Part Seven: Two Employees For The Continent of Europe, Obviously

Our packed Citroen C4 screeches to a halt just outside the Calais Ferry Terminal building. Adam and Charlie dart inside, as we’re frantically attempting to book tickets as foot passengers to save Charlie’s Mom and stepdad the hassle of ferrying over from Dover just to go back 15 minutes later. We pull the doors open to reveal literally hundreds of people snaking around the building in a line that stretches for what seems like miles. Some are standing, some are sitting, and some are bundled in a sleeping bag attempting to catch up on days of missed rest. We follow the zig-zag all the way to the front, where just two people are behind the counter selling tickets. Once again, Europe has really risen to the challenge of this now global crisis.

Realizing there was no hope of getting walk-on tickets, we made the call and had Gillian and Malcolm (and Knights in Shining Armour) board the dog gone ferry. Now with nearly two hours of free time on our hands (free time you say? CRAZY!) we decided it would be a good idea to do a dry run of their route to make sure we could give very accurate instructions so as to make the 4:45am ferry instead of waiting until 6:15am. Let it be known that 3am dry-runs of a highly confusing route overseen by five rather vocal people after 15 hours in a car together is not recommended.

The ferry exit led directly to a highway that had only one exit 5 miles down the road. That exit had both a left and right turn option with led to a roundabout that swoops under the highway and back onto the ferry return lane, shooting vehicles back into the boarding zone to go back to England. Confusing? Try putting all of that into a text message, which took us 15 minutes to agree on wording. It was the first and only moment where we got testy with each other. Indeed, the Ferocious Five neared a state of meltdown.

Because it was a highway, we had to lug our bags out into the middle then flap our arms to flag down the cars, dump in our bags, and zoom into the customs line. This was, of course, after we parked the car at the end of the lot, ran the key to the drop box in the ferry terminal half a mile away, then darted back to our makeshift pick-up zone. Magically, the entire operation went off without a hitch. As their cars crested over the horizon and our salvation become visible, the excitement exploded. “I have never actually jumped for joy like I did just now,” David said.

Cars and bags safely stowed below, we toasted to our success with ferry-quality champagne, watching the sun rise over the White Cliffs of Dover as we approached good old England. We had done it. We had pulled off the greatest escape in travel history. Bring it volcano. Bring it.

As our train pulled into London and we each headed in our own direction, the reality of reality slowly started to settle. Why, again, had we decided to come back to all this? Why, again, did we want the adventure to end? For the life of me, I can’t remember. All I know is that I’ve got an excellent pair of plumen-goggle-strassen to check out the mean cloud of volcanic ash!

Long live the Ferocious Five.

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Kyle Taylor

It’s A Small World (With No Window)

As is usual for me, no flying experience ever seems to go “well,” if you will. Brazil to France was no exception, and neither was my little blip of a flight – Nice to Paris – after four days in the South of France. After my surprise upgrade from Buenos Aires to Sao Paulo, where I basked in the lap of luxury, including a fold-flat bed, my non-reclining, end-of-the-row, right near the toilet, 18 inches of space with no pillow seat was rather depressing. Eleven hours later I couldn’t feel my tail-bone and I was munching on a microwaved croissant. Meanwhile, the woman next to me looked like she had just stepped off a runway. How do people do travel and stay pretty? I look more like I’ve been hit by a truck.

Fast forward to Nice, six days later. The flight to Nice was wonderful: one hour, free chocolate and a short nap. Not so on the return. Of course, it wasn’t just the flight. The Nice Airport is a good, oh, THREE DAYS from the city of Nice and since I’m on quite the budget I decided to take the airport bus. I lugged my enormous backpack up the enormous hill to the not-so-enormous bus station and waited, sweating profusely. The bus pulled up. I went to board. Apparently this wasn’t allowed, as the driver literally “gave me the hand” to which I talked, completely confused. He then explained (in lightning-speed French) that I had to go to the other side of the street to board. So I exited, crossed the street, and waited for him to pull a u-turn, at which point he opened the door and greeted me with a smile, as if our encounter of five minutes ago had not happened. Forty-five minutes later we arrive at the airport. Correction: we arrive near the airport, at the bus terminal. From there, it was a ten-minute walk to the actual terminal.

I went inside and searched the screens for my flight. It was now 7:50PM and I had a 9:05PM flight. Still good on time, I thought. It’s domestic. The only problem was, none of the flights on the screen were domestic. I tromped (I say tromped because my backpack ways about 50 pounds, which makes regular “walking” and even “striding” impossible) to the info booth to get some info. No info person. I had forgotten that it was Sunday. No one works on Sunday in Europe. All stores are closed. Life all but stops, especially when your need concerns info. It’s now 8:05PM and I’m getting concerned. No planes seem to be flying anywhere inside France and my tromp is becoming a sludge. At this point all bets are off and I’m asking any person that passes to help me. Finally someone knows the problem: “This is terminal one. You need terminal two.”

