There. I trust no one cheated and read something they shouldn't have.
The first thing anyone of my generation says when you mention La Rochelle to them is 'Tricolore'. These were the texts that we all learned to grossly abuse the French language with. In these books, everything that happened in France happened in La Rochelle. Everyone in the books came from La Rochelle. For seven years I thought that La Rochelle was the capital of France.
The second thing they say is 'Louis La Loupe' who was, I believe, a detective. I don't know why everyone remembers this guy in particular.
The next morning we arise at varying times and with varying levels of hangover. Paul guides us through the day's events and the route that Alex, Jos, and myself will be following in our roles as ushers. It begins to dawn on us just how little Paul knows about what is due to happen.
After lunch, we head, suited and booted, for the Hotel de Ville, where the civil ceremony is due to take place. The hour of the wedding arrives, and brings with it another wedding party, who promptly walk into the Hotel de Ville and get married. Our guests arrive. Paul has time to ask 'Is everyone here?' and hear our replies of 'How the hell should we know? We don't know who's in one party and who's in the other' before he has to go in and be married.
Alex and I 'high-tail' it to the Temple to greet people and tell them where to sit. The French guests, being unused to the concept of ushers, walk past us with little more than a friendly smile, and then sit where they please. The theme of getting lost in a foreign city reappears as Rob -- not actually an usher -- kidnaps six or seven of the party and takes them on a winding and circuitous route between the Hotel de Ville and Temple. They finally arrive five minutes into the ceremony.
The only real hitch of the wedding day is that the French vicar desides to improvise, abandoning the the readings and the songs, and introducing a ten minute rant about divorce. We, in a British row at the back, are unaware of this until later; our only clues being that it doesn't resemble Paul's sketchy outline, and that Laetitia keeps looking around with a panicked air.
As hitches go, though, it's a minor one. It is soon forgotten as we head back to the hotel for punch, buffet, and an old guy playing a musical instrument that appears to be fashioned from a washboard and a couple of cheese-graters. After a break of a couple of hours we head back down for the second, and more important, of the two receptions.
It's here where I am really impressed with the way the French handle weddings. Whereas in Britain right now we'd be confined to seats for a couple of hours, and forced to sit through speeches from everyone who has ever met the bride and groom, here things are more relaxed. The meal is drawn out until later than 1am -- slightly daunting initially -- and between courses we are free to mingle and dance and drink.
Vicki spends the evening encouraging me to pull, alternately, the groom's seventeen year-old sister and her sixteen year-old friend. Not wanting to anger Paul or his family on the wedding day, I decide not to follow her advice. By the end of the night, Paul's sister is sneaking sugar lumps with all the subterfuge and cunning of an international spy, and the friend is sneezing at the champagne bubbles tickling her nose.
The difficulties of mingling the English and French traditions never really materialise. The French guests initially look distracted when, at 1am, the speeches are called for, but the best-man's speech, given in both languages, is well-received.
By 3am, the wedding has drawn to a close. Seeing that the wedding party next door is still in full swing, we wander over to see if we can crash it. We have their bride's blessing, but when she and the groom leave, the groom's brother evicts us. Our disappointment is offset by the fact we managed to get in at all, and we make to leave. A German guest, feeling sorry for us because he encouraged us in, comes outside with a tray of beer. We stay.
I eventually get to bed at about 5.15. The sun is just coming up. Paul and Laetitia are now in their first day of married life.
France is a frustrating country at times. Never have I been in a place where so many beautiful women have disappointed by chain smoking.
Sigh. Why are the pretty ones always smokers?
Rob and I head over to check out the aquarium.
It is cool. The south Devon boy has always been fascinated by sealife, so this was a real treat and worth the admission. Highlights are the jellyfish tunnel, and the vast shark tank. However, I do have a bone to pick with the creators of Finding Nemo. Walking the first floor becomes a bit of a chore, as every kid in the place rushes to every tank and shouts 'Nemo!' By the time we reach the only tank with actual clown fish in it, most of the kids have shouted themselves hoarse.
In the evening, I go to dinner with Charlotte, Dave and Jane, and Rob. More of the same reactions as on Friday night. We love the cheapness of seafood here (moules by the bucket-load tonight). We love the whole idea of drinking early and eating late. We discuss the day before and get a relatively early night.
