Bordeaux – 48 hours of little catastrophes (3) the rain

Our apartment in Bordeaux had its challenges, as I described in my last post. The location, however, was perfect: on a square, Place Pierre Renaudel, with a traditional bistrot called l’Atmosphere directly opposite. The day we arrived, Therèse and I darted across to the bistrot under our umbrellas. The waitress looked weary when we asked if le menu du jour was still being served – it was after two o’clock – and she said “only just.” The ratatouille was no longer on offer, but we had a tasty substitute: biftek with homemade frites and salad, followed by a dessert of peaches baked with brown sugar. 

When we emerged, the rain had cleared a little, and we decided to walk along the quays of the River Garonne toward the Place de la Bourse. The gods seemed to be conspiring against us: the quays were blocked off, because construction was underway for the Dansons sur les Quais dance event later in July; the Garonne, when we could see it, was murky; and the reflections on the famous Miroir d’Eau were barely visible because of the dull weather. Therese remembered with fondness how beautiful the city had been when she visited for several days with her daughter. She suggested we walk a little further, to the Esplanade des Quinconces – we found this impassable, and full of tents in preparation for a wine event.

Thérèse suggested we turn our backs on the river and head for the rue St Catherine, one of the longest shopping streets in France. The two of us were still feeling our way with each other – the French woman and the New Zealand woman – as this was the first time we had travelled together.

After a long walk, and pauses to ask directions, we found a supermarket where we bought provisions for the apartment: bread, unsalted butter, muesli, milk, yoghourt, bananas, and apricots for breakfasts; melon, ready-prepared iceberg lettuce, radishes, mushrooms, tomatoes, and mozzarella for a light meal the first night; fresh tagliatelle to have with lemon chicken the second night. Just as we emerged from the supermarket, the rain really set in. Therese had her Bordeaux cartoville, I had a city plan, and we could see that the square was not too far distant, but we became completely disoriented. Twice we arrived at the Marché des Capucins; twice we saw the sign for Quartier St Martin; twice we then took the wrong turning.

Therèse confessed, when we were safely back at the apartment, that there were moments, as we trudged along, carrying bags of groceries, our feet slipping on the wet cobblestones, that she felt irritable and unhappy. "Moi aussi," I said. But now we were out of the rain, and so we cheered up, prepared a large mixed salad, and laid a pretty table.

We wondered how people fared in this apartment in winter time, as there was a large gap under the French doors, and the curtains, although very pretty, came nowhere near covering it. 

As we ate our meal, I would periodically walk across to the window and report to Thérèse on what was happening in the square. She said, “C’est une place petite, mais bruyante.” Small but noisy.

Beyond the square, and dominating the scene from our window, was Église Sainte-Croix de Bordeaux. This was an abbey church, built in the late 11^th, early 12^th century; it had a beautiful and elaborate facade. Although it was nine o’clock at night, there were people, in ones and twos, coming and going through the church doors. (We found out next day, when we explored inside the church – which we found dark and gloomy compared with the lovely exterior – that groups from the quartier meet there on some evenings during the week.)

As we sat there drinking tea at the end of our evening meal, we discussed Catherine, the owner of the apartment. Thérèse felt Catherine had not been transparent with us. “Elle avait l’expression fourbe.” 
The word fourbe was new to me, and Thérèse was unable to suggest a synonym, but I found from the dictionary that it translates to “deceitful” in English. 
“Elle n’a pas donné de l’âme,” (she didn’t let us see the real her), Thérèse added. “Elle voulait toc toc toc.” (She had a checklist to go through with us, and then she wanted to leave as quickly as possible). “On pourrait préciser deux apartements.” (She could have specified on her website that the photos were from two separate apartments).

Thérèse checked her smartphone and suddenly said, “Simone Veil est morte a l’age de 89 ans.” This news of the death of Simone Veil, a Holocaust survivor who served as health minister of France and as president of the European Parliament, deeply affected Thérèse. She switched on the television so we could watch the news reports, and asked if I knew much about Simone Veil. I admitted that I did not, but I could see she had a beautiful and dignified face.