I now quickly sludge out the door with the hope of walking next door to terminal two. Wrong. Terminal two is actually in Spain, or at least it feels that way. I actually have to take a twenty-minute shuttle to terminal two that stops at every parking lot, bus stop and bike rack we pass. 8:30PM. I’m nervous.

I arrive at terminal two and decide to drag my bag while scurrying to baggage check, where an American attendant decides to lecture me on being on time rather than check my bag and give me a boarding pass. I stand there, no energy to argue.

Then it’s a dash (remember, my big bag is checked, so dashing is doable) to security, where I am stopped because of a water bottle in my backpack. Search time! Yeah! Meanwhile, they force me to put my laptop in a plastic bin WITHOUT its cover on, tossing it around like it’s a dodgeball or something. Um, can you please be careful with that, I’m thinking, but not saying. After all, I did try to bring mineral water on the plane…


9PM sharp and I’m walking on the plane, the second time in a week that this has happened. I’m seat 30A, which is nowhere near the front of the plane. In fact, it’s the very last row, and I don’t have any neighbors! The back of my seat is actually NAILED to the wall behind me and obviously does not recline. This time, however, I experience an airplane first: my row has NO WINDOW. Just a white wall. I was the only person on the plane in this situation, naturally.

We land in Paris, I grab my bag and try to follow the signs that lead to nowhere, attempting to get back to Paris. The subway ticket machine is (obviously) broken, so I am obliged to take the bus, which I don’t do. I just get on the subway. The pay-at-the-end machine (shockingly) doesn’t take US credit cards and is currently not accepting paper money, which leaves me trapped between the airport express train and the city of Paris, sludging along with a big backpack.

I eventually made it back to my crash pad, with total travel time at just over five hours. That’s how long the train takes from Nice to Paris…Hmm…

This Woman Is A Saint, Monaco Has Lots Of Ferraris, & The South of France Is A Lot Like SoCal

First and foremost, this woman – Catherine – is a living saint. The woman picked Christelle (the YV France Director) and I up from the airport, insisted we use the only two bedrooms in her house while her family of four slept on air mattresses in the living room, fed us, organized a speaking event for nearly 200 French youth and took us to a stand-up comedy show, all without EVER meeting us before this experience! She is one of the most incredible people I have ever met, and I wanted to give her a big shout out. She’s a huge supporter of young people creating change, and we’re lucky to have her as an ally. Plus, she has the most adorable kids ever...


(We engaged in a rather serious pillow fight)


They live on a charming grape farm that is so perfect, it doesn’t seem real.


I almost wanted to end the tour there and just disappear from the face of the earth for a while – maybe forever…


Second, Monaco is absolutely beautiful and has now become the perfect example of excess. I’ve never seen so much excess in my entire life (combined with the latest in French fashion).


I saw a Bentley and couldn’t help but think to myself, that would fund 350 teams or feed a small country for a month. While this tour is fast, I do think it’s helpful in the sense that I’ve been able to get (and share) a vivid snapshot of inequity on a global level, and it has made the need for change so much more apparent. Less than a week ago I was interviewing young people in a Sao Paulo slum who just recently got running water and now I’m standing at an intersection looking at a Lamborghini, an Aston Martin and a Rolls Royce. Messed up much?


Finally, the south of France could be Southern California, minus the rocky beaches, naked bodies and much more fuel efficient cars. I stepped out in St. Raphael and honest to goodness, for a split second, I thought I was in Newport Beach, CA, only people weren’t using the words “dude” and “sweeeet” (except for me). This moment of shock was followed by “Mexican food” for lunch, which made clear that I was indeed in the south of France and not in southern California.

You don’t even want to know what I’d do for a taco stand taco right about now.

Music That Moves Me

I spent the day with Maxime, YV France’s newest free laborer, tour guide extraordinaire and full-time changemaker. We walked the Seine (him against his will), cruising the Musee D’orsay (closed on Mondays, just fyi), St. Michel, Notre Dame and the Pompidou. More importantly, I introduced him to Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream after we shared some delectable Macaroons (have you ever eaten a Macaroon? It’s like a little piece of chocolate heaven mushed between two flaky chocolate sham tarts). Happiness? Check.

Maxime is also a young changemaker. For the past few years he has worked with two bands to mainstream social ideas through their music. “The lyrics mean something,” he explained to me. “There is a message there, but it’s in a popular package that people like to listen too.” The number of gigs continues to increase, and their following continues to grow. More importantly, he has found a way to connect with people where they are, a challenge we all face. Listen up, because he’s ROCKIN’ OUT (at the Louvre, playing a wicked air guitar).