Day 94. Gradignon. Nov 8 2001.

A rainy day at home, doing preparations of our train trip to Avignon. A respite from racing around the narrow streets of Bordeaux and a chance to catch up on writing.

There was such a flurry of things that passed us by in the last few days that I was bound the miss a few. Most glaring among the omissions were the plethora of names left from my list of famous painters who failed to make much of an impression on me.

There was a painting by Van Dyck, one by Rubens, Chardin, Van Gogh, so many that they were beginning to flow like water.

Delacroix’s “La Grece Sur Les Ruins De Missolonghi" was stunning and powerful and if it had been in a room alone or with two or three other paintings, each chosen specifically to highlight one another it would stop you in your tracks and force you to explore the visual details for hours. But here, mounted with a hundred other paintings it became nothing more than wallpaper. Nice wallpaper, but but wallpaper nonetheless.

I can't remember if I wrote about the statues lining the entire second wing and I am too lazy to check so I will, perhaps, repeat myself. Only three in particular caught my attention of which I know the title of one and none of the artists. The one whose title I remember was “La Garonne” an allegorical representation of the river Bordeaux faces. It was a bronze of a woman reclining in a flow of water, leaning so far back she is almost lost in the waters. On either side of the flowing water is shore composed entirely of grapes.

It was beautiful but that was not what caught my attention. The piece seemed composed entirely, I’m sure not by the artist's original intention, of irony. Nowhere along the Garonne had we seen anything to evoke beauty or tranquility. Instead the river was a churning mud mess with the detritus of a thousand kilometers choking the banks and spilling out to smash against the docks of the city. Perhaps the artist was thinking somewhere upstream.

The other two that caught my eye seemed to belong to a set. They were statues of women out of marble that had obviously been outside for a very long time. They were weathered and scratched were vandals had gotten to them. One was of a young woman with the idealized body of womanhood, large breasts but perky in defiance of gravity, thin waist, well muscles arms and legs, almost a doll-like form.

The second was a woman, still beautiful, but now with a form that was humanly possible to achive. Full breasts that curved lower across her chest, a more curvaceous figure, fuller but more sensual, less heavily muscled. The pair seemed to show the ideal of beauty and the reality of beauty.

The Museum of Aquitaine, from the day before, had many exciting works of art, many pieces that seemed to capture the feeling of an era, and they were displayed exceptionally well.

The remains of Roman statues, often only the chest and stubs of neck, arms and legs, had lights trained on them to give them a unique glow, or were mounted against a red wall to contrast with the white pallor of the statues. The most impressive piece in the collection was the bronze figure of Hercules striding purposefully through the room. His face seemed so alive that his sightless eye sockets evoked a sense of pity and dismay at the blinding of such a powerful figure.

Many of the Museum's Gallo-Roman pieces had come as the city was excavated to make way for new buildings. One particularly rich source were the excavations for a supermarket's parking lot. Interestingly, since the supermarket was destroying old buildings to get their parking spaces the city of Bordeaux forced them to preserve the facades, so now shoppers park behind 18^th century homes.

Another portion of the museum that really caught my attention was the few model ships on display, although by the time we saw them we were hurrying through the museum to see as much as possible before it closed. There is something so intricate in the workings of a model ship. Even thought they can reach enormous size the detail is amazing and the knowledge required phenomenal. I remember at the naval history museum in Southampton they had displayed the bone model ships made by the French prisoners of war and the guest book had commented derogatorily about the lack of correct detail. You had to ask if the people writing the comments could have done better. It would be fun to make model ships, but there is something infinitely sad about a person making models of ships when they live twelve hours away from the ocean.

Today the rain had mingled with the cold to become a real danger. The water runs through the rocks like the beginnings of a river and though our belongings are wrapped in plastic they are beginning to get wet as the water seeps upward. Somehow the waterproof groundsheet of our fabric home has become waterproof no longer and the spreading stains of the damp congeal into puddles within our tent as we watch, as if the water is willfully forcing its way through the plastic.

I peer outside and see a torrent of water that streams down the gravel road of the campsite. Rain in November is new for us and I can see suddenly why the world sneers at the idea of warmth in Canada. For Calgarians the best we could expect in November is clear skies, the worst, heavy snow. Never rain.

I am reminded of our trip to Prince Rupert where we were almost rained out completely. Yet it was a very rewarding trip. Not so much in the conventional fashion of most vacation, but because it revealed so much about the inner workings of our vast country and the diversity of the people who call it home. The Tsimshian people were so proud of their heritage and their homeland was so beautiful. Deep fjords, misty islands and rain drenched forests.

