Today I took the bus to Bordeaux and was greeted with a ticker sign saying that the buses will strike starting Saturday. Merde.I just checked to see if they have Uber here; they do, but the nearest car is 18 minutes away. Not the best thing ever. France is annoying me a lot.
I made it to downtown Bordeaux in time for a deluge that soaked the meandering soccer fans. That umbrella purchase yesterday was just in time. I took the tram to the Palace de le Bourse, but I couldn’t find the palace. You see, every building on the waterfront has a very similar facade–four story limestone. I walked right by the palace twice. It was raining pretty hard, in my defense. When I had incontrovertible evidence that I had indeed found the palace, which houses a museum, I could not find the museum’s entryway. I found an information desk within the palace and asked where the museum is. The informative lady asked if I spoke any French AT ALL? And the museum is right in front of me? The only door right in front of me was the exit, which I went through before I revealed exactly which French words I do know.
Never found the museum, but I had a wine bar in mind and walked a few blocks in the rain towards it. I came by a full tourist information center and bought a ticket to the city bus tour.
Differences between French and Spanish city bus tours:
France expects you to wear seat belts
France checks your purse for forbidden items before you get on the bus
Spain provides disposable earbuds
Everyone else on the French bus was at least 65
No on-and-offs in France
Spain had wifi on the bus
Even though the French bus was a bit too heavy on the rules, I am glad I got a tour of the city. I don’t think I would have gone across the river otherwise.
The view from the bridge was pretty spectacular once it stopped raining for five seconds. This is the River Garonne. #Cloudporn.
This, Saint-Michel Basilica, is the third tallest church spire in France. It’s the only thing this tall in Bordeaux because in Bordeaux you can’t build over 4 stories because they want everything to remain the same as it was in the 18th century. Limestone and rococo and shitty wifi.
The bridge has 17 arches, one for each letter in Napoleon B’s name. Vive le resistance!
Then we came to this stunner.
Ho-ly shit. This thing is so high, storm clouds were swirling around it. That’s Liberty up there slashing through prices or chains or gender roles or something, I can’t really see that high, and then down at the bottom, it’s just chaos.
Water spurting from statue horse nostrils. I. Can’t. Even.
This spicy meatball was right next to one of the “fan zones” set up for the Euro Cup soccer fans who have swarmed Bordeaux with their wigs and flags and high socks. I walked by the fan zone, which was set up in a big courtyard. Along the perimeter you could buy refreshments, and in the center there was a large area with picnic tables. A lot of fans, mostly dudes in red, were watching a game (0-0, I checked) on a megatron. I was walking along the center of the courtyard towards the wine bar I had in mind when disaster struck. Someone scored a goal. The courtyard turned upside down like it was a snowglobe and every beer-drinking, flag-waving, wig-wearing lunatic jumped from his seat, threw his beer, and screamed and yelled and ran and moshed right in the middle of the courtyard.
Where I was now cowering.
It wasn’t just a stand and yell sporting crowd affair like you might expect at AT&T park. This was like if everyone in the bleachers at AT&T grew into a troll, took acid, and was given 44 seconds to live.
I was too surprised to be scared but soccer fans are scary.
Though, upon further reflection, that may have been the first goal they’ve ever seen.
Soccer is like that.
Though I was covered in beer and PTSD, I found the wine bar and did that to the nth degree. I even managed to catch the right bus on the first try.
France is trying to break me but I’m hard to break when I’ve been drinking.
paralyzedbynotcaring 