La Rochelle
6:22 a.m. -- 2009-06-07
(This is eight days old, because I had no way to upload it. Sorry about that. The dog ate my homework, miss. But here's the first part of my report on What I Did in the Holidays...)
Day one, and we haven't made it to the isle of the pyjama-clad donkeys yet. Not that there are any particular obstacles in our way; we just have a night's stay on the mainland first. It's five in the afternoon and I find myself writing from a hotel bed, with a view out through open French windows, through the railings of our balcony, and over the estuary. (Or maybe all windows are French Windows, here.) I'd go and sit on the balcony but (a) the sunlight would make it hard to see my laptop screen, and (b) I'm naked.
Victoria is asleep beside me, at a very early hour even with the time difference. The poor girl was exhausted; she often has to work so hard in the run-up to a holiday that I wonder if it's actually worth having the time off. Never mind; we're here now.
(Update: there we remained for the rest of the day. Vicky woke up briefly at sunset, and took some photos. The place looked very dramatic, with the tide out, and with interesting colours in the sky. Then she climbed back into bed, and slept until 7am. Somewhat over fourteen hours' sleep... I think she got her money's worth from this hotel room! So now it's day two... and I'm absolutely starving.)
Rewind. Day one to talk about.
The airport at La Rochelle is tiny; one of those ones where if you visit when there isn't a flight due in, you'll find one old guy picking up cigarette ends... and that's it. It's more of a flying club than an airport, which is cute. The downside to this is, of course... short runway. Full thrust reversal the moment the tyres kiss the tarmac. Still, Victoria and I are experienced fliers, so we don't assume that something has gone desperately wrong, the way some passengers do.
Tiny La Rochelle was very different to our point of departure. That had been a bit of a madhouse, with check-in queues going out of the door, complete with fractious children and people frantically trying to re-pack two pieces of luggage into one, when they discover the cost of each checked item. Fortunately, we were fast-tracked past all that nonsense. It pays to have connections in the aero business.
A hire car was duly collected. One of those completely anonymous cars that you'd never buy... probably never even be aware of their existence, they're so nondescript. All I can tell you is that it's definitely a French-spec model, in that it has about nineteen ashtrays. Heck, even the ashtrays have ashtrays. It's black and it chirps cheerfully when you press the key fob, which helps to identify which one is ours. Beyond that, it could be anything... I think it's a Seat Puta, a Fiat Fellatio, or something?
A short journey to our hotel followed. It overlooks the river, just where it joins the sea. In fact, I suppose I should say 'the Atlantic ocean': woo! It looks like everybody who lives here owns a boat; pictures of the opposite shore are cluttered with masts, and don't actually look very good as a result. Everywhere, people go to and fro in little sailing dinghies. Not taking part in a race, or trying to get anywhere... just sailing for the sheer joy of it. Nice. I can hear them calling out as they navigate their way around buoys. I don't understand a word of it, but I assume they're not trading insults.
Leaving our bags in the room, it's a short walk along the river's edge to reach the city centre. This takes us past medieval fortifications, including several gorgeous towers.
I've always had a thing about round towers... we looked at a windmill before we settled on our current house, and some time before that there was talk of an old customs watchtower, as a holiday home. Two more large towers guard the entrance to the harbour here, and other elaborate towers and gateways still exist, marking the extent of the old city walls. Quite beautiful. Although it's hot, there's a steady breeze off the sea, making the temperature comfortable. Flags snap briskly, fully extended from their poles... the way flags ought to look, but seldom do in real life.
Being a Saturday, it's reasonably busy. There's a market by the quayside, and most of the stalls are selling jewellery or art. Some of the silver is quite nice, and an occasional piece in glass. Much is too 'bold' for my taste, but there's something for everyone. The only real no-no I saw was a pendant where the 'necklace' part appeared to have been made from white horsehair. Not braided or anything... just masses of loose strands. Bizarre. Much of the art is of the 'acrylic painting of a vintage car parked by the seaside' variety. No thank you! But hey... at least there's no dream-catchers in evidence. It could be worse.
We had a good lunch, making up for far too much elapsed time since breakfast, but leaving me despairing at how much spending money we're going to need. The weak pound doesn't help; nor do prices in tourist destinations! I suspect that once we reach the island we'll obtain some picnic type supplies, and improvise our own lunches.
Perhaps everybody else has the same idea... or maybe French bread was always to be seen everywhere. The French, of course, have a very strange attitude to bread. First of all, they mix ingredients that guarantee it will dry to resemble concrete... and then they bake it a shape that maximises its surface area... apparently in order to minimise the drying time. This means that bread must be purchased anew on every opportunity, and the locals appear to be doing exactly that.
A range of interesting strategies exist for transporting these ludicrously-shaped loaves. Balancing one across the handlebars of your bicycle is popular, and lends a hint of jousting to the whole scene. (Pedestrians and cyclists share the same spaces.) Stuffing the bread into a backpack so that it sticks up like arrows from a quiver also reinforces the medieval vibe. Others just carry their loaf as if it were Little John's oak stave: ready for combat.
We explored for a little while, but didn't achieve much beyond window shopping. On one intriguing street, every other shop sold lingerie. That's my kind of street! The shopping process lost something of its appeal when we found a certain set that we agreed would look nice (on Victoria, of course...) and it turned out that the bra, alone, was �56. Ouch! Then I saw the worst set of underwear I have ever seen, ever. Ever! In the same shop... and that bra was �96.
Have you ever heard of aversion therapy? It's a process employed by psychiatrists to help transvestites to beat their addiction. Basically, the tranny is presented with the objects of his desire, but simultaneously made to feel like shit. (For example, via drugs that induce nausea.) The idea is that the brain will form a new association, between the fetish object and feeling awful... and thus the addiction is cured.
Anyway, instead of all the hassle of giving the transvestite abuse or making them puke... they should have just shown them this f_cking underwear.
Simply vile. If this is what French ladies are wearing this year... I'm glad I won't be seducing any of them. I mean, seriously: pink and orange? Have these designers never seen the colour wheel? Are these bras being sewn together by colour-blind chimpanzees? The last time I saw pink and orange combined, it was in the costumes worn by the army entertainers in the vintage sitcom 'It Ain't Half Hot, Mum'... and that was supposed to be hideous, in order to be funny.
No. Just: no. In fact, it was so bad, I had to share that photo with you. Blearrrrgh!
I would have made a sand castle on the beach... but the French would have put me to shame. Here's the local version...
I haven't got a lot to say about it, really, but in the same way that you sometimes have a sorbet to cleanse your palette, I thought I'd better share a more restful picture with you, before I sign off. Because that bra could cause retinal scarring.
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