Somehow I am back on the topic of rain. It will be, I fear, a dominant theme.

We stopped the other day, on our way back from grocery shopping, at the ruins of a wine making estate on the road towards our campground. There was a twelfth century church and an old estate home, both closed to the casual tourist such as we. But the garden was magnificent, overreaching green trees making a ceiling of foliage, only a few leaves clustered on the ground dropped from their lofty perch. There was a pathway of concentric arcs through the green grass and it was lined with flowers of all description, still in bloom. While we stood there the cold chased at us through our jackets and sweaters, chilling skin and making us long for warm soup but it left everything around us untouched. It was as if the cold taunted us and made us imagine that the cold was only in our heads. the beauty made it seem that we are trying to flee a phantom that cannot harm us. But the rain that beats a staccato rhythm on our huddled shelters is real, it has an icy grip and we have to try and get from beneath it, at least for a while.

Bordeaux, despite it’s generous museums and hidden beauty has been a disappointment. The grandeur here has faded beneath a veneer of indifference. You can still see the magnificence, like a beautiful painting left in a puddle of mud at the roadside, but its faint manifestations are almost sad. I know that we have not been charitable to the city, nor credited its successes, the museums and the shopping district, enough. But when cities that boast only half the population, or even less, seem to make more of an effort to show what little beauty they are gifted with and seemed to take so much more pride in their patrimony, you are little inclined to be charitable.

Or perhaps you cannot blame cities but must look more to the individual. Even in Saintes there were those who treated crypts as garbage cans, in La Rochelle those who pissed on the street. There is always a certain percentage who do not give a damn for beauty or heritage.

I cannot help but feel pity for those who strive so hard to make their city beautiful and are defeated by an uncaring few. It only takes a few to ruin it for the many. Michelangelo’s Pieta was wrecked by one crazed man.

At least the people seem to have been very friendly particularly our ticket agent and the guy at the museum. Friendliness makes up for a lot but not the tons of dog shit and not, for us, the rain.

Next Entry: Day 95. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 93. Bordeaux

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.

Next Entry: Day 94. Gradignon
Previous Entry: Day 92. Bordeaux

Day 92. Bordeaux Nov 6 2001

We woke early, the cold making it hard to sleep. We paid the fee for another night and the owner of the campground asked if we were not afraid of the cold. I answered that we were but what other choice did we have?

The cold was too intense, too all encompassing in its icy embrace, so we had decided to leave. But to were? We had resolved to catch a train to a warmer climate. But how far could we go and could we keep our bikes with us? Despite the pain, emotional and physical, that they had caused us, we have become emotionally, almost spiritually, attached to them and leaving them behind would radically alter the tenor of our trip.

Our first stop today was the train station, rising from the city like a fabulous 18th century hall, classical statues and carvings coating its facade. We walked through in the wrong direction and found ourselves on the platforms leading to trains, illegally without tickets. We hurried back into the terminal and found the office and waited for our number to be called. We found out the price of a ticket to Rome but we couldn’t take our bikes. The nearest we could take out bikes was Nice, so we found out the price for that as well. Then we found a nearby bank, changed some money into francs and went for a walk to contemplate what to do with our immediate future.

We walked at random and hence managed, without plan, to see some of the more important sights in Bordeaux. We walked along the quay that looked over the Garonne River. We passed the School of Fine Arts, ironically in one of the ugliest buildings we had seen anywhere. We came to the Pont De Pierre, the elegant bridge that leads into town. It terminated at a roundabout in front of the colossal Port des Salinieres, a massive arch that was lost amid the bustle of traffic and the buildings that rose above its height to either side.

We passed the Chamber of Commerce and the Customs House, two awesomely beautiful buildings with intricately carved stonework and gold gilding on all the ironwork. It wasn't hard to see where there was wealth. The customs museum, displaying seized goods of many crimes was tempting but somehow it seemed wrong to pay to see illegal hides or tusks from endangered animals. No one should profit from their suffering.

We ended our tour of the riverfront at the Esplanade des Quinconces, laid out in 1820. We looked forward to it eagerly. The towers at the at the gates were the most elegant things yet seen in Bordeaux, the lamp posts that crowned the surrounding wall were cast iron in a nautical theme with black iron bows of ancient triremes projecting from them.

But the square had hosted a fair the day before and piles of garbage rose higher than our waists. More worrying still was the line of grim looking riot police, plastic shields and batons in hand blocking a corner of the square while old women shouted at them. We left, if not hurrying then at least walking briskly.

