Our first port was the island of La Reunion and since it is connected to France (I forget how.) it reminded me why French fries became freedom fries for awhile when Jacque Chirac was President or Supreme Ruler or whatever they call their leader.

First the port city was a real yawner but they did have these dancers at the first stop and they were cute and sexy. I still have not figured out the shuttle system and it was so bad Maurice decided he did not want to put up with the French and be our interpreter so he left and went back to the ship. Remember Maurice is half French and has a home near Lyon and also lives on the Isle of Guernsey for the other British half of him.

Anyway, we were dropped at this way station and all sorts of buses were going back and forth from the ship but they didn’t pick us up. We were told to wait for the pink bus as that was the bus that would pick us up from the way station. Finally, the pink bus came and dropped us off in front of this church. The other buses also dropped off people from the ship who boarded the bus at the ship. We were told we did not have to catch the pink bus back; that we could catch any of the buses back. The French Way? I hope there are no French people reading this because it is going to get worse. (A special note to my grandson, Zion, you may speak French but you are Swiss.)

We looked around the town and there was not much so we decided it would be nice to have a cold beer and sit down for awhile as it was quite hot and humid. We found an outside café and I noticed Esther and Barbie with some other people cozied up to a small glass table; after greetings we started to sit at a table next to them and they indicated that they were not allowed to sit there to just have a beer and were told to vacate and sit at the little table. There were no more little tables so we sat down and were promptly served our beers and I, of course, lorded it over the others not realizing it was now our turn. It did not appear that people were lining up to grab tables and eat at this café and it was almost 12:00 when we sat down.

Peggy decided she wanted French fries to go with the cold beer and after ordering and my remembering that they were called pom frits (sp?) we were told by the embarrassed waitress that we couldn’t have any. This was greeted by us with looks of wonder (Where was Maurice (pronounced Maurice when in France or Morris when in the UK) when we needed him. About that time the French hairdresser from the ship came by and we all let her know what had transpired. After five minutes or so of lively discussions coming from inside the café and other than the verbal exchanges, I have no idea what transpired, but we were then served our pom frits, which were excellent.