It’s Sunday, November 17th. We started this wild ride back on the 13th, and honestly, I’ve lost track of time. Days blur together when you’re ping-ponging between crumbling motels, ghost towns, and uncooked chicken dinners.
Elayne and I kicked things off on a DFDS ferry from Dover to Calais. France welcomed us with its usual je ne sais quoi, which, in our case, meant a grim B&B in Rouen. The ceiling was decorated with mould, a masterpiece of decay, and the bathroom had a gap under the door wide enough for who-knows-what to crawl through. “A cozy start,” I said. Elayne just gave me that look. You know the one.
From there, we made it to Chartres, a city whose cathedral is both stunning and terrifying. The stained glass seemed alive, pulsating with an energy that defied logic. Elayne didn’t feel it, but I swear those walls whispered things, things you’re not supposed to hear. At least the locals were nice. I asked one woman to take her photo, and her warm smile felt like a lifeline in that…
