I'm starting this post from Caroline's flat in the city center of Bordeaux, France. Light filters in through three large windows across the room, red drapes tinting the slanted rays. A shelf full of CDs and a well-used CD player leans against the wall. Perpendicular, ladder-like stairs lead to Caroline's bedroom upstairs, where a few of my clothes are drying on a line.
"It's okay to go up," Caroline noticed me scrutinizing the stairs. "But when you are drunk and coming down, it can be dangerous."
I adore Caroline. She is the type of woman who defies all expectations, and I like this in people very much indeed. She weighs less than forty-five kilos, has a quiet, gentle demeanor, and reminds me of my little sister in how damn sweet she can be.
"Do you want to listen to death metal or rock?" Caroline asked upon entering her apartment.
"Umm... maybe not too death," I fumbled, not sure what to say. People don't usually ask this yoga teacher whether or not she wants to listen to death metal.
"Okay, not too death."
Caroline is studying neuroscience in Bordeaux and wants to get a PHD in Sweden. She wants to study brain cancer. She volunteers at Hellfest every year. Caroline is my hero. A hero who has nearly as many delightful quirks as her charming apartment.
For example, the futon.
The futon on which I spent the night is caving underneath me, through no fault of my own (and definitely not because I ate a truckload of cheese at Max's). The futon is caving because Caroline is a creature of habit. The petite woman has sat in the exact same place on her beige couch for the last five years. And now, the spot in which she's habitually sat has collapsed.
I feel like I'm sleeping in someone else' shoe. You know, a shoe that's molded itself to its owner's foot over the course of months and years. Which is actually surprisingly cozy. I just can't change positions. No fidgeting for me tonight.
After sharing coffee the next morning, Caroline sped off to school. And I languidly lingered in the shoe futon until I'd written two blogs and had mustered up the strength to extricate myself from the couch's crater. Then I timidly tip-toed up the ladder stairs and showered, wondering why even European neuroscientists can't comprehend the multitudinous benefits of shower curtains.
Finally, I strapped on my chacos, slipped into a sweater and grabbed my banana bag. Caroline had left me with my own set of keys, so I could explore the "little Paris" at my own leisure.
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| Place de la Victoire. A square with a giant turtle in it. No one knows why. Not even wikipedia. |
And then I got good and lost. Partially because I wanted to, and partially because google maps stopped working on my phone.
Bordeaux doesn't have many dirty, narrow streets like Montpellier. It has broad, magnificent streets through which pedestrians rush about, window shop and people watch.
Everyone in Bordeaux seems to be drinking coffee. All the time. I don't know how any work gets done, because the entire city sits in wicker chairs in squares all afternoon, drinking coffee, sipping wine, and stylishly puffing away at cigarettes with their vespas at the ready.
French people know where it's at. Sunshine, good drinks, conversation, and vespas.
But seriously.
How is everyone drinking coffee ALL THE TIME?
I bought some yogurt, bananas and cheese and retired to Caroline's for a snack. Bananas, yogurt and cheese are my whole sustenance when I'm not couchsurfing with people like Max, who put so much cheese in front of me that even I, Aimee Bourget, the self-proclaimed cheese addict, cannot come close to finishing the stupendous stack of dairy.
Sometimes when I'm couchsurfing, I forget the last time I've found a fresh vegetable on my plate.
Like now.
I cannot remember the last time I consumed a fresh vegetable.
(Sorry, Mom)
Caroline still had a few hours left of school, so I continued my walk around the famous wine capital of France.
When Caroline finally returned from school, I relinquished her cavity on the couch and perched on the side.
I have deep respect for people's "spots". And will never be caught, knowingly, in a spot that does not belong to me.
We caught up for a bit, listened to some "not-so-death" music and then went shopping. For wine, ice cream and some bizarre sort of chip.
Because we're adults.
(Sorry, Mom)
We watched the debate between the two French presidential candidates and consoled ourselves with smiling orange chips.
"I don't even know what she's saying," I sunk back into the futon in disbelief. "But I hate her. If Marine le Pen becomes president, I don't want to move to France."
Caroline tried to translate bits and pieces of the debate for this poor non-French speaker, but she struggled. Not only because English is her second language.
"They're not saying anything," she grumbled. "They're just yelling at each other and repeating themselves. There's nothing for me to translate."
The next day, I strolled to Miroir d'Eau, the world's largest reflecting pool.
I stretched out my sarong, read a bit of a book Max had given me and texted my old host about how wondrous it felt to be lounging in the sun. Then I thoughtfully inquired about how his day cooped up in his office was going.
Because I'm a considerate lady.
I packed up my banana bag around five and began to walk home to Caroline's. My friend was heading to a surprise birthday party that evening, and I was meeting with Max and his new couchsurfer at a Jardin Public.
Max brought chocolate and wine, the Czech couchsurfer brought poppyseed cake, and I brought my sarong.
Upon which no one sat.
"Do you want to try acro yoga?" I asked the Czech girl, desperate to share something. Other than my sarong. Upon which no one ever sits.
"Just remember that you're my couchsurfer," Max cautioned. "And whatever fun you have with Aimee is because I arranged it."
We were kicked out of Jardin Public at eight o'clock. For some reason or other. So we walked to the Garonne and watched the river for a moment, then got ourselves lost in the center (I was lost. Max may or may not have known where we were).
Max bought me duck. And I was exquisitely happy. Which is always the case, when I find a helping of duck on a plate in front of me.
Tomorrow, the Basque Country, I thought as I strolled through the gently lamplit city on my way back to Caroline's. But I'll be sad to leave Bordeaux. Out of every city I've visited thus far, this feels like it could come closest to being my home. It's not as cold or as windy as Avignon. It is such a vibrant, bustling place. The walking streets are epic. The wine is extraordinary. The architecture is breathtaking. The food is not... errr... gross. I could get a flat for 450 euros a month.
Maybe?
Give the rest of the cities you'll visit a chance, Bourget. Rennes, Rouen, Amiens, Lile, Strasbourg. It's okay to love Bordeaux, but don't get fixated on it. Who knows what these other cities will bring you.
But it's so nice to know that a place like Bordeaux is an option. That a city like this even exists in the first place.
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