Departure and Arrival:Embarkation to Israel
For two months my wife and I had been bicycling through France, cut off from the world. At La Ciotat, some twenty miles east of Marseille, we had settled ourselves for a while—bicycles and bags—in the local auberge de la jeunesse, a youth hostel so new that it was not yet finished.
In the midst of an impassioned argument, in which we two Americans, two English boys, and a Dutch hosteler were pitted against a lone English vegetarian who had been pushed so far out on the limb that he was vehemently denouncing vivisection, one of the youth-hostel parents entered. The père l’aube, as he is called by even the non-French-speaking hostelers, was a young fellow who worked in La Ciotat’s shipyard.
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