Sitting in a comfortable armchair, his big dreamy eyes on the flat expanse outside the windows.
The French littoral had vanished in the wake of the ferry, and the British coast lay beyond the low black clouds moving in from the ocean. The sea was choppy – half light, half pitch dark. He had tried to stay on the deck outside but the wind had pushed him out of his little shelter behind the lifeboats.
A wave, and the alarms of the cars had gone off and waken him from his reverie. He’d gone back in among the sad game arcades, the carpeted floors, le pub, and the posters advertising how cheap it can get for “frequent crossers.”
All of a sudden the famous white cliffs of Dover, in the fog, the rain and the gray clouds. It’s not the new world, but the thought is, “I came over on the Rodin.”