Firstly, my apologies for not writing since Saturday afternoon. Blogging regularly is only a really attractive proposition if one is availed of wifi and hasn’t anything better to do. Really, since my last session, I have passed through both states of being, but never at the same time. I like to blog from the car when I’m parked up for the day/night. I haven’t (until now) taken the laptop out of the car!
So, whilst some of the boring detail of the last few days will have left my mind (I hear you rejoice!), I feel more than able to update you as far as the tail-end of Saturday and Sunday are concerned.
For the amusement of those with a preference for real-time data, I’m currently using the wifi of a nearby hotel, with 50 mins of battery remaining. From my bar table (on which there are some dry-roasted peanuts and a flutelike glass of local white wine), i can see the inner harbour, the castle and the church. The weather is fine, fair weather cumulus (about 3.5 octas). I’d make the temperature about 19.5 deg C in the shade. I’m on holiday, baby!
On Saturday afternoon, I acquainted myself with Bordeaux. There’s never any harm in trying the state-funded tourist points, so long as it doesn’t prevent one from getting to meet the people and relax as well. I opted to obtain the best visual overview from the bell tower, right next to the West end of St Andrew’s Cathedral. This tower is an awesome structure, dated later than the cathedral itself, and built to support the huge bells, isolating the main building from the considerable vibration of their ringing. In exchange for 5€, I would be able to climb the 230 steps to the top. Armed with the camera, I approached the desk, proffering a 10€ note. The kindly gent refused to accept it when he realised I was 25. Strictly, he should have taken it, as I broke the age limit by a few months, but he probably pitied me: his build was not conducive to such a climb, and he clearly thought it would cause me as much bother as it causes him.
Man, I’m unfit. I didn’t stop, though, until I reached the first floor, I would say about 190 steps up. Here the people of Bordeaux had installed small signs around the rail, indicating the key points in the city; mainly the buildings. Sadly, these plates were sand-cast, lacking detail and were very much artist’s impressions of the buildings in question. in addition, unlike a normal view point, the plaques gave no indication where in the vista the particular point of interest would be found. Some were frustratingly near: the observer might find himself looking over the top of it for a minute or two. Others were so distant as to become mirage-like in the haze. Some plaques were repeated on two sides of the tower, which might lead a less experienced techno-traveller to assume that the Bordelaise have a penchant for architectural duplicity.
I took quite a few photos, but very much missed the panorama feature of my old Canon Powershot, which fixed the camera’s settings after the first shot and assisted in aligning the frames prior to stitching on the computer.
I continued my ascent to the near-pinnacle of the tower. The view from here was simply a more dangerous and less informative version of the view a few metres below. Nevertheless, the adrenal release of satisfaction made it worth it.
My descent was inhibited by a large group of loudly-spoken people of Hampshire. I greeted them, adding them to my limited tally of English voices. I have yet to see one British number plate since leaving Dieppe. The joys of being out of season.
The rest of the afternoon I think of as my first low-point of the holiday. I was resolved to stay in the city, of course, but felt like I lacked the emotional energy to engage other people at that point. So I decided to be French. I would sit outside cafes, read “Sud Ouest” and some magazines and let the world go by. It was through those few hours in the cafes around Place de la Comodie and Gambetta that I aquianted myself with the local wine (I’ve eschewed formal tasting – it has occurred to me that I’m not actually interested in wine very much!), drank excellent coffee, smiled at my neighbours, relaxing in ones, twos and threes and got on with enjoying life.
I compromised my evening by missing lunch and eating at around 1600. I couldn’t bring myself to sit down to dinner as well. As a result, I realised with dismay that I had missed my usual opportunity to meet people over a meal. Slightly dejected, I walked back into town from the car, which I had positioned a 20-minute walk from the centre, and spotted a bar at the city end of Rue Judaique. This is a road I know quite well, as the municipal swimming pool where I make my toilet is half-way down. The place, called “Cafe Juda” or some-such was a tapas bar, and as it was quite late, was starting to buzz. I sat at the bar and ordered wine and tapas, and was left to my own devices by the seemingly surly proprietor and his guests, which included a couple of women in their early 30s and some worn-out looking just-pre-middle-age frenchmen. There is something about the weather and food, I suspect, that makes women age well and men age badly. They are seldom fat, more often in need of more care and attention. They are often badly shaved or not at all, and sometimes have a whispy decrepitude about them. I find them often wearing slightly worn teeshirts and leather jackets. Their teeth are of variable condition, and as the champagne flows and the conversation gets louder and less sophisticated, these teeth are revealed in laughs and wide grins. I am envious of their evening vivacity.
