In Calais town, we drop our bags at the place we’re spending the night before going to the Jungle tomorrow, then walk the quiet streets to get chips for our tea. The woman in the kiosk has a big smile and offers generous portions to everyone, and free carrier bags to a quiet young man who is trying to carry thrown-away bread in a breaking apart box. Three lads try to order tea from her; she says she is sorry, there is only coffee. “Come to England, yalla, we have plenty of tea!” I say to them in Arabic. They break into broad smiles. They are from Syria.