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