If I look up at my window on this train, I see white chalk cliffs. Well, now I’m in a tunnel. I spent about an hour in tunnels today beneath Dover castle, touring the Napoleonic caverns constructed for Britain’s 19th century defense and later used as headquarters for the Dunkirk evacuation operation and then housing army, navy, and RAF personnel for the rest of WWII. It was also home to an underground hospital, out of reach of the German guns that pounded the Dover coast from France. I got to see France today too from up atop an iron age mound on which a Roman lighthouse still stands next to a many times rebuilt church. The massive keep Henry II built is nearby. Funny how the lower you go the more modern things are. The deepest of the tunnels were constructed in the second World War.

I had to pay 5 pounds (student rate) to get in, but it was worth it. I easily spent almost the whole day there. It was a beautiful day too, sunny, warm, blue skies. Hell of a day to have worn my long johns. I put my sweater in my backpack along with the orange an banana I didn’t eat because I was more thirsty than hungry. Then I walked around with my jacket tied around my hips because it kept slipping down from my waist. Waterproof evidently means slippery.

I gave in and finally bought some shampoo at a drug store on my way back to the station as well as an orange Fanta. Hopefully, the top will fit back on properly and I can use it for a waterbottle. I didn’t buy any post cards because I took lots of pictures, as it was sunny, and I still haven’t written on the ones I got at Canterbury.

There’s an American family in the next set of seats. They are loud and obnoxious, and I despise them. Maybe it’s just that they’re Yankees and don’t know any better.

When I got back to the station, I noticed a gorgeous guy in an exquisite black suit. I stepped over to the side to walk around him as we passed, but he approached me. “Excuse me,” he said in a heavily accented voice. Of course, he couldn’t be English. The English are not a beautiful people. Don’t get me wrong. I love them, but they are too inbred to be beautiful anymore.

“Do you know where is the port?” he was asking me. “Can I walk there? How far away to the sheep?” He wanted to get to the ferry. Why does everyone ask me for directions? Maybe Francis is right and I don’t look like a tourist after all. I told the beautiful man I didn’t know but gave him the map the lady at the tourist information office had given me that morning. I’m sure I spoke way too fast for him to understand what I said. I should have dragged him back inside the station and asked one of the ticket agents. He walked slowly away holding my map as I passed into the station to ask about my own train.