The ride into La Rochelle was long but probably easier than it felt to us. Marans proved harder to leave than to enter. We found the main road out easily enough but avoided it based on the advice of our host last night “It is shit, all the drivers are assholes.” He had been kind enough to point out an alternate route, following the La Rochelle-Marans canal. But the French have an interesting habit of changing street names and “La Rue De La Stade” which we kept biking past was in fact ”La Rue Des Quatre Chemin” and the one we were looking for. Of course when we found the Canal there was nothing to indicate that it was THE canal and in a land composed entirely of drained marshes we really wanted to be sure. Needless to say we ended up a little lost.
The road to La Rochelle was flat and featureless, befitting a road raised from wetlands. The ocean breeze had picked up and although we could not see open water we could feel its influence as it ruffled our hair and pushed back our bikes with unrelenting force. Herons and sea birds took to flight as we passed and a pair of antique spitfires fought a mock duel across the sky. Our only companion was the constant howl of the wind and we tried to drown it out by singing, our voices making up for a lack of skill with a surfeit of enthusiasm. The birds took to the air in greater numbers, but since I leave their chirping uncriticized I felt they should have afforded us the same courtesy. We passed a fortified church and a sad multitude of cats that had fallen victim to murderous rubber.
La Rochelle did not so much as appear as fade into existence. First we saw jagged peaks, like hard rocks emerging from a grassy hill in the distance. The traffic passing by grew; one car, two, a whining motorcycle, then a flood of vehicles, drowning us in their roar. The distant rocks grew harder, more solid. From a distance they looked like castles, fortified towers, the peaks of great cathedrals. Then the illusion dissolved and they were merely apartment buildings and cell phone towers.
We followed a lush green park as it curled its way through the city like a serpent, ending at the bustling central terminal for all of La Rochelle’s public transportation. A thousand people swarmed about us on their diverse errands, each unerringly heading to their destination. But we were lost. To our right was a great cathedral in a style new to us and a map of the city’s bus routes. I can only stare at it blankly but Heather finds our destination, the Auberge de Jeunesse, on the other side of the city.
We ride down beside the cathedral, its glory shrouded by spider webs of scaffolding and dimmed by students getting drunk in its shadows. But the street we follow is straight out of the movies. Narrow pavement with overhanging buildings three stories high, a covered sidewalk arched over with stone, turrets rising from the street corners and shop fronts. A maze of streets with a dazzling array of shops and scintillating smells, freshly baked baguettes, chocolate and coffee. We dodge around fashionable ladies, beggars with their dogs and frowning gendarmes. Suddenly we emerge from a great gate topped with an ornate clock tower. We are in the old harbor and two of La Rochelle ancient defensive towers rise before us like sleeping sentinels. The one on our left, the tower of Saint Nicholas, tilts at a strange angle, reclining in its sleep. We walk our bikes around the slippery stone at the edge of the harbor. One slip will plunge us into the jade green water of the inner harbor. We walk for an eternity, until is seems like we are walking out of the city. We pass ships, then boats, a vast flotilla of boats, and then we arrive at the hostel.
We haggle at the front desk seeking a room to share apart from the crowds, then we unload our mountains of gear and trudge up the steps to our new abode. What we were expecting I don’t know, but where Talmont St. Hilare was old and dirty this is sparkling clean, whitewashed concrete. It has no soul. We collapse on the beds and sleep.
By the time we go out it is evening, by the time we reach the harbor again it is dark and a fairytale vista beckons. The two towers of the harbor are lit and glow yellow in the night.
By the time we go out it is evening, by the time we reach the harbor again it is dark and a fairytale vista beckons. The two towers of the harbor are lit and glow yellow in the night.
The passing lights of cars inside the walls are like glittering gems. We cross a footbridge and watch the crowds surge around us. The streets are busy, the city has come down to dine and the enjoy itself. The restaurants are full. We circle the harbor, smelling the salt sea breeze and we climb the ramparts. The lantern tower is aglow beside us, the tower of the chain behind. The tower of the chain was home to the great iron chain that was strung across the harbor at night to keep out the unwanted. It looks like a squat beer stein. But the Lantern Tower, prison since its creation, is a Gothic dream in the night. A pointed rooftop with a dozen gargoyles climbing its slopes, ornate windows looking out forlornly on the night while great crests and ornaments for the sake of ornament that fade to darkness as the tower curves away from the city into darkness. We follow the high ramparts around the city and peer into French windows like voyeurs. A home is lit comfortingly; a man sits at his computer and types beside a shelf sagging beneath the weight of books. Baguettes and wine sit untouched on his table. We follow the road around until it returns to the harbor.
The restaurants are alive now and their preparations spill into the streets. One, its staff serving a party its kitchens couldn't handle, spills oysters and ice cold trays of seafood out into the street. Chefs pry open oysters with knives that glitter in the streetlights, sliding harmlessly along chain mail gauntlets. We linger, secretly dreaming of pockets stuffed with ill gotten shells, but the chefs are too wary and we sidle away with the others who share our lustful watch.
Now we choose streets at random and pass through crowded night markets and deserted alleys. In a hidden square with age darkened statues a congress of the disposed is in full swing and the smell of cheap wine and urine taints the air as glass bottles are thrown at ragged dogs. In another square lovers embrace, oblivious to passersby, half hidden in the shadow of a decaying church. A crowd gathers at a nearby bar, cheering and celebrating until it seems impossible that today is not a holiday. We turn and avoid the man pissing down the storm drains and instead we find the harbor once more.
The walk back is calm, relaxing and as dark as a forgotten memory. A forest looms beside us waving gently. There are no leave, no branchs, no soil, only great fiberglass and steel trunks, spikes rustling with the faintest ripples of the water. 3000 pleasure boats like a bed of nails too large to contemplate. The view is awesome and more than a little frightening.
We find our hostel and climb to our cold concrete room and take our separate beds, soft but solitary, and dream of the sea. La Rochelle is dusty by day, beautiful by night, a chaos of old and new. I am glad we came.
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