Day 97. Nimes. Nov 11 2001

A day of rest.

Our disgust at the horrific carnage of the night before cast a pall over us for the rest of yesterday evening and it seemed to take so much of the beauty out of everything we had seen in Nimes. It was hard to reconcile such a beautiful city with such ugliness.

But it unfair to tar the whole city with the same brush. Nimes is a very beautiful place, a glistening city of marble and stairs. Oh the stairs. They have left a lasting impression on us, most especially in our calves.

The long sinuous curving stairs that cling to hills in the Jardin de La fountain, winding their way through vertical avenues lined with plane trees, impossibly green in the depths of November. Stairs that climbed over a waterfall that spiked into a small pond far below. When the stairs finally burst from under the trees to the base of the Tour Magna it was with a shock. The air had grown warm beneath the sheltering trees and now the cold assaulted us once more.

The great tower rose up like a monolith, impossibly white. The inside was alarmingly hallow, like a jar flipped upside down and scrapped clean by a child desperate to have every last taste of flavor. All that rose in the centre was a modern staircase of concrete, looking alien with it’s smooth spiraling contours in the rough brick of the tower. Climbing stairs became painful now, a strain on our legs and feet. The top, when it came, was a burst from the darkness to brilliant light and blowing air. The view, or the wind, was breathtaking.

Knowing the emptiness that was in the tower beneath us I was overcome by waves of vertigo even as I took in the landscape. I tumbled back against the wall and held the cables to the lightning rod that rose next to me and reflected on the irony of being electrocuted while worrying about the dangers of height. All that separated us from the gardens below was a thin lip of stone and a fatal drop. I cannot say now that I was sad to climb more stairs, this time down.

Next were the stairs of the Maison Carre, the building a testament in stone to so many of the reasons we came on this trip. Flawless white marble, chipped and stained by the passing eons, in a design so ancient and familiar that we almost felt compelled to drop to our knees and genuflect to gods long dead.

Then there were the stairs in the parks. The long singular staircase of Imperial faith leading to the sheltered sanctuary of the ancient temple, dedicated to Diana I have since discovered.

Then the short stairs that descended to spring of Nemausus itself, and exposed us to the source of all Nimes fountains.

Fountains abound, almost as much as stairs. The Jardin De La Fountain of course, but the Place D’Assas as well with it’s illusion of waters flowing uphill to fall in a cascade on a startled man while nearby a monolithic face spews water.

Or the Fountain Pradier with its cryptic name and nameless heads spewing forth a torrent of icy water that chilled to the bone.

Finally there are rough hewn wooden steps of the arena as well. Always today my mind is drawn back there. The pain and the suffering we saw has left me filled with words and yet speechless, filled with poetic rage and yet reduced to incoherent ranting. I write rants against the human race, filled with shame and despair for the future of our species. I am surprised by the depth and virulence of my own reaction.

But enough. Nimes has been a place of outstanding beauty and horror for us and I do not have the right words to describe the experience.

It has become cold and and the Mistral wind has picked up clouds of rain that turn the sky a sickly yellow. The small courtyard of the hostel is soaked and even racing to our evening meal has become a challenge. We will roll ourselves tight in our bunks and try to save as much of the radiators warmth as we can for the rest of the trip.

We have the room to ourselves tonight and it will be nice to be able to roll over without worrying that the creaks and groans of our bed will not awaken the room. Tonight I hope to sleep without dreams.

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Day 96. Nimes. Nov 10 2001.

The Day Of Bitter Winds.

A day of excitement, beauty and brutality so great it has shaken our faith in humanity.

The deathly winds of the Mistral clutched Nimes in icy talons, tearing at branches and shutters until the whole hillside howled in protest. We retraced our journey into the city slowly and explored the Jardin De La Fountaine with excited awe. The god Nemausus had raised a bubbling spring here and the Egyptian veterans of the Battle of Actium found welcome refuge beside his cool waters. The gardens were built over a series of canals that channeled water to the city, deep watery grooves in the earth.

Behind rose a veritable mountain of stairs topped by infinite greenery that hid the sloping hill from sight.

 
An ancient temple's ruins rose in a shadowed niche, crumbling ruins to an unknown god trapping the crescent moon of the morning between decaying stones.

We climbed the stairs to the shelter of trees and the howling of wind dropped to a quiet susurration of leaves, the sun beat down with no wind to cool it. We climbed crumbled stones paths until we slipped from the shadow of trees to the shadow of Nimes Great Tower. The tower of Roman Nimes rose from the highest of seven hills, a warning to would be conquerors and a beacon marking the gushing waters below. The tower rose 30 meters above us on the top of the hill, a white shard of antiquity gleaming almost painfully in the sun.

