Travel day.  Paris to London.

Aaaarr€¦  me hearties!  I awoke possessed of a cunnin€™ plan to set sail t€™ward ye olde Gard du Nord, and cast my bags to the care of ye olde left luggage room, then sail on to meet me ol€™ compatriots for some fine Parisian victuals and a swig o€™ grog or two.   Shivver me timbers, if this didn€™t all fall asunder when I finds me€™self at the consignee of that fine port o€™ sea-galleons, that Gare du Nord, as it come to be known.  Before me very eyes I spies a vast queue of persons stretchin€™ into the offin€™, all wanting to do the self same thing as me.  For a while I thinks to me€™self I€™ll chance me arm and join these sorry land lubbers, but not two grains o€™ sand through the hour-glass later, and a fine wench greets us wi€™ a sorry tale that all her luggage caskets be full to overflowin€™ and we€™d best be makin€™ other plans.

Seem€™d to me that the prospect of wheeling me heafty treasure chests up hill and down dale would make a sorry sight, so I slings me €˜ook and in less than a single turn o€™ the hour glass I finds me€™self boarding a fine galleon-o-the-rails and settin€™ me sextant t€™ords the port o€™ London town.  How we feasted on board that fine galleon!  All washed down with a cup o€™ rosie-lea, then a spruce up with ye olde lemon scented moist towelette.  Aaaarr€¦.  we be livin€™ now.