Day 93. Bordeaux Nov 7 2001.

If yesterday was busy then today was only slightly less so. We awoke, hungover from our disastrous encounter with a wine bottle, got dressed and headed for downtown. Today was much warmer than yesterday, which is not to say that it was warm.

Today’s long bus ride had none of the relaxing qualities of yesterdays. Our driver was determined to complete his shift as soon as possible and careened down the street with frantic speed, running lights, skipping stops and accelerating with stomach churning speed. By the time we were dropped at the base of the arch in the Place des Victories our heads were spinning more from the ride than the cheap wine.

We followed a side street to the train station and passed by the University of Bordeaux’s medical building. There was a statue out front of a full bodied woman labeled “Nature” lifting her skirt over her head.

We found our way to the Market of the Capuchins and wandered among the fresh crabs, tomatoes, cheeses and rabbits with their fur still on. The place swarmed with activity.

We did eventually make it to the train station and were helped by a man who seemed so genuinely delighted to be assisting people that he should have been the rail systems official spokesman. After finding out the prices for Nice and Rome yesterday we had come to an official decision. We would go to Avignon.

It was impossible to get a direct train there and still take our bikes but our helpful train representative almost exploded with delight when we found an alternative way to go. Every once in a while you encounter people so happy with life that their attitude is infectious. In Bordeaux we had encountered two.

 Last night at the Museum of Aquitaine the desk clerk had been so delighted when we were surprised by the entry fee of nothing, he had leaned acrossed the desk and whispered conspiratorially “Don’t Tell Paris.”

Today our SNCF rep, after I apologized for my horrible French, had leaned across the desk and said “At least you are better than the British.” 

We walked back to the market after buying tickets and Heather looked longingly at all the fresh produce. Then we headed for our goal of the day, the Museum of Beaux Arts.

We followed a little used back alley and came upon a spectacular gate in the old city wall with an intricate medieval clock in gold, silver and red mounted by a massive bell and a pair of turrets. The gate was romantically named the “Gate of the Big Bell.” Who says poetry is dead?

From there we followed the road of St.Thomas into an intricate warren of medieval cobblestone streets fronted by art stores.

Eventually we found our way to the Museum of Beaux Arts and, shouldering our way through the people drinking in the entrance, we made our way in.

The museum was nice enough, a long hallway in each wing divided into separate schools or themes. But Heather got more out of it, especially the first wing, than I. She was delighted to find examples of techniques she had studied in art school, but to me most of the paintings blended into a nice background.

The Dutch and Flemish schools of Art might have a lot to offer but I found little attraction in paintings of dead ducks and birds hanging on walls or still life paintings of decaying dinner.

There were many high profile names in the museum, Matisse, Delacroix, Renoir, Picasso and their works were spectacular. A Renoir of blowing trees was inviting enough that you could almost step through into the windy forest. The Picasso of “Olga Reading” seemed transitional between his early phase, when he drew realism, to the beginnings of his more impressionist style. Even Titian made an appearance and there was a bevy of Delacroix's on the walls.

But typically it was not the big names that struck me with their beauty, There was a painting of the Sphinx by an artist whose name I have forgotten where the sand seemed to flow like water and the hard stone had a liquid quality. It brought to mind H.P. Lovecraft’s assertion that the Sphinx concealed something of immensely ancient evil.

But the most stunning one of all was a life sized painting by Henri Martin called “Chacun sa Chimere” the visual realization of a poem.

“They came from we know not where and they go to the morning of desolation of their dreams unrealized.”

A procession of people across a desert following hopelessly after Winged Victory and Youthful Glory, each bearing their demons on their backs. It’s scale and power were overwhelming. The rest of the museum paled in comparison.

The naked ladies were nice though.

From the Museum of Fine Arts we went to the Museum of Decorative Arts where there was an exhibit displaying posters from the Salon Des Cent, including works by Toulouse Lautrec. I was more enthralled by the Art Nouveau pieces of furniture in the rooms as the rest of the Museum was mostly porcelain collections from old hotels. Nice, if you like plates.

From there we walked. First down the Rue Des Trios Conils where we stopped at a fantastic Bonsai tree shop. The floor was smooth river pebbles and the scent of green living things filled the air. Behind us was the Place Gambetta, a beautiful park surrounded by heavy traffic where 300 people had lost their heads during the revolution.

From here we walked to the Rue St. Catherine where yesterday I had seen a child prostitute for the first time in my sheltered life. She had smiled coyly in her backpack and little girls clothes while nearby a sinister looking man whistled tunelessly and flipped through a magazine without seeing it, eying instead the passersby.

The rue was a pedestrian mall where all the most trendy shops were. We had visited the Galeria Bordelais yesterday, a covered arcade in neoclassical style, so today we walked south, the Arch of the Porte D’Aquitaine our landmark at the far end.

The shops were great to browse but we soon became hungry and had to search out a supermarket. As we scurried about buying groceries I somehow attracted the attention of a security guard who followed me about the store, picking up a single box of food to look as though he was a regular shopper. Eventually I opened my jacket show him I had nothing hidden and he slumped away in angry disappointment.

From the supermarket I wanted to go to the synagogue that the Nazi’s had used as a prison in WWII but the police vans and men armed with machine guns out front gave us pause. Watching the Bordeauxians walk around them without concern I walked to the gate of the synagogue to go in, at which point the police started to yell at me that it was forbidden. Prudence being the better part of valor, we didn't go in.

The police presence in the middle of Bordeaux had begun to swell alarmingly. Every corner suddenly seemed to have armed men on it. We thought it would be a good time to leave. Whether something was happening or there were always that many police, I don’t know.

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