I had been curious and somewhat excited about crossing from London to Paris on the Eurostar, the train that passes beneath the English Channel. When our taxi deposited us at Saint Pancras Station on a Saturday morning, it was evident that our choice of transportation was an exceedingly popular one.
 

           We passed through a series of security inspections that were more strenuous than those in an airport.  The suitcases that we would have checked, had we been flying, remained with us.  So we had to hoist them into oversized trays to pass through the X-ray machine.  Then we showed our passports twice, first to the U.K. border control officers, and then to their French counterparts.  There was no need to show our documents to anyone once we were actually in France.

Saint Pancras Station lacked sufficient seating for the waiting crush of weekend passengers. 

          Miri, HL and I brought some provisions for the trip, which took over two hours.  The train spent only 27 minutes traversing the tunnel.  The ride was comfortable even in our economy class seats.  I took a nap as we passed from one country to another.  For me, sleep never comes as easily as it does when I am in a moving train, car or even a tour bus. 

Another Eurostar train idled across the platform from ours at Saint Pancras station. 

          The neighborhood around our Paris hotel could best be described as transitional.  When we arrived, there was a knot of West African men socializing loudly on the street. They were unconcerned with us, however, and the hotel was clean if spare.  And the area undeniably was a lively one.

Our Paris hotel was on the Boulevard de Strasbourg in the Tenth Arrondissement.