Transit: JT accidentally moves to France 

So as I was saying, my name is James Etienme Cadhain and I’m from . . . well, it would be unfair to name any one place—there are at least seven American states and two Canadian provinces that have attempted to claim that honor in various court filings over the years (more on that later, but I promise that I’m just as innocent as the next guy in stripes.  And then some.)  Still, I can tell you want me to name a place, so let’s just say Pointe a la Hache in Plaquemines Parish, Louisiana, and leave it at that.

I had been on the roads and the rails for quite a while before the oversight on my part that landed me here in this beautiful little hexagon of a country.  In all of my earlier travels, I had become accustomed to rolling on wherever that truck or train was headed, without much preference one way or another.  But at least I had a general idea of where it might lead me.  Then this last trip took me completely by surprise.

Then this last trip took me completely by surprise.

There are many modern miracles around us that we owe our advanced way of life to every day—from self-adhesive postage stamps to the home remedy known as Mentos to Levi’s and their hobo-friendly button-fly jeans.  But one modern miracle I knew nothing about—despite my intimate knowledge of the freight and transportation industry—is what we call Intermodal Freight Transport.

Intermodal Freight Transport is a system based on the ingenious invention known as the ISO Container—a standard sized and shaped container that can be transported interchangeably by rail, truck or ship from point A to point B to point C.  So, for example, ten tons of car parts can be sent by ship from China to Los Angeles, put on a train to Memphis and then switched to a truck to Asheville, N.C.

More to the point, a well-meaning hobo minding his own business could get in a half-empty container of okra (one could argue that it was a half-full load of okra, but I would respectfully demur) in rural Tennessee (not far from the town of Bells, home to the world-famous West Tennessee Okra Festival), sail the rails to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, be switched to a truck headed to Pointe a la Hache, Louisiana (trying to reach home to see a sick uncle before it is too late) and then fall asleep at a crucial moment in that dungy port by the sea.  As our hero slumbers in this hypothetical of hypotheticals, he and his despised okra are loaded onto a cargo ship headed for Le Havre, France, non-stop.  And voilà, here I am.