We crossed the English Channel by rowboat. Dover has nicer cliffs than Houston. The film of our trip will be part of the XV Biennale de Paris.
In the north of France you can order something called le Welsh, which turns out to be a regional derivative of Welsh rarebit, though Welsh is not even the French word for the Welsh (gallois). It’s served in a casserole dish, about 2″ deep and maybe 7″-8″ in diameter, completely filled with melted cheddar cheese. If you poke around carefully you can feel a thin piece of toast at the bottom. You can order it with a fried egg on top or with ham. We ate ours at the John F. Kennedy Pub.
We didn’t really row across the Channel. As you can see, this picture was taken from another boat. A sailboat towed our yole the whole way after we rowed out of Boulogne. We took naps and ate pickles and really low-grade paté. After getting some good photos against the cliffs, we faked a crash landing. I haven’t washed my pants since then and sand still comes out of my pockets.
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