For the first 200 miles of coast, with the exception of my friend Patrick, all of the bicycle tourists I’d met had been from foreign countries. It sometimes felt like a small United Nations getaway as we all set up camp, cooked and ate together at the end of each riding day. One night it was two crazy Canadians, a Brit and a German all sitting around the picnic table with me. We all told jokes at dinner and more than a few of them were lost in translation. The best joke ( or worst) was the one the Brit told with the inappropriate punchline. No one got it and no one laughed until after a few seconds of silence when we all cracked up from awkwardness. The one I made about the pickles being DILL-icious was understood by all, but not greatly received. Maybe I should have tried the one about the cucumber that needed a lawyer because it was getting into a pickle.