Getting to Barcares (almost)

The picture of the chocolate therapy shop window in St. Malo might not fit anywhere else, so I put it in here. You gotta admit that chocolate therapy is a good reason to take a picture.

I didn’t take a lot of pictures, partly because the batteries didn’t last long and I worried they would be gone just as an important something came along. I kept buying replacements, but never enough. Also, I didn’t know how many pix the card would hold (many hundreds more than I thought). And also, to Mary’s chagrin, I simply didn’t want to film every little thing. I know I should have, but I reasoned that you could find it online or on postcards so why should I duplicate tourist shots. Dumb reasoning, because I now I wish I could show people the weird and wonderful non-tourist things. Had I known the card was practically endless, maybe I would have given in. Often, though, I enjoyed using my eyes to see with instead of the camera.

Anyway, a couple of times when I knew Mary was ready to explode, I gave her the camera and let her shoot away. Probably should have done more of that. Can I use as an excuse that the first time we went, we didn’t have a camera and didn’t miss it? No, because digital cameras have taken the tediousness out of carrying camera, lenses, and film.

On the other side of the coin are the Japanese tourists who only see with their cameras. At Versailles some were shooting every detail in a grand room without really noticing it themselves. I guess they’ll put it together when they get back home.

OK, back to the blog.

We boarded the train in Carcassonne, hefting our backpacks up the ladder and down the aisle. There are overhead racks high enough up that lifting the backpacks can be a weightlifting exercise.

On this day, Mary had a bit of trouble. Remember, she’s about 5 ft 3 inches with white hair and an enormous pack. Usually a gallant young man or smiling older man would come to her aid when they’d see her struggling.

But if they waited a minute, they’d see that she had figured out her own way of handling the problem. Since I didn’t have a picture, I did what I did in 1961 – drew a picture of how she would first settle the pack on top of her head, and then give a mighty heave-ho up to the rack. It always brought smiles from onlookers who hadn’t jumped up to help in time. (You’ll see more sketches of Mary and Pack later because there were some hilarious unphotographed moments.)

The helper this time was an older man, Roger.

After the pack was in the rack, we asked his opinion of how to get to Barcares. He’d never heard of it, being from Bordeaux, so we showed him the map. He had never been to Perpignan, either, or even west of Narbonne, but hazarded a guess that a small dot on the road, Rivesaltes, might be a good place to get off since it looked almost straight across from Barcares. Surely there would be a bus from there, or we could hitchhike.

Here is Roger’s story. Retiring from his job in Bordeaux, he and his wife bought an old country villa in an area he didn’t know, planning to renovate it. He’d been working on it since July, or almost 9 months, usually alone since his wife was still working in Bordeaux.

He did most of the work himself, with some local help from the village, but needed someone skilled to do the cabinetry in the kitchen. The Englishman he hired turned out to be a crook. The man said he needed to go home to England for a week, but would be right back. Taking the advance money Roger paid him, he left France – and Roger – for good.

After waiting a futile month for him to return, Roger finally called a man he knew in Bordeaux who arrived at 6:50 the next morning, having started from home at 1:00 a.m. Refusing the offer of breakfast, he went right to work and was finished by noon that day! A quick lunch and then he was on his way back home.

With the cabinets and most of the other work finished, Roger’s wife joined him and they threw a grand party for the nearby village. It must have been a jolly affair, with wine, food, and music from mid-afternoon until midnight. The joy Roger gets from living in the country was obvious.

He also gets joy from his 3-1/2 year old granddaughter. He was heading to Paris to babysit her since her preschool was starting a vacation and her single mom had to keep working. Grandpa would be her playmate (Grandma did it the first vacation). He knew he would be exhausted after a week of parks and playgrounds, but it was obvious he was looking forward to every minute of it

He’s also looking forward to summers when the little girl can spend long weeks with Grandma and Grandpa, getting to experience a quieter life than in the city.

Roger kept us entertained so well that the half-hour train ride to Narbonne was over almost before it began. He got Mary’s backpack down for her, and wished us luck as we went off to figure out our next leg of Getting to Barcares.

Getting to Barcares via Carcassonne

The little map shows the train times from when we left Albi until we finally arrived in Barcares (Ile des Pecheurs) where we stayed a week in Mary’s timeshare condo.

