Looking back on it, I think that was because of the people I came across there. They were sympathique.
The Auberge de Jeunesse there was one of the larger ones. There were a lot of folks there taking bike trips through Europe, going in all directions. Some were looking for work; some were looking for life, I guess. They were all traveling a lot faster than I was—often going more than 150 km per day. (I think on my best day I did about 100 km. But I wasn’t in a race.)
My first night there I was writing in my journal in the dining hall but got distracted because a British guy named Jerry was playing his guitar and singing. I went over and joined the music. That went on for nearly three hours, and it was one of the better evenings I’ve spent (before or since).
Funny, aside from him loving Arlo Guthrie’s “City of New Orleans”, the only thing I remember about Jerry is that he had one of those commando sweaters, with the patch on the shoulder for resting your rifle against. Well, and he was quite good on the guitar.
There was an American couple, Joe and Amy; they were spending a year biking around Europe. They’d intended to take the night train to Milan, but didn’t make it, so they were back in the AJ my second night. Amy and I pooled a couple of francs each and bought a Coke from a vending machine; we split it, trying not to let anyone see us sucking down that exemplar of American cultural and economic hegemony. (McDonald’s was indeed in evidence, although not like it is today; I don’t think I saw one outside of Paris.)
The Dutch guy I met while singing the first night headed off, hitchhiking to Toulouse.
I was cycling around the city when I ran across the German fellow, also cycling. He didn’t have the money for the hostel, so he was mostly spending nights outdoors. I wrote about our visit to the Grand Synagogue last November.
And I went to the musée de la résistance/Jean Moulin. I found that fascinating—it was a kind of amateur presentation, in a small space. But it had an utterly amazing collection of propaganda posters, both German & French, from the occupation. I told myself I’d come back some day when I had more time to really go through them.
Well, it’s now Centre Jean Moulin (Moulin was a key figure of the résistance, a charismatic leader who managed to get all the fractious and disparate groups (most of whom had agendas that went way beyond getting rid of the Germans, usually involving getting rid of the other groups) working together reasonably well. He escaped the Nazis a couple of times, but in the end was betrayed, tortured and died of injuries). And it’s more sophisticated, in a prime location on three flours catty-corner from the cathedral.
But there are no posters, at least none on display. That was a letdown. I don’t think I’ve exaggerated their power over the years because I wrote about it right at the time. But a real bummer.
And I went to the Grand Synagogue; but it’s now fenced off, with gates locked shut. No even getting to the door, much less being buzzed in without escort.
I guess back in ’79 we were in the golden window between the Nazi anti-Semites and the Islamist and Front National anti-Semites.
(BTW--rather than mess with maps for walking around the city, I dismantled Jill from her fixture for the car and carried her around with me on foot. Thank God she didn't do her usual shouting; I think I was moving too slowly for her to get it together. But I did get street-by-street instructions, which worked pretty well. It's times like these, though, that you wish you had an iPhone and worldwide 3G access.)
Leaving Bordeaux 30 years ago, I knew there were no AJs, so I’d be spending nights in the open. My first night out there was this rest stop by the highway. There was a caretaker’s residence (with the ubiquitous dog), so I was careful not to show any light and to stay behind trees so as not to attract attention. There was also a WC on a covered cement slab, but that was too exposed to the caretaker’s line of sight.
During the night I woke up because it sounded like it was starting to rain. I moved my stuff to the covered area before I realized it wasn’t raining at all.
However, moments later it started chucking it down in earnest.
Saved by a confusion/delusion.
The next night I stayed in a dilapidated abandoned house about 10 km south of Dax—about the only one I saw in France. (A lot more in Spain.) It was a gorgeous day—clear and sunny and crisp. Great for cycling.
Here’s something I remarked upon, which I’ve found constant: travel is not a clean thing. Even now, with a car and hotels, by the end of every day I’m ready for a bath, a hot, mineral bath to wash away the dirt and tension. Then in the morning I shower to start off the day thoroughly clean. Rinse and repeat every day.
So imagine what I must have been like, traveling by bike, staying in places that only had hot water on a hit-or-miss basis; no baths, just showers if you were lucky (And I took cold ones when necessary, just to try to scrape off some of the grime).
In one AJ up in the Pays Basque, where I was by myself, I turned on all the burners on the stove, heated water in every pan I could find, and took a spit bath right there in the kitchen. (But it’s not the same as a real one—you just never feel like you got yourself clean.)
And my clothes—please! Those suckers needed to be burnt when I got home. (I think I threw them out.)
My comment at the time was, “I really don’t think I’d want to do this in anyone’s company; it’s bad enough when I have to appear in civilization like this.”
Actually, I tried to not go anywhere in civilization that had bright lights. Just stayed in the shadows trying to look invisible.
(One of my roommates in the student foyer where I stayed in Paris was an Australian who was back-packing around the world with her boyfriend. They were just coming to the end of their year’s trip. I asked her how the two of them were surviving the travel. She commented that when it’s cold and rainy, and you’re dirty, and you’ve just missed the last train for the night—it’s tough. However, they were still getting along.)
Insight number three: it’s a lot easier to focus on your intention when you can get clean. And sleep in a warm place.
(Posted at Bordeaux, 2100 Thursday, 26 November)
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