Bordeaux (nourishment)

On my way in to Bordeaux 30 years ago I got caught at dusk between towns with hostels. So in some teeny village I stopped a woman who was just taking her groceries into her house & asked if she’d let me spend the night in her garage.

She was a little bit suspicious at first—I’m guessing raggedy-looking young women en vélo toutes seules aren’t what she ever expected to see on her doorstep. But after a while she invited me in for coffee (instant!) & offered me a room inside. I declined, but it was a kind offer. (I don’t know what she told her husband when he got home, or what her little boy would have said.)

The concrete floor was hard, & there were mosquitos. I stuck my head completely in my sleeping bag & was okay. (This is a miracle because I’m known far & wide as an meal for any extended mosquito family in a 17-mile radius.)

During the day I had run into an Englishman who had been following the vendange, picking grapes. (On that trip I’d met a number of such vagabonds of many nationalities.) He’d given me the name & address of a family in Lussec, which was further south, & by the time I got to that garage, I couldn’t ride any further.

You learn to know your limits when you’re travelling by bicycle.

What really seemed to strike people as odd was that I was toute seule—all by myself. That, & being an American; inevitably the question (following something I would say) was, “Vous êtes Anglaise?” (You’re English?) “Non.” “Ah, vous êtes Allemande?” (You’re German?) “Non.” & with that all their possibilities just faded away.

So when I finally said, “Je suis Américaine”, that just broke apart their sense of reality. An American woman, riding a bicycle, all alone. Mon Dieu!

The quintessential experience along those lines was in a boulangerie in some tiny village. I’d gone in to buy my daily baguette & asked the boulangère to cut it into three pieces. She & her friend, who’d been chatting away until I appeared, rested l’Escargot Rouge next to the building & came in, were fascinated to see me stowing the bread in my knapsack & securing it on the bike.

Whoosh! They whipped out of the shop & asked the usual nationality questions. & then they wanted to know about my trip. Ah—Saint Jacques de Compostelle, très beau! But I should be careful about staying the night in forests because of hunters.

As I was saddling up they wished me a good trip.

Everyone always asked about me being alone, & wasn’t I afraid. I was indeed (alone), & I wasn’t (afraid). I don’t really know why I wasn’t afraid; I should have been It was just something I had to do.

I suppose my explanation came under the rubric of being a crazy American.

Getting into Bordeaux this time round was somewhat easier, at least until I got into the city & tried to follow Jill’s directions to my hotel. Whole lotta construction going on & I could see the damned place but couldn’t get to it. & when I could get to it, I couldn’t find a place to park.

Finally I just hauled up on a sidewalk & ran in to ask where to park. They had a garage with about eight spaces (if no one’s driving a Benz, or anything larger than a Deux Chevaux) & I swung in there faster than a monkey on a banana run.

As it happened, my watch battery had died & I went into centre ville to get it replaced. Maybe knowing the correct time shouldn’t be important to me; but it is.

The receptionist at the hotel said it was about a 15- or 20-minute walk. Maybe if one knew exactly where one was going or walked a three-meter stride. As it turns out it was about three kilometers, so I got my daily exercise but good.

I swear I could not find the first restaurant recommended by the hotel (& I even tried walking there in the daylight just to check; complete phantom.) But another one turned out to be just fine & I lingered over my bavette éschalotes (steak with shallot sauce) & demi-bouteille of red wine.

Actually, some of the most consoling & happy moments in France have been meals. That was true back in ’79, as well. Although, of course then it was an enormous pleasure to make some leek soup & have bread & cheese, maybe some fruit with it. After 100 km of cycling in a day, that’s a magnificent meal.

This time, of course, the meals are somewhat more elaborate, especially in the evening when I’ve finished driving for the day. I sit at table with my journal & Henry IV, Part I (I’m afraid that sometimes I laugh aloud at the exchanges between Hal & Falstaff; & one evening a waiter must have been standing in front of me for at least a minute asking, “Madame?” before I realized I was in Poitiers & not anywhere that I could give Hotspur a potch im tuchis). These meals are a prime opportunity for me oi people watch like mad.

It’s been so long since I’ve done this, had a leisurely meal out. Maybe one night last year when I was in Port Angeles, having dinner in a wine bar. Seattle/work/the whole damned thing have just worn me down & I don’t go out. I hadn’t realized how much I miss a really good, sustaining meal

It’s more than just food, nourishment. & I don’t know why I had to come more than 7000 miles to remind me of that.

Okay—one insight from this trip.

(Posted at 2156 at Pau)