I lowered my teacup slightly and looked from one face to the other.
“The tunnel?” I repeated, feeling curious.
Why do we need a reservation?
This was another part of England I hadn’t heard of yet.
“The Channel Tunnel”, they said.
I shrugged, shaking my head. I still didn’t know.
I must’ve looked like a dog who heard a whistle humans can’t hear.
They explained it was a way to travel from England into Europe through France.
We would be going underneath the English Channel.
Under the water.
Into France.
We’d need our passports for the border check.
My passport.
From England to France.
No plane.
This adventure suddenly felt bigger than a tunnel under water.
I sat there for a second, letting that land, sipping my tea.
“So how does it work? You’re buying a ticket for us to use the tunnel to drive to France?”
“Is it like the Midtown Tunnel in New York?” I asked. “The one that runs under the East River?”
I was familiar with that underwater tunnel.
You pay a toll to drive through it.
They responded, “Not quite like that. We can’t drive through it”.
They explained that we’d drive the car onto the train, which would carry us into France.
I had so many questions.
Would we see the water from inside the tunnel?
You can’t in the Midtown tunnel but then you’re driving so it would be distracting.
How long does it take?
Where in France were we going?
I was feeling excited about this new experience even though France was not at the top of my “countries I’d like to visit” list.
I felt grateful for another unexpected experience. We spent the rest of the evening discussing the details.
Ok, so we’d all be passengers in our car, which would be transported on the train.
They explained the trip through the Channel Tunnel would take roughly thirty minutes or so and there wouldn’t be anything to see.
Oh my, thirty minutes. Got it!
Thirty minutes in a train underwater felt like a long time.
We decided to leave Tuesday, and their daughter would be coming with us. That meant we could each bring only a carry-on size suitcase so everything fit in the car.
I was told to pack for a few days stay and I suddenly found myself wishing it was spring, summer or fall so I wouldn’t have to contend with trying to pair up outfits for these heavy winter sweaters.
It’ll be fine, I thought.
As they were discussing key points of interest, and their daughter’s need to bring her school computer with her so she could stay on track with school assignments and lessons, I was absorbed in the idea of needing to get my stuff organized.
“What would I pack?”
When Tuesday came, we packed ourselves into the car and prepared to leave the comfort of their home behind.
I did not know what it would feel like to travel beneath the English Channel for thirty plus minutes.
Or, more importantly, what awaited us at the French border.
My suitcase was packed.
I had my passport in hand.
The tunnel was waiting.
So were the border guards.