Day Forty-Five: Beginning of the End
Buzzing my way along the dewy highway -- why is our little be-bunned friend so happy this bright morningtide?
My heart is like a singing bird whose nest is in a watered shoot
My heart is like an apple tree whose boughs are hung with thick-set fruit
My heart is like a rainbow shell paddling in the halcyon sea...
My heart is gladder than all of these
Because I'll never have to see that skanky cesspit in Poudenas again.
(Deepest apologies to Christina Rossetti...)
I wended my way northward without any particular incident, breaking my journey in Ste. Foy la Grande, since it has such a cool name and is the biggest sort of hamlet between Bergerac and Bordeaux. I bought pastries, cashed eurocheques, and glory alleluia, after several failures found a detailed map of "Bordeaux et ses agglomerations" (and never did map speak greater sooth...).
It was natural that I was due for a small disappointment, having been so lucky so far that day. Reached St. Michel de Montaigne a little after eleven. The gate to the chateau drive was locked, but the guidebook said the tower of Montaigne was open until noon every day except Monday. So I boldly hopped the gate -- it wouldn't have kept a paraplegic out -- and walked a few hundred metres down a pleasant fresh country lane with vineyards to the right and a clean, sturdy farmhouse on the left, until I reached the low, mellow walls of the Chateau. The grill there was locked, with a sign proclaiming "FERME 12-14 HEURES."
Did time get altered on me somehow? My watch claimed it was elevenish. I profited by the seclusion to snip the tiniest bud from the white rosebush climbing Michel's tower and pocket it, then walked back. A Dutch couple were hanging hopefully over the gate when I came into view. The man, a Rutger Hauer lookalike speaking nearly flawless English-accented English, and I, in the instant intimacy that springs up between people wearing black leather jackets at literary pilgrimage sites, canvassed the possibilities. Madame expressed some timidity about trespassing, but I assured her that no one cared a rap if they wanted to walk up. I returned to the car with the intention of writing and resting and gloating over the documents of my imminent travel -- yes darlings, as much as I love it here, I am ready to come home -- and gnawing on my pastries until the lunch hours be spent. Being of less acquiescent character than I, the Dutch went off in search of some nearby Gallo-Roman Remains and when they couldn't find them, returned to Montaigne to chivvy up someone who told them that the chateau is now closed Tuesdays as well as Mondays.
Merde! I mean, merci to the inquisitive Dutch for saving me a fruitless three hour wait, and tomorrow is another day. Montaigne lies only an hour outside Bordeaux on the road to Bergerac -- and God knows I know how to get on the road to Bergerac.
I stiffened my sinews and girded my loins for the exploration of Bordeaux and the exhumation of my hotel. I parked in a subterranean garage that will probably charge a mint to keep the car overnight, and staggered up the street in a dress rehearsal of full baggage, and checked in, and collapsed.
The neighborhood is funky-bohemian -- graffiti quoting Mayakovsky and so forth -- and while I sometimes feel that I'm getting too old for bohemianism, passing through it like this will do me no harm. The room here at the Vieux Bordeaux is a love of a chamber... Dark rose wallpaper pinstriped by lighter rose, eggshell fixtures including an armoire of chaste neoclassical proportions, a brass bedstead with blue jacquard spread, a Vogue print with February in ermines on the wall, long tall windows looking into a small courtyard wherein one hears the ever-so-pleasant chug of a washing machine (if a washing machine is in use -- things are being washed. If things are being washed, things will be clean!). A direct dial telephone, a shiningly friendly mademoiselle at reception who wants to know when you want your breakfast in bed tomorrow, soft pink sheets and a bathroom clean enough to satisfy your mother.
I courted disappointment by heading out again to the Place de Gambetta, where the Cadogans alleged there was another English language bookstore -- and disappointment was my reward. I'm not overfond of shouldering my way through these uncouth Bordelais [boar-DUH-lay == "obnoxious bastards"] anyway. The theory that Cro-Magnons interbred with Neanderthals in the Dordogne gains much plausibility when you consider the appearance and manners of the current inhabitants of the area...