Finally, when her friend had trotted to the loo, one of the ladies greeted me. We exchanged the crucial particulars of my solitary, transient displacement, and I was introduced to the whole group, who took me completely under their wings. In an orgasm of conviviality, I was offered wine and cultural norms were demonstrated, explained and analysed: one lady of African descent spent a good 10 minutes in explaining, with examples, the process of transitioning from “vous” to “tu”, and answered many questions with the confidence of customary experience that transcended any textbook I’ve read. We imbibed a considerable quantity of wine and champagne (which seems to be opened on a whim without even the fabrication of a celebratory purpose), during which time, a half-Vietnamese woman – wife of one of the descheveled men – took a liking to my skin-tone and general condition, in the process taking time to educating me in the variety of ways in which approval of physical appearance can be conveyed in the French tongue. I assisted her, whilst all the while maintaining a considerable level of British reserve and detachment to acquaint her with the word “hansom”, in lieu of which, the French appear to use somewhat feminine alternatives. At the very least, it discouraged her from describing me to her friends as “beautiful” (something I am not). At my insistence, and to encourage a gap in the now less appreciated repartee, she attended to her husband who, after her encouragement shook me warmly by the hand and explained jovially that I wasn’t to lay a finger on his woman. It is important, dear readers, that you do not misinterpret these exchanges as anything other than witty and convivial parlance between two men of the world. In any case, he was welcome to her!
It was with some hesitance that I accepted an offer at about 0001 from the African lady-educator that some of us might accompany her to Monseigneur, the local hotspot, for further drinks and some dancing. I would not ordinarily attach a timeout to any invitation, but, when 0200 came around and there was no evidence of movement toward to door, I made my apologies, said my goodbyes and trotted back to the car, where sleep beckoned like a mist-veiled lighthouse in a safe harbour.
Sunday came around, and was as slow as the Saturday afternoon, but for different reasons. I proceeded unabated, in any case, equipped with (nay, gripped by, for now I truly feel like I’m on holiday) the laissez faire attitude developed in the proceeding day. I drove to a spot I’d found on Friday but had deemed unfit to sleep at (too overlooked, bus route, busy), although pretty central. I selected it for its proximite to the pool and the availability of wifi. Feeling suitably clean, I drove the 20 minutes south through Leognan, a beautiful wine town, surrounded by chataux (not all of them castle-like) and their accompanying vineyards. The weather was fine, the road smooth, fast and satisfying, the diesel purred like an old cat, tickled by unbooted foot of a retired upholsterer (there’s something analogous in the tap water around here). I was destined for the airfield, where I knew I would find a gliding club as a result of my research in Chartres.
I’m quite familiar with airfields. I love being able to see so much sky at any one time – they are a place where the clouds at long last make sense of the textbooks. One thing has always confused me about them, though. The man made features of the field, so apparent at 1000ft are utterly invisible from the ground. The location of the strips is only deducible from the direction of the landing aircraft. More seriously, though, I was oblivious to the existence of a perimeter road: most airfields of this size that I know do not have access from more than one side. I could see distant gliders upwind, ready to launch (weirdly, for you would normally launch into the wind), but knew that it would not be appropriate to walk around the field as I might at Booker, as the runway was active and I was off home turf. I walked to the general aviation hangers, and talked to two men there, who endeavoured to explain to me how to get to the gliding hanger on the other side of the field by car. One had no English, but seemed to be unwilling to speak French, prefering to gesture uselessly. It is assumed that the English won’t understand, but I understand much, much more than I can say. He started by saying, “can you see the cars on the road?”, then sent me back to mine to drive around to the gliders – I assumed by means of the main road, him having pointed it out! I dutifully exited the aerodrome, and turned off where I expected to find the edge of the field. The gate was locked. Espying a turn-off to a large château, I decided to change my plans, and ask the proprietor to let me taste the wine. Fate conspired against me, though: this particular château had been converted into a convalescence home!! I continued back to Leognon heavy hearted, and tucked into a patisserie whilst deciding on a course of action. I thought to return to Bordeaux, then realised that I would be giving in by doing that. I returned to the aerodrome instead, sure that I had missed something. Sure enough, within the aerodrome complex, a weathered sign, the arrow of which I had understood to take me further down the road on closer inspection appeared to point between the GA hangers! In short, I found the perimeter road I needed over 30 minutes ago…
The sky was greying as I took the steps up to the clubhouse. I was greeted warmly by the other pilots, all waiting for a reappearance of that patch of blue that would mean we could all fly. Only one had got away that morning, and was still up there. The membership was wonderfully young. They didn’t all seem super-rich judging (as you never should) by clothes, cars and sunglasses, so I think it is a reasonable place to fly. One of the balding keenees that all clubs benefit from helped me comprehend the ATC zones around Merignac airport, which took considerable time, but all made sense in the end. I read some magazines for a while with some of the others, before descending to the hangar. Now I know why the club members didn’t look wealthy. It was all in their aircraft. The club owned a selection of solo and training aircraft, but, pride of place in the middle of it all was the ultimate training glider: the duo discus. There’s one at Wycombe I’ve never flown, either. You could fly it solo in competitions against single seaters and still win.
As we couldn’t fly, I helped out in the hangar, covering gliders, testing radios and packing things away.
Across from the large hangar was a smaller one, with fancy electric doors. Therein contained was a Dynamic, a gorgeous two-seater, single engined plane, the owner of which decided to take for a spin, dashing up through the rain to the distant blue, north of the field. It began to rain heavily. A storm broke out, but we all hung on, as these apparently pass quickly through the region. By 1600, though, it was clear that we’d experienced a no-fly day. I thanked everyone, was encouraged to return, and then I headed back to Bordeaux.
