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