Saturday Morning in Bordeaux

I try to hide my impatience when Pater finally comes
downstairs for tea, more than two hours after dawn reached  through the skylight to tickle me awake and
send me tiptoeing out of the bedroom. After all, we are on vacation, it’s only
9 in the morning, and he will raise no objections this afternoon when I head
for my wee siesta. But there are places to go, things to see, and surely all
the best finds will have disappeared from the Marché if we don’t go Now. So I hope into
the shower, grabbing a bra, clean undies, my dark skinny jeans, and a navy
cashmere v-neck from the bedroom now free of any do-not-disturb sleeper.

He, meanwhile, has shaved up nicely, showered, found jeans,
checked shirt, and a black cardigan, and I kiss his soap-fragrant neck as we
lean over the map spread out on the kitchen table to trace the best route to
the Marché aux Puces at Flêche St Michel. It looks as if there’s a stop there
on the C line of Bordeaux’ brilliant street-level tramway, the same C-line we
took from the Gare St Jean when we arrived last week. So allowing for buying a
ticket at the easy-to-use machine, waiting for the next tram (never more than
ten minutes, as far as we can tell), and then riding a few stops while
people-watching and gazing at the river from clean and comfortable seats, we
could be at the Marché within half an hour.

But as long as the weather is decent, we love to feel out a city
by walking its streets. This morning the sky’s mood is changeable, but the
temperature is comfortable, and we’ve got our ultra-light mini umbrellas in our
bags. We decide to head through town rather than walking via the
riverfront,  and after a short break for deux cafés, s’il vous plait, at the
counter of the corner Café, we set out for Rue Ste Catherine, after passing the
pleasingly-proportioned open space of the Place de la Comédie.  Pater is apparently not the only one who woke
slowly this grey Saturday morning, and the square’s space echoes with our
footsteps, with the bristly swishes of a café employee freshening up the space
around the sidewalk tables and chairs.

Rue Ste Catherine, also, is much quieter than usual, although we
still occasionally have to dodge a cyclist who, in turn, is dodging a family
sprawling their way down its width, a toddler darting over to investigate a
passing dog. A young woman screams “Puta!” and rushes over to hug an apparently
longlost friend sitting with coffee in the rawer portion of the Rue where it flattens
out after the first gentle decline.  The
sharp scent of the  street cleaner’s
disinfectant mixes with the mellow notes of expresso and croissant’s buttery
tones wafting from an oven somewhere nearby. Under it all, keeping it real,
sewage inserts its not-quite-offensive pungence into our olfactory awareness
occasionally, and there is also a particular scent of damp and ancient stone
that rounds out the concert. And dog shit. Even as we walk and talk and point
out offerings in the vitrines, we
scan the sidewalk ahead, warning each other sharply to step left or right.

Above us, an ouvrier pulls
on the rope that lifts a wide orange bucket, full of supplies and obviously
heavy, up to the 1^st floor, over the lacework of a wrought-iron
balcony painted a deep blue.  In a
doorway to our right, a street musician is setting up his accordion,  unfolding his stool, and laying out a
colourfully woven rectangle on which he places his overturned cap. But before
he begins to perform, he seems to be assessing the number of piétons, trying to decide whether there
are enough of us yet to be worth squandering his repertoire. Perhaps instead
it’s time to grab a café somewhere
nearby. The hikers we see just ahead, clad in classic outdoor gear, don’t seem
likely to slow for music. The large white cockle shells, marked with a red
Cross, that swing gently on their backpacks, announce that these well-booted
young men are following the brass cockle shells embedded in the stone pavers
down the length of St. Catherine. They indicate that this street has been hiked
by pilgrims following the Camino of Santiago de Compostela for centuries.
Indeed, when I chat with the German youth while waiting at the next pedestrian
stoplight, I learn that they have hiked from Tours, an impressive distance
considering how fresh and clean they appear. And considering that both are
enjoying cigarettes as they march along the Rue.

The German hikers and the brass road markers they follow are not
the only indications of the street’s religious past, now almost obscured by its
secular and commercial rhythms. On our right, we pass a small square, the Place
Saint Projet, that boasts a narrow monument, perhaps eight feet high, whose
carvings are, on every side, weathered so heavily that their features are
difficult to discern. No plaque offers any historic details about this obelisk,
nor about the impressive ancient fountain carved, almost grotto-like into the
facing wall, across the square. I do some research online later, and I find
that the square is named after a bishop who died in 674.  Long, long ago, there was a church here, and
a cemetery. Traces of these can be found in the nearby buildings that have
incorporated some of the church’s structure – its bell tower, for example. Of
the cemetery, the only cross that remains is that which commemorates the
bishop. It was erected  in the 14^th
century, long after his death. The fountain dates from 1715. Do most of the
shoppers enjoy a little religious history with their lêche-vitrine or do they not even notice?

Like those local shoppers, now almost blind to the rich history
around them, we move along. Racks of 10 Euro brightly coloured print leggings
along with wide-legged lounging pants are being wheeled out on the sidewalk, next
to 18 Euro clubbing dresses made out of gaudy synthetics that are surely
flammable. All of this mere blocks from the infinitely more discreet satisfactions
of cashmere and silk at Galaries Lafayette or, round the corner from MaxMara
and Façonnable, Sonia Rykiel and Max Azria, 
Similarly, while the same diagonal rows of square stone tiles clad the
entire length and width of this impressive Rue, the stone pavement at the top
of the hill more closely resembles the marble of a large and elegant lobby. At
the bottom, black and grey circles of discarded and well-trodden gum claim the
street for a noiser, more lively, and yes, somewhat rougher crowd. Too, more vitrines are plastered with notices
advising of closures, final signs, opportunities to lease. And more pets – dogs
and cats both – sit beside downcast owners in doorways, little tin cans on the
stone in front of them collecting 10, 20, if they’re lucky 50-cent pieces. Even
begging, here, has become too much work with too little hope of reward.

So we’re selfishly relieved when the street morphs again as it
tilts gently upward again and heads toward the university, but we’re heading East
anyway, working an idea of direction through a tangle of urban non-planning
laid down centures ago. Once again, the character of the streets changes. The
terraces of the Place where students can sit with their wine or beer or
expressos for hours, the bookstores and little boutiques offering inexpensive
versions of the hippie, ethnic wear that is still, surprisingly,  worn by 2013 students as we wore it in 1973.
.  . These give way to Hallal shops, to
Arab women pushing strollers and pulling market carts into spice shops and
vegetable shops and even, for a treat or for special visitors, into wonderful
little patisseries such as the one we
couldn’t resist, one where the shy vendor recommended little bundles of
marzipan-filled sweetness and rich cousins to baklava. In the doorways of some of these shops, the women’s
relatives survey the streets, calling across to each other or clustering in
urgent or casual conversations, depending on the moment.

Let’s pause here, on a corner, with our maps, before we head to
the Marché Aux Capucins to sort out some lunch.  Perhaps I’ll tell you more about hat later . . . . Meanwhile, I hope you enjoyed sauntering down Bordeaux’s
Rue Ste Catherine with us. . . Now tell me, do you take pleasure in walking when you visit a new city? And do you have streets you love to explore by foot, or streets your feet know by heart, in your own home town?