After my spell at the airfield, I took the chance to select a new place to park up on the other side of town – Rue Boyard, just off Rue Mounyera did the job, about halfway down from Place de la Republique. It was nearer the centre, maybe a cheaper area, judging by the need for maintenance. I walked around the town for a while, stopping off to take pictures and drink coffee. By the time that dinner time came around (always earlier for me than any Frenchman) I felt comfortable in the place, as I do in my old shoes. It was with hesitation that I selected a table outside a restaurant claiming to be one of the oldest and best. Against it were the rather ostentatious fittings and slightly nose-in-the-air table service. In its favour were the reasonably large number of French people eating and drinking there, and the wonderful view of the cathedral in the orangey light of dusk. There’s something quite special about the afternoon lull in these cities: kids (and the not-so-young) on their monocycles, practising by the West door, tables of happy friends, some live music from the adjoining cafes. There is much less pretention and greyness than in cities with big financial centres like London. In its place is a sort of continental subtlety. I think I may have misinterpreted the seeming dilapidation of the town-houses and their occupants as a sort of poverty of pocket and pride. Instead, I think the French care more about other things: meeting their friends; manufacturing culture; eating; trying their hands at being philosophical or revolutionary; being political – all these places are littered with messages which become part of the background scenery: they would be removed immediately in London: handwritten leftist political slogans are copied and sellotaped to lampposts. Students wear sandwich boards which challenge the very purpose and stucture of their university. Comments are often contextual: messages about litter and social housing written on wheelie bins. Graffiti with a cause. In England, we’re all used to coming across public notices on BT corner cabinets and the like: “Post no bills”, and “Bill posters will be prosecuted”. There must be a cottage industry in producing the fine, ceramic tiles with “Defense d’afficher” on them: they are everwhere: in between the street-side windows of private houses, yet each seems to be there because of the behaviour of another citizen at another time, on that one piece of wall, not in preparation for the worst: there are lots of places where posters are stuck and never removed. There are even public poster boards, with many layers of printing effort, each only obscured when the political rally it informs us of has passed, or the youthclub show we’re advised to see has struck its set.
Anyway, I sat down outside this restaurant (are you still with me?). I selected a seat affording the best view of the cathedral, ordered wine and a copy of the menu, which I perused leisurely. I’d also brought some magazines so that anyone taking their seat near mine would know that I was alone and not waiting for anyone. In short, that I wanted company. I caught the eye of a sunglasses-wearing Frenchwoman who was supping wine on her own. I gave her a cheery “Sante!” as I started my wine which was returned with a smile. I placed my food order (Magret de Canard, a point at a few euros too much), and asked across the table whether she too was holidaying alone. She explained that she was a resident, and I was reminded that to eat and drink solo in France is much more commonplace than in England. The town-houses are small, and maybe they have to get out a little for the sake of sanity?
By and by, I invited her to join my table: there seemed little point in drinking wine together apart, with a conversation that was developing nicely across the tables. Nazaire (for that was her name), discussed the wine regions with me, linking the area I’d tried to fly in that day with the wine in her glass, which made a nice connection for me and a grounding in reality. We discussed our origins, she pure Moroccan, me, mongrel mixed race once removed. Time passed with the gentle bonhomie of strangers in deep conversation. She had needed to get out of the house, because her boyfriend’s slightly overbearing and demanding mother was over for the weekend. My hypothesis was correct.
The evening took a turn for the strange. Nazaire informed me that a friend of hers worked at a local bar with good music and atmosphere. She asked me to consider it, because it happened to be a gay bar. Now, I’ve been to the odd gay pub. I’ve played rounders against the Nag’s Head team in Wycombe in the sunny summer sunshine on the Rye in Wycombe. When I got to this bar, though, I was bowled over by the gayness. Wow. It was beautiful. Appealing and well-selected music thrummed from the high-quality sound system. The walls were solid mirror, such that the room appeared to be four times the size. Those unmirrored parts; columns, etc. were affixed with steel plate, which had been polished to a shine. The bar was glass, spotless, and surrounded by well-dressed men with quiet voices. On a large screen above the door, members of the male sex, carefully selected for hairlessness and leonine physique, cavorted in a very soft way in what appeared to be a simulated shower environment. As I looked around I took in that very location. In the corner of the room, a mirrored shower with shampoo dispenser presented itself. It was thankfully not in use: had it been, I would have left as I would have in the case of pole dancing women, etc. Nazaire and I amused ourselves with cocktails. I was delighted to note that she received much more attention than I, although I made pains to jokingly inform her (received with hilarity) that it would be her duty to defend me with sharp-tongued French should any predatory males wander over and make advances in my direction.
At 2330, we headed for the door. We made our fair-wells and chose not to exchange details, instead leaving our next meeting to serendipity. She may come to London next year. She may look me up and I’ve said I’ll show her around and make her welcome as she did for me in her city. I’m not hard to find, after all! After a 15 minute walk back to my car, the night came to a close.