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 and 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!) and 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, and there were mosquitos. I stuck my head completely in my sleeping bag and was okay. (This is a miracle because I’m known far and wide as the tastiest 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 and address of a family in Lussec, which was further south, and 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, and 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.” And 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, and speaking French. 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 and asked the boulangère to cut it into three pieces. She and her friend, who’d been chatting away until I appeared, rested l’Escargot Rouge next to the building and came in, were fascinated to watch me stowing the bread in my knapsack and securing it on the bike.

Whoosh! They whipped out of the shop and asked the usual nationality questions. And 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, and wasn’t I afraid. I was indeed (alone), and I wasn’t (afraid). I don’t really know why I wasn’t afraid; I should have been. But it (the trip) 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 and tried to follow Jill’s directions to my hotel. Whole lotta construction going on and I could see the damned place but couldn’t get to it. And when I could get to it, I couldn’t find a place to park.

Finally I just hauled up on a sidewalk and 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) and I swung in there faster than a monkey on a banana run.

As it happened, my watch battery had died and 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 (and I even tried walking there in the daylight just to check; complete phantom.) But another one turned out to be just fine and I lingered over my bavette éschalotes (steak with shallot sauce) and demi-bouteille of red wine.

Actually, some of the most consoling and 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 packaged leek soup in a hostel, and have bread and 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 and Henry IV, Part I (I’m afraid that sometimes I laugh aloud at the exchanges between Hal and Falstaff; and 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 and not anywhere that I could give Hotspur a potch im tuchis). These meals are a prime opportunity for me to 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 and 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. And 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)