The trouble, I suppose, started with a pizza. We’d bought our tickets for the Corsica ferry on a last minute whim, and had to be at the port in Toulon later that evening. We–myself and my partner Bella–were in Arles, typically an hour and a half drive from Toulon, unless you’re as strapped for cash as we were and avoiding the major toll roads. Then it’s about a four hour drive on winding country lanes. No time to stock up on supplies, no time to stop and eat. A small pizza stand on the outskirts of Toulon, glowing in the middle of an empty parking lot, beckoned us. We might, we decided, have just enough time to stop for a slice. We ordered, and the father and son duo manning the stand told us it’d be ready in a half hour. Okay, we thought, let’s run to a store and pick up some groceries while it’s cooking. We did, and never found that pizza stand again. We drove up and down every side street in Toulon in our vain search, as our time of departure came ever nearer. Despondent, stomachs empty, we gave up and raced to the port–and were the last car ushered onto the ferry.
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