Germany was mainly autobahn. We didn't stop to see anything but concrete service stops, such was our rush to get to the sunny shores of Spain. The promised land. Part of me didn't believe that things could change, but as we entered France, things started to look up. Although still cold, the edge had worn off a bit and we were starting to see a few rays of sunlight. The country is pretty and there's always an optimistic vibe when passing through, especially when you are heading for somewhere you've dreamed of seeing for years. The playlist was upbeat and we were doing all right.

As we passed through some smaller towns, which by my standards, are still cities, we had to stop for supplies. We locked up the van as best you can when you find out that "the doors don't exactly lock". We shut them and hoped nobody would open them without our permission, which was the limit of our security system, and made our way across the car park to visit Eddie's supermarché. That's when we discovered that nothing in France is made without milk and eggs. Nothing. Not even the water. This wasn't ideal news, but we were only passing through and a few baguettes would see us through. Conveniently, there was a small bakery next to the supermarket and they had some of those long bread things we call French Sticks. I think they are just called Sticks in France. We bought a few and headed into the supermarket to find something to go with them.

And that's when we encountered the French Supermarket Baguette Police. Upon entry to the giant store, we were intercepted by an ego in a wedding suit. He immediately began his verbal assault, none of which we understood, nor did we attempt to - our policy is not to tolerate crap from strangers. But this particular ego didn't quit. He followed us down the aisles, issuing urgent commands at the backs of our heads as we searched for beans and spreads. We had a good chuckle at the utter bizarreness of the situation but it soon grew tiresome, and my dad comically turned to him and carefully explained that we had no idea what he was going on about and didn't much care to find out. The gentleman was fuming by this point, and we became concerned that he might pop a gasket. He seemed to be angry at the bread.

As our search continued, we came across giant tins of peas that weighed many kilos, but that wasn't what we needed. Of the millions of items the store must have had, we found only pasta and potatoes. Everything else was nonsense. The itch hadn't gone away, but, through the language of mime, he had managed to convey his grievance; he wanted us to surrender our bread to the safe bread zone. I wasn't sure if it was going to be returned or destroyed for my protection, but we followed the lad back to the checkout where he pointed to some designated bread storage shelves. We couldn't stop laughing as we gave up our bread and the red started to drain from the face of our aggressor.

After our shopping spree, which really did end with potatoes and pasta (no sauce), we were surprised when the gentleman didn't seem to remember us, and nor was he able to understand what we wanted when we came to collect our bread. He sure was going to go there, but we weren't having it. I reached over the counter and grabbed at the bread, much to his dismay, and we left the ridiculous store with big smiles on our cheeky faces.

Burtdad with the giant peas.