Blog by Ann Barrie

Bordeaux – 48 hours of little catastrophes (2) apartment

The owner of the apartment, I will call her Catherine, was watching out for us, and she let us in to the building. “It’s an eighteenth century original – I chose something insolite,” Thérèse whispered to me as we hoisted our bags up the stairs. Yes, unusual was one word for it; the paint was pealing off the walls and ceilings of the stairwell, although the lines were graceful. This photo shows it in a good light.

Catherine gave us each a set of keys, took our payment, spread a city map on the living room table, explained the highlights, and prepared to depart.

Thérèse glanced into the bedroom. “There is only one bed.” 

“I did offer you the chance to take a second apartment,” Catherine told her. She pointed to the sofa in the living room. “The canapé converts into a very good bed. I will bring you more bedding for an extra charge.”

Thérèse turned to me. “You have the bed. I’ll sleep on the canapé.”

I suggested to Catherine that there was no need to bring more bedding, just  a set of sheets. The queen-size bed had a bolster, two large square pillows and some mohair blankets; Thérèse could share these.

Thérèse and I went out for a late lunch, and on our return I inserted my key into the lock of the large exterior door. It would not budge. “Here. I’ll do it,” Thérèse said. Her key would not turn either.

We waited under our umbrellas while Thérèse phoned Catherine. Ten minutes later, Catherine arrived on foot (she seemed to live just round the corner) and told us, “It’s easy. You are the first people to have trouble with the lock.” She unlocked the door in a trice.

Thérèse and I insisted that Catherine give us a lesson in the subtleties of unlocking the door. I proved incapable of mastering the technique, but Thérèse did so, much to her satisfaction. “Aha! I can lock you out if we have an argument,” she joked.

“Catherine should have told us about the door when we first arrived,” I grumbled. “What if we’d arrived back in the dark?”

I am a lark but Thérèse is an owl, and so it was nearly midnight before we set about opening the canapé. The procedure started well, even though the workings were old and heavy, but there came a moment, after yet another heave, that we realised it was stuck. The bed was fully extended, but it was at a crazy angle with the foot greatly higher than the head. Nothing we could do would move it.

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Thérèse said. “I don’t mind.”

Of course I wasn't going to let her sleep on bare boards. Drooping with tiredness, I created a bed on the floor – a thin mattress resting on four padded squabs from the canapé, which I wedged together as best I could, hoping my assemblage would not slide apart during the night. I wondered if I should invite Therèse to sleep with me, but I have not shared a bed with another woman since I was in my early twenties. No, I would see how well the current arrangement worked.

In the morning, both of us sleep-deprived, we noted that it was still raining. We sat at the dining table which was now pushed against the window to allow room for a double mattress plus a wildly extended canapé. Thérèse used her smartphone to search for the website through which she had booked the apartment. “Look. The photos show two bedrooms. Nowhere does it say that these bedrooms belong to two different apartments. C’est une catastrophe.”

I tried to look on the bright side. “In a few months’ time we’ll look back on this holiday and laugh. The most interesting holidays are when things go a little wrong.”

Thérèse did not look convinced. She phoned Catherine who arrived almost immediately, saying, “The bed is easy. It has been used with much success by other guests. Here, I’ll show you.” Catherine heaved at the bed but could not move it a single centimetre.”

“We absolutely did not force the bed when we tried to open it,” Thérèse said.

I decided this conversation did not need me, and went to the bedroom. Through the wall I could hear raised voices, with Thérèse saying repeatedly that we had not broken the bed. I wondered if Catherine would try to charge us for the damage. Then suddenly the tone changed, and the voices were warmer. I rejoined the two women, and was told that Catherine’s husband would come later in the day and try to mend the bed.

During the next few hours, as Thérèse and I wandered round Bordeaux in the rain, we speculated as to what sight would greet us when we returned to the apartment.

