The Day of Friendly Voices.
We woke to rain. We had woken every few minutes through the night, worried about time and the rising tide of water that threatened our sanctuary.
We dressed in layers and cycled back the long road into Bordeaux. The day was painfully cold and our small biking gloves did nothing to shield our fingers. We passed a clock that read out the time and temperature. 2 degrees and only an hour until our train left. We hurried. When we reached train station's welcoming bulk, its clock reading out a different time, two and a half hours to wait.
The train rolled into the station early, a gray series of bread-loaf cars, cold and metallic, the seats like ordered lines of soldiers with backs still at attention. No sign guided us in loading the bikes or our vast pile of luggage. Finally a harried station worker lifted a metal gate and led us to the baggage car with silent impatience. We stacked our bikes and made them as secure as we could before finding our seats in a cubicle designed for eight.
The train rested in the station while others passed, loaded passengers and hurried away in a mechanical dance. Our luggage filled the overhead racks and the spaces beneath the seats. The train jerked into motion with an unexpected suddenness and we changed our seats quickly to face the direction of travel. We moved out of the yard slowly, past trains that rested in the quiet indignity of old age, grass high around metal wheels, a patina of graffiti staining once proud cars. We passed gleaming silver and blue TGV Trains already stained with the tags of would be artists.
We quickly gained speed and were abruptly out of the city and racing through the Aquitaine countryside. The Garonne River swam lazily beside us, growing cleaner as before our eyes as silt and pollution disappeared downstream. The train began to slow before it reached peak velocity and pulled in a station many days bike ride from Bordeaux. People bustled through the narrow corridors, intent on finding open spaces in cramped quarters. An old couple filed into our car, watching a bevy of youth file past them smoking foul cigarettes. The man was dark of skin with ruddy cheeks and a white beard, like Santa Claus after a diet. His wife seemed younger, but not by much, raven hair streaked with snow. In their hands they carried panniers much like ours. They wore biking clothes like we would have wished for. They sat and dug into dinner like engines starving for fuel. Even as they ate they began to speak to us. The sound of cheerful French voices as we passed along the banks of the Garonne, the spires of churches dotting the horizon will remain an indelible memory.
Raymond and Maesa were no longer young, but if youth is measured in vigor they will outlast the world. They cheerfully share their food and their company, delighting in my stuttering French and the fact that I tried at all.
The train began to fill. The corridors flickering as people filtered through at every stop. The train pulled into Toulouse and the chattering voices fell silent in contemplation of the great blast here not so long ago. But the heartbeat of the city goes on and today was Friday, Toulouse a university town. Students filled the train in their hundreds to journey home for the weekend. Our cabin filled with youth and vigor to match our conversation. Voices sounded out in French, English, Italian, and Spanish. A young French girl whispering endearments to her Italian lover while Raymond practiced his ancient Spanish. A pretty woman across from us buried her eyes in her English copy of Harry Potter while Maesa, Heather and I bantered in a patois of languages.
The countryside flattened in a broad plain between two rising waves of hills, the vegetation became sparse with grey rock peeking from beneath low scrub and grass. We pulled between two hills closer together, the buildings becoming thicker and suddenly a vision from a fairy tale beckoned from the distance. The crenellated walls of the medieval city of Carcassone.
Here Maesa and Raymond left us and a gentle silence descended, as if no one could match the energy lost and all hesitated to try. The people crowding the train grew in number until every seat was filled and the crowds began to spill into the corridors, clogging them like unhealthy arteries. The train began the long descent into the Mediterranean basin and, somewhere between Sets and Montepelier we glimpsed the fabled sea for the first time, a thin line of brilliant blue racing along the horizon. But though we came closer and closer to the ancient waters we never saw them directly again. Ships crowded industrial harbors, canals ran in rough waves out of view, but the sea was always lost to sight until we turned away and began to climb the Rhone Valley even as the sun dipped towards the horizon.
We scurried nervously out of our packed compartment to the luggage compartment beginning to worry about how we would transport our bikes. The cars were full, no room to move and though all were friendly our constant shuttling luggage back and forth began to wear on the patient smiles. We struggled to maneuver bikes in tight spaces, rubbing rubber tires against skin and losing more goodwill. Finally we pulled into Nimes. Other bikers wrenched open the door with powerful tugs and we dropped our bikes the meter to the pavement below. A chill wind raged through the tunnel to the station and the light began to dim.
Our connection Avignon appeared on none of the boards and seemed to have passed from the knowledge of bewildered station personnel until finally one calmed us by saying slowly, in patient tones “It has been delayed for two hours.” Not willing to wait and not ready to face the stress of reloading our bikes when our connection arrived two hours from now we agreed to forgo the rest of our journey and stay in Nimes.
We biked away from the station with trepidation in our hearts, but soon we passed the golden lit colosseum rising from the street in gracefully arched tiers that put the ruins of Saintes to shame and lulled us into a sense of security, We pedalled on past fountains that sprayed the road in the wind and graceful buildings that glittered under golden lights even as they vomited hordes of youths reveling in the freedom of a Friday night on the town. We passed the Roman Temple and the Garden of the Fountain, a beautiful city that left us eager to explore.
The hostel was high atop a hill and it took our last reserves of energy to push our heavy bikes up the slope. We were greeted at the hostel by music and by a cheerful ex-patriot Brit who demanded to be called Andy, On discovering our Canadian nationality he cheerfully assigned us to the “Canadian Room” where he had put the other Canadian couple he was hosting.
We waited in trepidation for our roommates to return from their exploration of Nimes, feeling like intruders in spaces they had claimed. Chantel and her boyfriend were Quebecois taking advantage of cheap prices to explore France. They were as delighted as Andy to find fellow Canadians sharing their rooms. We talked about everything from the separation question to their itineraries through France and found a deep and comforting camaraderie. Chantal barked short quick coughs in a sound so familiar to us from our sojourn in Talmont St. Hilaire and Heather sympathetically plied her with remains of our medicine. We talked into the late hours of the night as the wind howled outside.
Today has been a rarely social day, filled with long conversations with fellow travelers. All seemed delighted, energized by the chance to share stories and complaints and recommendations with those in similar circumstances. Everywhere today were quick smiles and helpful hands and words of advice. Each person seemed excited by the tales of the others and it was hard not lose oneself in the romanticism of the road.
When we finally gave in to hoarse voices and nagging exhaustion it was with the comforting feeling that we were no longer really alone on the road and carried the spirits of our companions with us.
Next Entry: Day 96. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 94. Gradignon
Showing posts with label Cold. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cold. Show all posts
Wednesday, November 09, 2011
Tuesday, November 08, 2011
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.
Bordeaux
Next Entry: Day 95. Nimes
Previous Entry: Day 93. Bordeaux
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 18th 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 inSouthampton 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 inCanada
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.
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 18th 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
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
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.
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
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.
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
Sunday, November 06, 2011
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.
Next Entry: Day 93. Bordeaux
Previous Entry: Day 91. Gradignon
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
Saturday, November 05, 2011
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.
Next Entry: Day 92. Bordeaux
Previous Entry: Day 90. Bordeaux
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
Previous Entry: Day 90. Bordeaux
Friday, November 04, 2011
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.
Next Entry: Day 91. Gradignon
Previous Entry: Day 89. St. Christoly De Blaye
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.
Next Entry: Day 91. Gradignon
Previous Entry: Day 89. St. Christoly De Blaye
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