Still we stopped at the monument to the Girondins at the head of the Esplanade. A beautiful, allegorical fountain of the Republic and Concordia being pulled through the ocean by straining sea horses sprayed the air with a fine mist while a column topped by an unidentified statue rose halfway to the sky.

From here we walked to the Cathedral, but it was closed for lunch so we circled around behind city hall and ate our lunch in the Jardin de la Mairie. The garden was beautiful, the iron fence gilded in gold with the coat of arms of the city prominently displayed, a fountain circled by flowers that seemed to thrive despite the cold, the whole thing flanked by the Museum of Fine Arts on either side, children playing enthusiastically at one end.

We returned to the Cathedral. It was an indescribable edifice, vastly gothic with twin towers over the main entrance looking demonic with their angled sharpness and smooth seductive curves. Inside, the high ceiling curved above us in cavernous silence while the vast rose windows glowed.

The bell tower wasn’t connected to the church itself and its great shape, a spike slammed deep into the ground could sometimes be seen peering through the windows. I left Heather inside sketching while I phoned home.

When she was done we walked again and found the Museum of Aquitaine. We had planned to go tomorrow but thought we could run through it in the two hours it was still open. The museum was, so far at least, by far the best thing of Bordeaux.

It began with an exhibit of the areas prehistory, the many axes, knives, spearheads, arrowheads, left by prehistoric man. Here were some of the early "Venus" representations, these ones carrying a crescent in their hands and were carved into rock. A representation of the cave paintings at Lascaux adorned the walls and simulacra of ancient painted deer raced across simulacra of ancients cave wall.

There was a small exhibit of Greek and Roman pottery then a vast gallery to the Roman occupation. Elegant classical statues stood vigils over cracked mosaic floors.


There had been a major temple to Mithras here and many, many gifts to the god had been among the finds. The coins of the Bordeaux horde were spilled out in a casual pile, making it easy to see the amazing thickness and weight of the things, while the more spectacular items were showcased in a well lit tray.


Then came the section of the middle ages, with the capstones of columns and many medieval sarcophagi. Then stunningly, amazingly, the entire remains of a vast rose window mounted against a wall, a great wheel of intricate stone whose weight oppressed the room.


But more still, the era of revolution and the many republics with elegant clothes, beautiful jewelry and legacy of headless French. Then the modern era, then post modern, a display of life in the countryside and the collections from Oceania and the far north of Canada and finally a CBC sponsored exhibit about Quebec. Too much to see and displayed in the best fashion we had seen.

We left at closing, found an internet cafe, emailed, went home and got drunk on bordelais wine.

Next Entry: Day 93. Bordeaux
Previous Entry: Day 91. Gradignon

Day 91. Gradignon Nov 5 2001

The cold has hit us like a physical blow, sapping energy and shattering morale like brittle ice. We knew that winter was coming but we'd expected a gradual easing into frigid weather, so that we could prepare and plan to deal with it. Today that illusion was destroyed.

Yesterday had been warm enough for us to cycle in shirt and shorts. Today I wear a shirt, a sweater and a jacket and I am still cold. My hands are like blocks of ice and I can fell my joints ache like ancient pulleys. Every thought, every motion, is dictated by the cold.

We were extremely reluctant to pull our heads from beneath our covers today. Like turtles assaulted from all sides we pulled our heads beneath the lip of the sleeping bags and basked in the warmth generated by exhaled breath and body heat. The inside of a sleeping bag, with the covers pulled over your head, can be one of the most comfortable places in the world. When Melville wrote of the comfort of a warm bed while the world outside is freezing he could have been describing the sensation beneath the covers of our sleeping bags. I am only glad I have Heather instead of Queequeg as a bed companion.

Eventually the need for food drove us from the warmth. By the time we were dressed we were well and truly frozen so we climbed onto our bikes to see how much more punishment we could take. I'd asked the owner of the campground where the nearest supermarket was and promptly failed to understand the least of her directions. I was made to understand that there was a small supermarket in the centre of the suburb but we never found it. instead we cycled for what seemed like an eternity until we found a massive sign pointing to a supermarket off in the distance. As always we forgot that road signs cater to cars and what is nearby to a car is very distant to those on bikes.

We left Gradignan for the next suburb of Pessac before we found the place. it was a mall, a mall in the Canadian and American sense of the word, a large building dedicated entirely to shops. the warmth within thawed us too quickly and our skin tingled with a thousand pinpricks as blood flowed once more to flesh our bodies had written off as dead.

