The trip

We fly into Nantes. Go looking for a used car lot and haggle over the price of a Citroen 2CV with a balding Frenchman whose hole-filled top keeps rolling up over his stomach. He keeps taking his cigarette out from his mouth with alternating hands. I explain to him that I’m Scottish and he doesn’t need to rip me off. I gesticulate wildly and he sees that I’m one of his own.