We were close, but not enough to walk. The carpark was still and in shadow apart from a few scattered blocks of golden haze cast between industrial objects reaching into the sky above the coastline. We wandered the pedestrian walkway expectantly, with only the occasional drone of a passing vehicle off in the distance disturbing our general chitchat.

On the ship, I had struck up a conversation with the man. He had also been in the waiting room. I asked if he knew anything regarding getting to Paris from Calais. He was hitchhiking to Groningen from London and wondered if I knew a good place to pick up a lift. We crossed the full expanse of the tarmac and metal alloy, during which time the hitchhiker seemed to be troubled by the weight of his bag and I was mildly irritated by my decision not to have a look around the terminal building first… Shouldn’t go back.

We passed a roundabout and went through an underpass then came to another roundabout. The hitchhiker lagged behind. “Are you going that way? I think I need to go this way,” he said. My guess was to follow the road sign for the city centre but I was disorientated by my phone’s GPS, which was not working. “The port must be a dead zone,” I assumed. I paced back and forth with indecision. A few dozen yards in one direction before changing my mind and walking in the other direction. I could see the hitchhiker a few hundred yards ahead of me that way had stopped with his rucksack at his feet, which he was making adjustments to. “Maybe it’s something to do with the network provider?”

The landscape to the south was dominated by a huge hanger-like building covered in shining bronze-tinted metallic cladding. I used it as a landmark to asses the best route. This way was cut-off by a river and the nearest bridge was far. I elected instead for the long, straight road adjacent to the ferry port. Along it, I studied the grounds of the hanger building. The huge swathe of grass and concrete looked shabby from disuse. Bits of glass, piles of rubble and other debris covered the site, where a colony of rabbits had made their home too.

At the end of the road was a roundabout. On the other side of the junction, an emergency vehicle of some sort was parked with three uniformed persons standing around it. Despite having half a thought on asking them for directions, I didn’t pay enough attention to whether they were police or ambulance or something else to do with the port. The direction went through an industrial estate, where the entrance gates for the hanger building were located at the top of. On the other side of the gates, the engine of a white fiesta idled with its driver-side door open. I passed no one going through the industrial estate but thought I saw the hitchhiker distantly ahead of me, now without a rucksack.

Eventually, I arrived at an urban area on the city’s outskirts and could see an ornate clocktower in the distance climbing above all the other buildings surrounding it. Two people stood in mild discussion in the forecourt of a petrol station and a woman carrying shopping bags gave me a fleeting curious look as she passed me by. Moving in the general direction of the clocktower I walked the terraced streets along a main road comprised of closed or empty shops and a few small, dirty looking brasseries and bars, also not open. Each had the chipped, faded paint on the windowsills or around their doorways. I walked under a black sign above a doorway with bold yellow letters spelling “SEX SHOP” thrusting out into the street. A man stood propped up against a lamppost, clasping a pastry bag in one hand. As I got closer I noticed his hands and face were covered in dirt or soot and his eyes stared past me vacantly. He seemed to be waiting for a bus or for someone to come out of one of the houses.

I arrived at the hotel and I immediately arranged a taxi for 11.45 the following morning to the train station. I was told that the person on the desk tomorrow would take care of it. I mentioned the difficulty in getting from the ferry terminal to the reception person, who was aghast with disbelief. There was some problem with the system which meant that she had to go through the process of printing my bill several times. When I enquired about dining recommendations, she quickly produced the menu of a brasserie just around the corner from the hotel, which she enthusiastically pressed on me. I had passed the brasserie on my way in. It stood out, as it was the only business I had actually seen open.

Studying the menu in the brasserie’s window I instantly gauged all the telltale signs of a tourist trap. I was about to head in, amused at the idea of the 14€ Welsh rarebit, when something landed with a soft thud just behind my shoulder blade. One of the local gulls had seen fit to grace me with a welcome gift. An elderly group of three gave me pitied looks of embarrassment while also giving me a wide berth.

Soap and toilet paper in the small sink of my hotel bathroom seemed to clear up the worst of it, so leaving the jacket to dry, I went for dinner. At the end of the meal, the waiter appeared in front of me presenting a dessert menu, which I declined. An elderly British couple finished their dessert and eventually managed to get the attention of the waiter to ask for the bill.

“Mursi bhoo c-hoo” the woman of the couple said ceremoniously, followed by a small, apologetic laugh.

In the morning I went down for the continental breakfast, which I had paid extra for on check-in. I was confronted by the morning receptionist as I selected my breakfast items. His shoulders were stooped and his face was rough like it had been hacked from cheap MDF. In French, he politely asked to see my room card. He spoke with a thick accent that sounded American. His mouth was small with thin lips surrounding it, and he mostly spoke through his bottom teeth.

After breakfast, I went to the front desk to enquire about the taxi. I waited, rang the service bell, but no one appeared. I came back down after packing. This time the man was on the phone. He hung up and before I could say anything asked if I was the person who had booked the taxi. He had been on the phone with the company and they were sending one right away. This was earlier than I had ordered, but better to arrive in plenty of time.

I waited in the hotel foyer, reading the morning news and watching the man shuffle around attentively from deed to deed. After my second cigarette, there was still no sign of the taxi. It was nearly 11.45. The man was understanding and contacted the company. It would be another 15 minutes. I doubted that, and besides, that would be too late. He called another company, which was similarly indisposed. He was lost for an explanation. The man’s gaunt face then became dishevelled with concentration as he made further enquiries on the reception computer. His suggestion was to take a train from the city centre station to the station where the train to Paris would leave. I thanked him, maybe sardonically, and left with my things.

The streets were just as bare as the previous evening as I quick marched to the station. A homeless man sitting outside a bakery greeted me, which I halfheartedly replied to, making it clear I was in a rush.

At the station, I attempted to purchase a ticket from the automated ticket machine. But the English instructions were only partly translated it seemed, with the ticket choices still in French, which I couldn’t comprehend. I took the receptionist’s advice and didn’t bother getting one. “They never check,” he told me confidently.

I went to the platform where he said the train would be. The screen in the station had shown the train but didn’t say which platform. I checked another platform, but this wasn’t right either. The third platform I came to was correct, with the train already there waiting. The margin was fine but I should arrive with a few spare minutes before for the train to Paris. The man in the hotel had assured me that the train left from the opposite platform of the one I would arrive on.

I sat nervously in a chair in one of the rear carriages where the train attendant seemed to be hovering around in his navy uniform with a red stripe through his conductor’s hat. He passed once, saying only, “Bonjour,” and spent the rest of the journey talking to another person in the same carriage. As the train snaked through the desolate peripheries of the town, I paid particular attention to the security fencing; three layers thick, intermittently interrupted by guard towers and security gates, which ran for miles flanking either side of the train tracks away from Calais.