When it came time to stop at Verdun-sur-Saône we just didn’t. We popped in, did a circuit of the port, took some photos out of the window and said “Well it’s only another couple of hours to Chalon”, and kept going thankful that we had no plan, for that is how simply and badly plans can go awry were one foolish enough to make them.
We’d sent messages to Roger advising that we’d be there Monday, then another saying possibly Wednesday, so it seemed that Tuesday would be a reasonable compromise for our long awaited reunion and if our boats were animals, to introduce at long last, our no longer new puppy to “Silouhette”, the mother-ship.
Here we lie, catching up on a few years worth of news, just a few kilometres from the centre of Chalon, at the old abandoned commercial port, which in the way of these things, complete with broken cranes and tumbleweed, serves (very Brisbane-like) as the base for a fleet of giant hotel boats.
As we watched the turnover of passengers as bus after bus continued their transfers this afternoon we couldn’t help but observe some notable differences between our lives and those on the hotel barges.
They have cabins that are bigger than our boat, but then so does Silouhette actually.
If they aren’t out of bed by ten, they’ll miss breakfast or their bus.
They go home on Tuesday.
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