All Aboard the Oscar Wilde.

Here he is, looking dapper.

Oscar Wilde wrote many things that many people enjoyed.  He is also a large ferry.  Few people know that Oscar Wilde was, and currently is, a ferry.  Okie dokie, enough lighthearted but possibly offensive wordplay  The  Oscar Wilde was the name of the ship that would carry us from Cherbourg, France to Rosslare, Ireland.   While on board this ship, shenanigans abound.  This is a recap of said shenanigans.

Normandy

We were at the Canadian Memorial because the two girls who had saved our excursion to the coast were, in fact, Canadian.  They had approached us at the bus terminal in some nondescript town a few miles from the coast.  We had been under the impression that the train would basically drop us off at the beach, only to find out later that we were stuck miles away from our destination with not so much as a bus departing for Courseulles-sur-Mer (the name we dragged out of a disinterested local) anytime soon. We cornered a taxi driver and negotiated him down to a billion dollars for the trip before we decided we’d be better off just purchasing a helicopter and flying there ourselves. We loitered outside the building looking defeated when two attractive girls came jogging over to us asking if we wanted to rent a car with them.  It was the perfect plan.  The car was cheap when split four ways, we had tremendous freedom to explore and we had the company of two lively and humorous girls from Halifax.  Good things happen when you’re the fucking worst at planning outings. 

Paris: Ehhhhh

Ah, Paris, The City of Lights, or Love…it’s a city in France, that much I know.  I’ve been there too.  Not for very long and not for any meaningful purpose but I was there.  I can look people in their eye’s and tell them, “I have been to Paris.”  How many people can do that?  Millions you say? Well then…allow me to differentiate myself from these hoards of part-time Parisians.