We were determined to get wine for our dinner tonight. It felt wrong being in the land of wines where one in three people was employed by the wine trade and only drink pop. But finding a wine was a challenge of its own. There were plenty of bottles but how do you find a wine not too cheap but certainly not too expensive that will taste good? After a long search we finally found what we were looking for.

We bought our groceries and then hung around the purchasing counters, unsure what to do. We didn't want to return to the frozen outdoors, but neither were we really keen on pretending to be mallrats. Mallrats won out and we stayed inside the mall for the great majority of the day.

I can only hope that the weather will pick up or we will be forced to get on a train and find a warmer climate. Whether it is so cold because we are close to the ocean or simply because it is winter and it will be cold no matter where we travel in this hemisphere of the planet I don't know. The state of things tomorrow will greatly influence the rest of this trip.

Next Entry: Day 92. Bordeaux
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Day 90. Bordeaux Nov 4 2001.

Three months of our grand European adventure.

We woke this morning to a volley of gunshots. Even as the sound echoed around the campsite the ducks from the night before came hurrying across the lawn and into an open tent across the road from us. We became, I must admit, more than a little hysterical, and our tent rocked with the force of our laughter. Giggling screams of "DUCK" came from us at sporadic moments through the rest of the day. Possibly the funniest morning I have every woken to.

We were more than a little hesitant to poke our head from the fabric of our tent, lest we be blasted to pieces. Eventually the need to move on and an urgent desire to spend the night somewhere other than here finally drove us from our tents. The sounds of shooting followed us almost the length of our trip into Bordeaux.

It was cold this morning and I wore my sweatpants and sweatshirt for the first time while we biked but they soon became too hot and I shed them gratefully for my normal garb.

The countryside was beautiful, greens mixing with occasional reds and yellows to create a panoply of diversity. The church of St. Vivian was a beautiful spire against the sky as we passed. The peaks and roofs of its necropolis shrouded in an early morning mist.

Eventually we left the highway and began the long final ride into Bordeaux. The road became deserted as cars and trucks left us for the autoroute and local traffic trickled into homes and backyards for lunch. Without warning the road curved sharply upwards and we reached a crest high above the neighbouring landscape, the peaks of trees beneath us.

We had reached the old bridge over the Dordogne river. Beneath us the Dordogne roiled. It was a murky mess of brown water, churned into a froth by it's passage between the pylons of the old bridge. It had the look and texture of newly made chocolate pudding, churning beneath the rapidly swirling spoon of a hungry child.

The bridge ahead of us was a series of intermittent metal girders that brought to mind the Eiffel tower, stretched out to span the waters. We crossed the narrow span warily, there was little space between the road and the rails and we were grateful to reach the other side, but here things become confused. Bordeaux was no longer meant to be reached in this fashion and the roads had disappeared or been suborned into Autoroutes.

Our path took a wrong turn and went too far north, allowing us to see much of the vaunted Pont of Aquitaine, a bridge designed along the lines of San Francisco's Golden Gate but rising over the waters of the Gironde river like a curse in steel and concrete to all that modernity had wrought. Beneath it crumbles an unknown town, traces of former glory blotted by the bridges monstrous shadow. Who can live beneath ugliness and not be reduced by it? Old chateaux lay in burned out ruins, while caves fronted by Gothic churches collapsed in heaps of stone. We pedalled quicker here, the defeated faces of locals looking at our bikes, our clothes, our bodies, appraisingly.

The lower twenty feet of every building in Bordeaux was a sooty black from the pollution of multitudes, a nightmare in stone and dirt. The pavement was covered in dog shit so thick it seemed to have been spread with a trowel.

The guide said there was a campground ten kilometres out of the city centre so we began moving in that direction. Our trip seemed to go on forever, past a repetitious serious of shops, apartments and shops again. We left Bordeaux proper and entered the suburbs, cleaner and more comfortable than the central city. They still had no sign of our campground and we began to worry.

We stopped at the university and examined the map in despair, No symbol for camping! Then, almost at our wits end we saw a tiny camping sign in the bottom corner, almost off the map. We biked on. We passed into the suburb of Gradignan and through. Just outside of town, was a sign declaring Camping Beausoleil. A beautiful little spot so far outside Bordeaux it almost couldn't qualify as camping in Bordeaux at all. The ground was hard and rocky but we set up our tent gratefully. We have learned that beautiful or ugly, nothing really matters until you have a place to stay.



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