I discover that I have, for the last four or five days, been asking for a 'box' of water, rather than a 'bottle'. I had assumed that the funny looks I had been receiving were down solely to my accent. Apparently not.
I don't know where the confusion came from, but I do know that I'm going to ask for my tuition fees back from the Derek Trotter School of French.
By Monday, Rob and I are the only members of the party left in La Rochelle. We head down to Île d'Oléron, stopping at La Grande Plage. I read on the beach whilst Rob learns to surf. When he tires himself out I take the opportunity to go for a swim.
The water is gorgeous. Hardly surprising, you'd think, as we are on the west coast of France on an August day when the temperatures are close to the thirties. I decide it's been far too long since I've been swimming in the sea. I spend an hour in there before I even realise it, and soon, too soon, it is time to leave.
Rob leaves me when we get back to La Rochelle. I spend the evening alone, exploring the bits of La Rochelle that I haven't yet had chance to explore. I stop for a meal around the corner from the street we've eaten at the past couple of occassions; more seafood, more cheap wine. Awesome.
Vacances
Tuesday to Saturday
Tuesday is set aside to travel to and begin to explore Bordeaux. The aim is to spend the train journey planning my next five days and writing my postcards. The train to Bordeaux is hot, over-crowded, and delayed. I feel like I'm back in Britain. I spend the two hour journey standing in a cramped vestibule with what I can only describe as French chav with no sense of personal space. If the chubby little Asian ned in front of me elbows me when leaning forward to kiss his girlfriend once more, I'm going to start swinging.
Consequently when I arrive at Bordeaux, I'm hot, frustrated, and have absolutely no idea where I need to go, or what I'm supposed to be doing. Sat by the buses with the back-packers, I eventually formulate a plan and head to the hotel. Another recurring theme appears when I hear the words 'I'm sorry, I cannot find your reservation.'
Thankfully, they have spare rooms, and I am eventually able to get out and explore Bordeaux.
I wake one morning to find I have been bitten in dozens of locations by something. It happens again and again, to lesser extents.
In France, I am caviar for insects.
The following morning I head to Arcachon, primarily to check out the Dune du Pyla, the tallest sand dune in Europe. A combination of tram, train, and then bus, means that it takes three or four hours to get there, but it's most definitely worth it. The view from the top -- the Bassin d'Archachon, the Cap Ferret, and the forest of Landes -- is amazing. By far the best thing about the dune, however, is running/sliding down the seaward side.
Climbing back up the dune -- after a couple of hours on the beach -- is akin to a workout on the stairmaster. For every step up, your foot slides three quarters of the way back down. I rest at the top a while, enjoying the views and watching the paragliders flinging themselves off the top of the dune further south.
In the evening I explore Arcachon itself. It appears a typical seaside town, best viewed from the balconies on the Parc Mauresque where the orange-tiled buildings give way to the Bassin d'Arcachon, and the masses of tourist tat and the packed beaches are hidden away. Down at sea-level, the town is less impressive and the only real thing that sticks in my memory is Espace Joue, where dozens of board games are laid on tables in the sunshine for the public to play on.
I am begged to, in French. When I say 'Pardon, monsieur,' and ask him to repeat himself more slowly (I didn't realise he was a beggar until later), I am flashed such a look of disgust that I am hard pressed not to get angry. I start to shout at him, as he approaches a young couple further along, but realise that it would be a waste of time and energy. I don't know enough good swear words in French.
Thursday. I have dreaded today, because it is the day that I have set aside to spend in Bordeaux. I've seen very little to inspire me, very little that I can feel a connection with. About my favourite part so far is the Jardin Public. It's come closest to connecting, and it's hardly surprising. I often head to check out the parks first when I first arrive in a city, and it's quite a nice park. They have some very big ducks.
I visit the Musee d'Aquitaine in the afternoon. It contains quite a large range of exhibits, and I have to admit that my attention begins to wane before I reach the end. This might have something to do with the fact that I neglect to buy an audio-tour and am then forced to translate the information with each exhibit. Nothing causes me too much trouble as I have my pocket dictionary. I learn a lot of new architectural terms in French that I am sure I will never need again.
Finally, I visit the Palais Galain, a construction of two thousand year old bricks that are all that remain of the Roman city. Nothing more than that, although it does serve to remind me that I really want to visit Rome.