We climbed it’s two thousand and sixteen year old interior and looked out on a view that spanned all of Nimes and the country around it, gasping for breath in the heights. The towers innards were gone and our rarefied perch rested on a stairway built after an obscure Frenchman gutted the interior searching for a treasure prophesied by Nostradamus.

We returned to earth and the pleasure of the garden, walking a double spiral of labyrinthine hedges in delight. We hurried to the coliseum that we had seen the night before and we admired its grandiose arches the bespoke ancient power. But it was closed today for the Corrida and we bought tickets, excitedly eager to see a cultural event renown for its beauty. Then we retraced our steps through the town, back into the mazelike streets of the city’s market district, everything stamped with the city emblem of crocodile and palm tree.

Then we found the temple. The Square House of Nimes, One thousand nine hundred and ninety eight years old. Perfect Corinthian columns supporting ancient roofing tiles raised to cover a sanctuary of the Imperial Cult. The temple was magnificent. The wind whistled between the fluted columns and bit deep beneath our layers of clothes.

Our final sightseeing stop was the Castellum, the distribution tank of the in rushing water from the ancient aqueduct which ran over the Pont Du Gard. The pipes sending water throughout the ancient Roman city were still visible and although it was mostly a pit in the ground it was still a practical working part of Roman life. That more than temple or coliseum or ancient towers brought the dead to life for me.

We returned through the tiny medieval streets, a thousand colorful storefronts opening their doors and spilling their wares out into the cobblestone paths invitingly. The wind howled overhead, angry at the protection afforded mortals by the canyons of stone. We gave in to the cold and the invitations of the street merchants and bought gloves for our frozen hands. Then to the Arena for the Corrida.

It was exciting to line up with the rest and know that the arena was being used for something approaching it’s original purpose. Our hearts raced as the adrenaline surge of the crowd rushed over us. People waved happily to one another while the band played and vendors danced along the ancient roman railings, tossing peanuts and chips to the crowd and deftly catching coins tossed their way. The intensity built as we waited until the stones seemed to throb with impatience. The doors opened and the players walked to the sands. There were the matadors, their assistants, men in armor on armored and blindfolded horses and wagoneers with heavy horses and chains. They filed off the sand and took refuge in the wings and waited for the bullfight to begin. The music blared and it started.

The spectacle began in beauty. The expanse of sands, a long blast of familiar music and the powerful fury of the charging bull taking to the arena. The swirling flowers of color made as the man danced around the deadly thrust of horn or the heavily muscled bulk of head and neck. The soft, indrawn whisper of Ole as the beast surged majestically around the man.

Then the slaughter began.

The poetry of the corrida tells of the meeting between man and beast. It tells of the struggle between mind and muscle and the beauty of the dance of death.

The poetry of the corrida is a diseased lie told by those who gorge themselves on feasts of blood and agony. The songs that are sung say nothing of torture and torment, of enraging an innocent beast over and over again, so he is driven to a froth of exhaustion, nothing of spears thrust into writhing muscles and tender flesh to destroy the strength of a bewildered animal. Those who praise the arena and the masculine strength of the matador speak only softly of the darts flung into the back of a beast who cannot understand what is happening. Barbs of pain to snap a mind already at its bestial limits with terror, barbs that drain strength in spasms of frantic energy as the beast tries to free itself from agony. And nothing is ever said of a beast too exhausted to move, to stand, collapsing in a pathetic mewling heap on sand stained with its own blood, while the savage crowd boos the poor sport. Not even in whispers is it told of the shame of desperate matadors, trying to drag their ravaged prey to its feet with angry tugs on it’s tail, until they are almost dragging the beast around the sands by its ass. Advocates of blood sport don’t discuss the confusion and terror on the face of a dying bull, understandable even across the gap of species that separates us. They speak not of torment and torture. They say the matador faces a dying bull alone, ignoring the men who distract it with fluttering capes because the matador is too frightened of the savage mess of blood and agony he has created. They don't speak of a beast so wounded that it is vomiting, pissing and shitting blood across the sand. And no one ever, ever, talks about the bull falling to its side and a terrified little man thrusting a dagger deep into its skull and pureeing its brains while it spasms across the sand in it’s death throes.

We rose and left after the second bull, unable to bear the shame of being human any longer. My awe for the beauty of the stadium dissolving in a rush of disgust and humiliation that my species should be the perpetrators of such sadistic crimes. That crowds should cheer it!

A guard sneered as we left and proclaimed that “There is always one that can’t take it.” He cannot know that my heart pleads that such should be the case, that somewhere people know shame.

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Day 95. Nimes. Nov 9 2001.

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.

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