I’ve always been a crier. A loud, gavalte, snot-filled blubberer. Last summer, I wailed and held my stomach for twelve hours during the gut-wrenching coach ride back from Folkestone to Winchester. The lure of cheap Cadburys and the lull of incessant English chirping did little to relieve the hell of motion sickness, a susceptibility forged as an unbelted toddler roaming the backseat of a smoke-filled and suspension-challenged Desoto. Nobody came near me on that bus. No offers of tea or tissues. It could have been because I was the only French-speaker on the Battlefield Tour, but I don’t think so.