CALAIS
H. W. Bryce
Stopped at the doorstep of my destiny
After that enchanting train ride from Bari,
Italy, and being plunged into the darkness
Of night like an abandoned sack of trash,
Having no other goal than to reach London,
I alit at Calais, on the French
Side of the English Channel, a breathless
Distance from Dover, starting point for my
Next eagerly anticipated adventure.
I was feeling ragged and wrinkled.
I gathered up by Army excess shoulder
Bag, filled with mementos of the
Mediterranean, seashells, a bag of Sahara
Sand. Opals and cut gems found in the sand
Beside the pyramids mid Egypt, its floor
Lined with tiny pearly seashells gathered
Wading in the lapping shore waters of
That storied sea, gathered in blistering
Sunshine to take home and convert into
Necklaces and bracelets for the love of
My life, whom I would meet, perhaps
In London, having failed to do so by the
Mediterranean. Ah, the smell of the sea.
It lives in my nostrils to this day, baked by
The everlasting sun, the feel of it on my
Deeply tanned back, seared into my memory.
I really was the very definition of a wrinkled
World-weary travelling bum, so I was not
Really startled when I was dragged out of
The ferry lineup for interrogation. I suppose
I might have looked like a smuggler trying
To look like a sixties young man on his
Initiation trip to see the world, the thing to
Do in those days. And I was bombarded by this
Drill-sergeant machine-gun questions:
Who are you? Show me identification. Show me
Your visa. Where did you come from? Where
are you going? What are going there for? What
are you going to do there? What is the real
purpose of your trip? What is the real purpose
of your tirp? How much money are you carrying?
How are you paying for this Grand Trip?
Precious little money, indeed, did I have.
A few lire the doctors in my English as a
Second Language classes scraped together
To launch me.
The questions continued. What will you do
In case of an emergency and you have run
Out of money?
Oh God. I’m sunk. This question was a stunner,
A grenade. I was staring at my belongings,
Spread out, askew by another security guard
Looking for that suspected contraband.
But my autoreactions kicked in and shocked
My weary body and mind into action. I
Stepped back three paces as if shot, my
Jaw hanging loose.
“Uh, well,” I blurted, “my family in Canada
Would send me money.”
My interrogator stared me down.
I began to break. I could feel the
Cold, cold embrace of an Oscar Wild
Jail cell, its damp, rheumatic walls,
I could see the nothingness through
Its bars, hear the wails of the inmates,
Sense the isolation and hunger of
This windowless future…
Then, to my astonishment, the hard-nosed
Interrogator let me go; his partner released
My belongings. I swept them up, stuffed them
Into their respective cases, and, to my delight,
The ferry man allowed me on board, bedraggled
As I was, breathing freely once more.