“The canapé will be gone,” I said.

“Yes, because other guests are arriving immediately after us.”

“I heard Catherine tell you the floor is very comfortable to sleep on.”

“Yes, but there will no longer be a mattress – it belongs with the canapé.”

“She would not expect you to sleep on bare boards, surely! But if worse comes to worst, you can share my bed.”

“We’ll see.”

When we returned to the apartment later in the day, we paused and looked at each other before entering. What sight would greet us?

We opened the living room door.

The canapé was neatly extended and the bed made up. Perhaps this signified a change in our fortunes?

Blog by Ann Barrie

Bordeaux – 48 hours of little catastrophes (1) train booking

I first met Therèse in 2005 when we shared an office for several weeks at the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF) in Paris. We kept in touch, and when I told her that I would be in Paris in June, she said I must stay with her. I suggested that we also spend two days in Bordeaux, which I had heard was a splendid city, as I was flying to London from there. Therèse said that she would organise the accommodation and I could book the TGV.

The first mistake was mine. In the flurry of preparations for my twelve-week trip to Europe (plus last minute work related to the publishing of Deserter), I booked our train tickets from Paris to Bordeaux, but forgot to get tickets for Therèse’s return to Paris. We discovered my mistake two days before we were due to depart. Therèse’s initial reaction was shock. “Ann, how could you? It will be expensive to buy a ticket now.” I checked ticket prices on the SNCF site, while Therèse visited a website where you can buy tickets at the last minute. After sending many text messages, she secured the promise of a ticket from a young woman in Bordeaux.

On departure day, we walked from Therèse’s apartment to the Gare Montparnasse – this took only twenty minutes and was easier than hauling suitcases up and down the steps of Metro stations. At the Gare Montparnasse, Therèse went in search of a bookshop and came back triumphant, holding a Cartoville Bordeaux. These little guides have foldout maps for each quartier with the attractions explained concisely underneath.

Our Paris-Bordeaux TGV did not depart on time, but the carriages were modern and comfortable in preparation for the “two hours by train between Paris and Bordeaux” service due to be launched in a few days’ time. The train controller, accompanied always by his assistant, strolled through our carriage periodically and reminded us that rubbish bins were now at the end of each carriage. There seemed to be no-one responsible for examining our tickets, but staff did include four young and very fit-looking SNCF security guards.

Seated opposite us, one seat ahead, was an architect. Or perhaps he was a valuer? Or had he commissioned a new home? Using a ruler, he took measurements on house plans spread on the tray before him, and then entered figures into his calculator; later he transferred his attention to a spreadsheet on his laptop. To the far side of him by the window, engaged with his smartphone, was a child, obviously his son.

The buffet car was smartly renovated, and Therèse’s café lungo and my noisette were accompanied by Valrhona 68% pure Ghana chocolates. I smiled at the contrast with my last train trip, an ITGV, that took seven hours to travel from Toulouse to Paris, stopping at every little station; a good humoured steward had pushed a drinks and snacks trolley through the carriages, and then repaired to the “buffet carriage” where he served sandwiches and salads from large chilly bins.

When walking from one carriage to the next on the TGV, particularly where stairs led to the lower deck, one needed to be alert. At the first set of stairs, there was a kitten darting around; he had spent the first half hour meowing piteously to be released from his cardboard cage, and his owner had relented. At the next set, a large black Labrador was stretched out on the floor dozing, and his owner lifted his tail as we passed so it would not be stepped on.

When we arrived in Bordeaux it was raining, the kind of rain that has set in for two days. Therèse was disappointed – she wanted me to experience the beauty of this city. We had umbrellas, and knew the apartment was not far away, so we asked directions of a young city ambassador who was posted near the railway station entrance. She tried to persuade us to take the tram, but we were adamant that we were wanted to walk and so, bemused, she explained the route. She wished us luck and conceded that she lacked courage so far as walking to destinations was concerned.

The next in this series of four will be the little catastrophe of our apartment.

Blog by Ann Barrie