Enough Cheese -- Bordeaux, France

I'm starting this post from a grassy spot along the Garonne River in Bordeaux, France. I'm sprawled out on my sarong in the sunshine with a book from Max, my camera, and a bottle full of water lying next to me. 

I am not going to get all dehydrated again. No. I will drink water. I will drink water. I will drink water. 

... 

Seems like a thing that would be easy enough to remember. Gosh. Next thing I know, I'll be telling myself, I will breathe. I will breathe.  I will breathe. 

The swollen, brown Garonne River flows languidly in front of me. I glimpse it through the window between two clumps of purple flowers. Between the purple flowers, I also see walkers, bicyclers, skateboarders, rollerbladers, pigeons and puppies.   

I hear the tram clicking along its tracks behind me. A gaggle of French highschoolers picnic not too far away, and switch between giggling, speaking French and singing loudly and off-key random fragments of English songs. 

"Let it GO! Let it GO!" is the tune they're currently dismembering.  

I also hear English spoken by the occasional American or British tourist, but French picnickers and nappers are in the definite majority. 

French people know where it's at.

The banks of the Garonne are designed so that there's an area for bikers, amblers, and nappers. 

It is perfection. 

Between each row of flowers is a strip of green grass just wide enough to lie down facing the river. 

If I lived in Bordeaux, I would have a spot. Like, everyone would know the bit of grass the crazy American frequent napper (AFN) had claimed, and would steer clear. 

I didn't know how I'd feel about Bordeaux. I'd heard so many good things about the city, but I'd also heard, "Bordeaux... Bordeaux is expensive and overrated. It's stressful in Bordeaux. Toulouse is better." 

Also, Bordeaux is a big city, with 750,000 in the city itself and about 1,180,000 in the sprawling metropolitan area. For me, this is usually a deal-breaker. 

I am many things. 

I am not a big city girl. 

But Bordeaux is slowly seducing me, with its beautiful buildings, its rambling river, its decadent restaurants and its pretty phenomenal couchsurfers. 

Couchsurfers who throw cheese parties for their guests. 

My bus left Toulouse at 12:50 on Sunday afternoon. 

"Do you need help getting to the bus station? To know which tram to take?" Delphine asked helpfully after I'd kissed her goodbye. 

"No, I'll walk. Thanks, though." 

"Walk?" Delphine seemed shocked. 

"I like walking," I shrugged my shoulders. Which is a rather difficult maneuver to pull off whilst carrying Fat Ellie.  

What is with people and walking? There are so few places I've visited this last year wherein people, just, you know, take a walk. For an hour. 

I listened to podcasts on the bus and stared out the window as the scenery rushed past. The day was overcast, but that was nothing new. France had decided to make me feel more at home, and thought it should probably just transmogrify into Ireland. 

Which can be finished now, please and thank-you. Although I appreciate the thoughtfulness.

Rain speckled the windshield and trees glistened with droplets that lingered on their leaves. 

At least I don't have to walk anywhere right away. I mean, I'll have to walk to the tram station, but I won't be wandering around alone, waiting for someone. Because Max is meeting me at the bus station. Gosh, it's been so long since I've had someone to meet me at a bus station. How long? Hmmm... I think it's been since Misho in Sofia last December. Yeah, that sounds right.

And as I contentedly mused over the joys of being met at stations, my phone buzzed with a text message. 

Max! Super. Wonder what he's up to. 

"Aimee. I'm the worst kind of person. I was going to be on time, but something came up and I missed the bus. Because of it, I'm going to be late. I'm most likely not going to make it on time to Saint-Jean, so here's what you should do: take the tram in front of the gare (train station) and go to quinquonces. I'll meet you there in front of the tourist office/general information that's right outside of the tram stop at quinquonces." 

I sighed sadly, but texted back quickly, 

"Hey, no worries. See you there. :)" 

I'm glad that the Wi-Fi is working on the bus. I hadn't even downloaded a map of Bordeaux because I didn't think I'd have to navigate it right off. But this flixbus has Wi-Fi, even if the fucking toilet is locked. Again. It's false advertising for flixbus to say it has toilets.

So I opened Googlemaps and punched in "quinquonces station".  Googlemaps redirected me to "quinconces" station, and I assumed that it must be the one Max had meant. 

Hmm... so, it's a 36 minute walk. That's not so bad. I like to walk. I'd rather walk than take a tram. 

"What time will you be at that tram station?" I texted Max. "Because it's not so far for me to walk, and I always prefer walking..." 

"In about... 30 min I guess? I don't mind waiting at all, though, so you can totally walk." 

Super. 

So I walked along the Quais beside the Garonne for thirty minutes. Ellie dug into my hips and my shoulders ached from the bulging bag. 

But I always feel like a conqueror when I reach my destination with Ellie. Lugging her around is one of the few things that still makes me feel like a badass. 

Turning left, I abandoned the Garonne to meet my friend in front of the tourist information next to Quinconces. 

I love that I can already call Max a friend. That he insists on me calling him a friend.  

After his legendary couchsurfing invitation, Max and I had sent each other several other messages. Via couchsurfing, Whatsapp, and just regular, good ol' text messaging. 

'Cos this hobo's finally got a phone. Holy bananas. 