A man runs behind me shouting 'Écrou! Écrou!' I turn and ascertain that he is pursuing a bag snatcher and wants somebody to help him. I don't react, simply because I have no idea what écrou means. By the time I've evaluated the situation the bag snatcher is halfway down the road. I wouldn't be able to catch him without a bike.
My dictionary tells me: Écrou [ekRu] nm nut. I'm fairly sure he's not shouting 'Nut! Nut!' so I read on. I see: Écrouer [ekRue] vt to imprison; to remand in custody
I feel kinda sorry for him. If he'd just shouted 'Arrêt!' I might have understood him. I can't guarantee I would have intervened, but at least I would have understood more quickly.
The following day I had planned to rent a bicycle and cycle along the Cap Ferret. I abandon my plans because my legs are stiff from all my walking.
Instead I take up my Beach Towel of Women Repelling +1 and head to the beach. It's a bit quieter than when I walked past the other day, and I manage to find myself a relatively quiet spot of sand on which I can read my book and from which I can watch the natives. If I'm totally honest I spend more of the time reading because the towel is doing its job remarkably well. It seems to have created an female-exclusion zone of about 50 yards around me.
I resist the urge to retort 'Yeah, well you sound like Kylie Minogue.' She is, after all, very attractive.
I take a day-long wine tour. I spend most of the day chatting with an Australian and two Americans. The morning involves wine-tasting lessons -- accompanied by a video that has the great production of a high school media project -- followed by a tour of the wine district of the city.
We are told that the tour includes lunch. The four of us are expecting to be passed a plate of sandwiches, but we are taken to a restaurant that specialises in cheese. We are given an amazing four course meal and yet more wine. The highlight of the meal has to be the cheese cellar, which boasts 150 types of cheese. We don't know if it's quite that many, but the choice is impressive nonetheless. Some of our party have eyes bigger than their bellies.
The afternoon consists of a coach tour of the Médoc region, interupted by a further two wine tastings. I spend most of the time talking to the Australian, and am gutted at the end of the day when a confusion with coach connections means that I don't have to time to get her email address.
Sigh. Why are the pretty ones always going to be on the other side of the planet?
And, because I can't have a holiday completely without incident, I miss my coach.
Well, that's not entirely true. The tourist information centre tells me the wrong place to stand, and I see no sign of the coach. I see another passenger walking around, identifying him from the fact that he's smiling and saying 'EuroLines?' in a home counties accent to everyone he passes. My first thought on seeing him is 'aging hippy'. This is confirmed when, talking with him, he mentions that he 'travelled in India for a while.'
My snap judgement of Richard -- as I later learn this particular hippy is monikered -- is confirmed for the second time when, after deciding that the coach isn't going to come, we bump into two Italians. Over coffee, I learn that he has just spent the last two weeks with these Italians at a retreat. I spend the next hour or so hearing about the joys of buddhism, silent marching, and something called Buddhafields.
Richard appears to have become my accomplice in being stranded. I think, whilst we're talking to the Italians, that I must have stacked up some bad karma somewhere along my journey. Was it laughing at the Engrish-like translations I have spotted? Did I perv too much at the beaches?
Whatever it was, I am definitely being punished. We have to spend another night in Bordeaux, and Richard starts talking strategies and plans. 'We had better get our stories straight,' he says. 'What stories?' I reply, starting to get tetchy. 'We stood on the pavement for three hours and the coach didn't turn up.'
We book rooms in a hotel by the station. I am forced to do most of the talking, as Richard has no French.
The next morning we head to the EuroLines office, strategies ready. The man is insistent that the coach left on time, and that 45 passengers boarded. We are insistent that if 45 passengers had been standing on the pavement with us, we would have probably noticed. We are further insistent that if a EuroLines coach had appeared we would have boarded it. There's a stalemate, as neither Richard nor the EuroLines guy is willing to back down. I discover that Richard has no skills for dealing with customer services, as he essentially infers that the guy is a liar.
Eventually, we get tickets on the coach to leave later that day, 24 hours after we should have travelled. Richard returns to his room to pack his stuff up. I spend the day hiding.
We later find out that the other 45 passengers came in on another coach, which took them to another location to meet the EuroLines coach. No effort was made to contact either of the two remaining passengers, and tell them that the coach wasn't picking up from the scheduled stop.
