I’m on the Contiki bus waiting for the ferry to France. (I had hoped for the Chunnel.) I’ve tried to introduce myself to a bunch of people but I’m getting overloaded on names.
The three Japanese girls at the front are happy. One just outright called me handsome, and my sunglasses reminded her of The Matrix. Forward, or a language barrier, but I take it as a good sign.
I count a total of six Canadians, mostly from Ontario. Besides me, all of them are girls.
As near as I can tell, everyone else is Australian (they aren’t sympathetic about how long it took to me to get to Europe) or a New Zealander (which are also called Kiwi) with a sprinkling of South African.
Nobody has admitted to being American.