; it was night-time. We barreled up the M1 in the darkness where all I could see where the headlights of passing vehicles.