Thirty years ago I was in love with Bordeaux—I thought it the most charming city I’d ever seen.
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)
It being Saint David’s Day, it might be appropriate to bring up news from a fellow Celtic nation: Ryanair’s whack-job CEO Michael O’Leary has possibly announced (one never knows whether O’Leary is stating policy or having a wind-up) that the budget airline is considering charging passengers to use the toilets in flight.
Keep in mind that Ryanair is as close as you can get to a Greyhound bus and not make the entire journey on asphalt. Fares are in double-digits (even though the digits be pounds) and the airline famously charges for in-flight beverages, checked baggage and actually, you know, booking a flight.
Ryanair’s flights are probably a maximum of three hours, and the company is as well-known for its disdain for its customers as its cheap fares; but still—charging €1 to use the loo seems particularly egregious.
Commenters are already serving notice that Ryanair could expect to find passenger seats soggier than usual, or that the airsick bags (does Ryanair actually put those out? For free?) will be put to new use.
However, if O’Leary goes ahead I’m sure the move will be watched closely by US airlines. USAir has only just this week grudgingly announced that they’ll stop charging $2 for soft drinks, because while $2 isn’t going to kill anyone, if they’re the only airline levying that particular charge…
Well, whatever. Just keep it in mind that you could be looking at this new charge if you choose to fly in the future, because airlines will do anything rather than raise fares and give you an actually, you know, decent flying experience.
And the connection with Saint David? His symbol is the leek.
For a slight diversion from the litany of the arrogance of bankers and automakers, let us now turn to airport security. The Scientific American assures us that there is no reassurance when it comes to this—all sense of commercial aviation security is illusory.
Embedded in the story is another one from the Atlantic, in which the reporter, guided by Bruce Schneier, tests TSA procedures and finds them…definitely wanting.
I have to say that I’ve certainly found the application of whatever rules and guidelines they’re allegedly following inconsistent. In San José, for the first and only time, I was instructed that lipstick and mascara were to go into that one-quart zip-lock bag. TSA drones at some airports freak out and make you take off a jacket-like overshirt; others don’t even seem to notice.
There have been a few times when I get through security and discover that I didn’t get all my little bottles of hand lotion into the baggie, but left one in my purse or a couple in my coat pockets. The past two times through, with a roll-on I carefully put all the liquid/lotion bottles in that baggie & then left it peeking out from the exterior pouch of the carry-on. Without a squawk from TSA.
So, no—I don’t feel any more secure when getting on an airplane than I did ten years ago, although by the time I’ve gone through that “screening”, been herded on board by the airline staff (usually because they’re 30 minutes late and want to make up the schedule on the backs of the passengers) and stuffed into a flight with a butt in every seat—by that time I’m mad enough that I don’t care about security.
Perhaps that’s what they intend after all.
Okay, CES has wound down, although it never seemed to have got wound up, if you know what I mean. No buzz, no announcements of really cool new stuff; a whole lot of electronic components—cables, cases and circuit boards—which I’d have thought were not, technically, consumer stuff; but if not for them, it would have been a lot smaller.
As it was, I clocked more than 16 miles over the two days going through the Las Vegas Convention Center and the Sands Expo Center. Would have been more, but I spent about four hours on Saturday at some sessions on the Baby Boomer market, which permitted me to sit down for a couple of hours.
That was interesting—I’ll post separately on that, as well as some of my Vegas-CES thoughts.
For the rest—well, here’s the ex sum of the trip.
The entire North Hall of the LVCC was a Y-chromosome paradise: nothin’ but vehicle tech—mostly sound systems.
The noise was excruciating; it was like getting a full-body vibrating massage from all the reverberations. But guys of all ages were slavering all over the merchandise.
Some of the players had certainly splashed out: HP, Toshiba, Microsoft, Sony and others had huge displays. Samsung, however, had an entire zip code for their use—it was like being swallowed up by 42” flat-screen Hi-Def TVs.
On the Friday, it seemed as though there was an inordinate number of working girls, even for Vegas. But then I saw the signs for the porno convention that was taking place at the weekend right next to CES at the Sands. I didn’t see any actual wardrobe malfunctions, but there were many that looked like they were in progress.
They were out in force on Saturday.
On the extra-CES side, I never really got out of the whole Venetian-Palazzo world (except to take the shuttle to LVCC). For one thing, after walking ten miles the first day I just wasn’t up to anything else.
So, I had Italian on the faux Saint Mark’s square the three nights I was there. Mario Batali’s Enoteca was more style than substance. The Wolfgang Puck Postrio was perhaps the least pretentious. But they served me the Albarino at room temperature, I had to ask for more than the 12 shreds of basil on the pizza Margherita, and I realized that my neighbor in Reston makes better pizza crust than this place. Canaletto (allegedly run by another celebrity chef—of whom I’d never heard) had the best food.
BTW: the hotel refers to its roving entertainment as "Streetosphere". I am not making this up:
What was interesting was watching all the schmoozing & potential deals being made at these places. It’s amusing to imagine what partnerships are being forged, and wonder whose Centurion card will pay the tab.
The hotel (Venetian) itself was pretty good, which I’d certainly hope, as the posted price for my “suite” was $999. I especially liked the nightly turn-down service—they brought ice, replaced any towels I’d used, and took care of the teddy bear.
Naturally the sheets were high-end, high-threadcount cotton, which could well spoil me. Biggest treat for me, though, was the soaking tub. The only thing that gets me through trade shows is a good soak in Japanese mineral salts at the end of the day. Along with a cocktail of ibuprofen and paracetamol.
I kept getting more amenities, too (possibly because I tip the maids): a loofah one day and cotton pads and swabs the next.
Also good—the rooms seem well insulated for sound.
On the down side, for some reason there are no drawers in the room for you to put your clothes; there's a dresser with shelves--what's up with that? Also, I don't think I should have had to reset the bleeding wireless router three times in a session--for $999 plus $9.95 for connectivity per day, the thing should, you know, work.
And, BTW—none of these “in order to save the environment, please signal to us that you’ll reuse your towels by hanging them back up after use” notices. This is Vegas, baby—it’s all about conspicuous consumption.
All in all, though, I was really happy to be heading out of it all Sunday morning (having accomplished my mission). Even better—I got Alaska air to swap out my five hours of return flying/layover thru PDX and get me on a direct flight that got me back to SeaTac more than three hours earlier than scheduled. Got home, took a shower and sucked down two pots of green tea to try to get out some of the toxins.
I suppose Vegas did have one positive outcome: it made me glad to see Seattle again.