Because of this incessant messaging, I felt like I already knew the guy. And I couldn't have been more pleased when he sent me the following text: 

"So here's the deal for you: I don't want to host you as a "couchsurfer". I want to receive a friend. So I'm expecting you to make yourself as comfortable as if you were in your own home, and to treat me like a friend, not like someone who's "hosting you," cause I'm definitely going to treat you like a friend, so brace yourself!" 

I need a friend.  

When I arrived at the tourist information office near Quinconces station, I looked around for Max. 

No one. 

Umm... okay. That's weird. 

"I'm here," I shot Max a text. 

"Haha, I'm a disaster. You're at the "tourist office"?" he replied. 

"Yup. Standing outside." 

My phone rang. 

"Can you tell me what's around you?" Max asked. 

"Umm..." I looked at the nondescript buildings. "I dunno. I'm at the tourist information office. Maybe I'm in the wrong spot," I said nervously, wondering if there really was a "Quinquonces" station. And since I'd gone to Quinconces station, maybe we were on opposite ends of the city. 

"No, you're in the right place," Max reassured me. "I just don't know where it is that I told you to meet me. Can you walk towards the tram?" 

"Yes," I laughed. "I can do that." 

"I think I see you," I heard his voice on the phone and saw a fellow waving at me from across the tracks.

"Super!" I hung up the phone. I make it a point to never stay on phones longer than absolutely necessary. It is the opposite of my policy at cafes. 

Max and I grabbed a cup of coffee at a nearby cafe, and he apologized profusely for the kerfuffle in getting to me. 

I laughed. Just happy to finally be with Max. 

We caught the bus back to his apartment in Le Bouscat, and chatted the entire way. 

I certainly don't mind speaking with people when there's a significant language barrier. I learn a lot about how to communicate with my hands and how to keep my vocabulary simple. But it's such a relief to have conversations that just flow. Where I can stay stupid shit like, "holy bananas", and people only look at me like I'm an idiot. But an understandable idiot. That's all I want. To be an understandable idiot. 

Back at Max's apartment, we started preparing for the cheese party that evening. 

"What can I do?" I asked my friend. 

"You can cut vegetables," Max gave me a cutting board and a knife. 

And I proceeded to cut many, many vegetables. 

Max's friend, a wine student he called "Jafa," arrived early, bearing extra wine glasses, a table, and his extensive wine expertise.  

I want Jafa to come to all my wine parties. 

While I finished slicing carrots, Max got busy with the garlic. Very, very busy. 

I like garlic... I pondered the pungent pyramid on the cutting board. But that. Is an copious amount of garlic. 

Max mixed the garlic with various creams and herbs and asked Jafa and me to try his concoction. 

It tasted like raw garlic. Unequivocally. 

Jafa laughed. And choked a little. I laughed. And wondered how long it would take for my breath to stop smelling like garlic.  

Jafa made a heroic attempt to rescue the garlic dip, but it was too far gone. 

There was no coming back.  

The evening was everything I could have wanted it to be. Three other guests arrived, and we all sat around until three in the morning, drinking wine and eating colossal amounts of cheese. 

I believe Max just did the impossible, I contemplated the decimated cheese platter. He provided enough cheese. Max is my hero. 

Max gave me his bed that night, and he and Jafa crashed in the living room. I slept like a pineapple. A very content pineapple. The happiest I'd been since I'd lost my Bulgarian in Montpellier. 

And that's not just the cheese talking. That's me feeling like I have a friend talking. Oof. Max. I needed you. 

The next day was a slow day. My head felt fuzzy and my body felt droopy. So Max made breakfast for Jafa and me, and I spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon napping, chatting with Max, watching Sherlock Holmes and eating remnants of cheese. 

 
"Why are you leaving me?" Max asked when we discussed when I'd depart the next day. "Two days is not enough. You should stay three."

"I'm going to meet my friend Caroline."

"You should cancel your trip to Rennes and come to the Basque Country with me. To meet my family."

"I already booked my bus tickets, though. And I hate canceling on host," I countered his tempting offer.

I've been wanting to go to the Basque Country for years. They have the best food. It's the theme we would frequent most often at our themed dinner parties in Grand Junction. But... I dunno. I don't want to inconvenience my next host. 

Max went to work the next day, and after a coffee and a bit of writing, I hopped into the shower. While standing under the steady stream of unsurprising hot water and rinsing shampoo out of my hair, I thought about exactly why I couldn't go to the Basque Country.

I shouldn't say no just because of that flixbus ticket. I think I can get a refund, anyway. And I'm sure my couchsurfing host in Rennes would be understanding if I told him about this great chance to go with a friend to the Basque Country. And if he's not understanding, it's not such a big loss because then he's really not the type of person I'd want to stay with. So... so, I think I'm going to the Basque Country. 

I should always make decisions in the shower.  

I texted Max and told him my change of heart. To which he... uh... had a somewhat enthusiastic response.

"OHMYGODODODODODODODOD AIMEE"

Amongst other things.

Yes. This was definitely one of those situations where life was asking me to be flexible. Girl and Max are going to the Basque Country this weekend. 

Win. 

After work (Max is a grown man who buys his own toilet paper and has a real job. A job with numbers. Lots of numbers), my couchsurfing friend and I boarded a bus bound for the city center. He bought a box of canelés for us to share, and then we met Caroline in Place de la Victoire.

Three nights with Caroline in this gorgeous city. Then two nights with Max in the Basque Country. 

Could I be more lucky?