It was exciting to get on a train for the first time in two years. But of course, there was someone in our seat. He got up and moved quickly though, without protest. I don’t think we’ve ever boarded a French inter-city train and not found someone sitting in our seats! Anyway, the scenery beyond the window was familiar, so Cliona read. The gentle vibration of the train lulled me to sleep. We left Gare St Jean with a 3-euro TBM ticket and promptly jumped on the C tram, only to realise we were going in the wrong direction. We got back on track, skirting the river and going over the Pont St Pierre. We disembarked by the huge, crumpled lion. Our right-bank hotel is not flashy, but it’s adequate and clean. We took the tram back over the bridge, forsaking a walk because of the rain. We got off at St Catherine and walked down the mall. While Cliona checked out Galerie Lafayette, I went into a bistro and had a beer. I read a few pages of Private Eye until it was time to link up and walk to the lunettes shop where I had made an appointment for 3pm. I ended up buying a very expensive pair of driving glasses ... well, I should've anticipated that multi-focal lenses with polaroid tinting wouldn't be cheap. Cliona went into one of her favourite shops down at the southern end of the pedestrian mall, near the Place de la Victoire. I sat on a concrete bench and cooled my heels, watching the destitute carrying on loudly in the street with the unself-conscious bravado born of poverty ... you know, when you've got nothing, there is nothing to lose. Yet, they all have dogs. Sometimes multiple dogs. It is the same in every French city. I am always puzzled and perplexed to witness this ... maybe one day someone will explain to me how it works. There are homeless people here, and beggars, some sitting on cardboard, others prostrate on the ground, arms outstretched, with a hat or a cup in front of them. They are rendered immobile by hopelessness. In contrast, fast-food delivery riders, black guys on chunky bikes with large back packs, whizz by in all directions. This end of the mall is neither chic nor elegant ... with cheap eateries, kebab and falafel joints, Cambodian take-away and Chinese-run supermarkets. Suddenly, the skies opened, forcing me to shelter under the giant stone archway that is the Porte d'Aquitaine. The wet paving of Rue St Catherine glistened and caught the moving reflections of its human traffic. Cliona came out of her shop and we got the A tram back over the bridge. In the hotel, an ice-bucket from reception allowed us to enjoy a chilled Gruner Veltliner in our room, before we headed out to dinner. To get to the restaurant we’d booked, we walked through the Place St Pierre, by the old church. Its ancient, cobble-stoned square was packed with terrace diners. The Melodie is in the Rue des Faussets, Bordeaux’s street of restaurants. We sat at a tiny table, in the entrance corridor, and were given the 20-euro-a-head, three-course menu. The entrés and main courses we chose were very good, but it was the desserts that took the prize. I had chocolat fondant. Cliona had creme brulé. When I went up to pay, I solemnly lent forward to the waiter and said, "I must tell you something about the desserts." "Oui, monsieur?" he responded nervously."Were they chef-made or bought in?" "They were chef-made, monsieur," he said. I paused for effect ... "They were the best desserts we have ever eaten in France, in five years living here," I said. His expression changed from trepidation to triumph and he fist-pumped the air. He said, "Our chef has a reputation for making the best creme brulé in Bordeaux." It was only 9pm … so we headed for the Bar à Vin, reputedly one of the best in town. We sat on a comfortable sofa and were served by a bending, fawning young man wearing a creased apron, definitely not the clichéd French waiter you'd strike in a classy Brasserie … an upright, snooty old man wearing a starched apron. C had a glass of Bordeaux Cremant and I tried the Chateau Haut-Chaigneau Lalande de Pomerol … a bit of an indulgence. It was a happy and appropriate end to our day in the City of Wine.