The bigger train stations, like Toulouse, all have places to buy food, which is handy when you're left too early to eat. For breakfast in Toulouse, Mary bought a bagel with egg, cheese and bacon, while I had a 3-cheese pizza. Another time I’ll tell you about the wonderful ways the French have tweaked traditional pizza.

Our ultimate goal was Barcares (pron. BAR-car-ess), a small town on the Mediterranean. No trains go there, and no-one we talked to had ever heard of it including the usually-helpful folk at the ticket-places in the train stations.

“We’ll just hitchhike if we have to,” we decided.

Meanwhile, we had planned a short stop in Carcassonne, a picturesque and still-living medieval city which we visited in 1961 on our motorscooter.

The Carcassonne train station was dumpy. I needed to use the bathroom so followed the WC signs to an outside coin-operated one. It was standing by itself in a field of weeds, but seemed functional. It cost a Euro, I think, or close to $1.50. I put in my money and stepped inside, not fully closing the door so that Mary could use it after me for free. (Not graft, because inside the train stations the WC is usually 50 cents and as clean and bright as your living room.)

I prepared myself and then sat down. Almost as soon as I did, jets of water spewed forth from invisible spigots in the floor and on the walls! Somehow the cleaning cycle was malfunctioning! Luckily my “business” was finished quickly because I hoisted up my pants, not stopping to zip them, and raced to the door, all the time being pelted with water.

After the flood stopped, Mary tried her luck. We figured the WC cycle was all right now so let the door close. For a minute, indeed, there were no cries of alarm. Then the toilet flushed and Mary yelled that the lights had gone out and she couldn’t find the door! Fumbling around in the dark, she finally felt it. “There’s a button on the left side to push to unlock it,” I told her. “But I can’t see it!” she cried, sounding desperate, and why not? No telling when the cleaning cycle would start again. After pushing all the several buttons she could find, the right one finally clicked and she escaped, as discombobulated by the experience as I had been with mine.

That was the last time we ever used one of those WCs.

We needed to find a bus to the old town. There seemed to be a stop about a block away near what looked like the town square. Sure enough, but which bus to take? About six older women (as old as we are?) were there, so I asked for help. Immediately they eagerly became our tour guides, telling us that we wanted the “Vielle Ville,” meaning the old city, and making sure we got on the right bus because even this small town had many choices. It’s wonderful to be needy like we were and to see the great smiles that come to people’s faces when they’ve been able to help. We bring joy in our stupidity.

The old city was a huge disappointment. It looks good, but is totally given over to tourists who stuffed the streets looking in all the souvenir shops and buying junk. The crowds, the heat, the tackiness of it got to us and we left after only 20 minutes. That’s a record. I took a picture, though, to prove we were there and not just making this up.

By comparison, here’s how it felt in 1961, riding there from Spain on our motorscooter.

Coming down the slope of a hill, I glanced to my left and there it was, on a small hill above the modern town, practically in my lap! The walls are tall, straight and strong, and it was so wonderful to see them with towers gently illuminated by spotlights from below and a full moon above. It was a perfect, absolutely perfect sight, silhouetted against the starry sky.

I was amazed that we could drive up to and through the old city gates, up a winding narrow road, right to the hostel which is in the middle of the ancient city! We certainly hadn't expected to actually stay in the old city instead of down in the modern town.

After checking in, we went walking by moonlight. I went through an iron gate into a courtyard by the wall just around the corner from the hostel, and came into a different world. I wish I could draw the feeling I got from looking across the massive towers up to the stars and moon. It was the magic of an empty stage after the performance when everyone has gone and in your imagination anything can happen.

The walls are overpoweringly tall. They make you sit and stare, wondering and wondering why and how the craftsmen did it. Wonder what invaders thought, confronted by this massive structure protecting the city within.

It was a thrill to compare with April in Paris, seeing our Capitol, London Tower, Mont St. Michel, Boulder Dam at night, and New York, and just below the amazement of the first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty and Mont Blanc.

At least I have that memory. Maybe it’s still that romantic in the middle of winter without tourists around. Whatever, we didn’t waste time murmuring about it, but hopped back on the train, hoping to get to Barcares before the end of the day.

In the next blog, you’ll see how it went.

Amazing Albi, Part 2

Bertrand showed us to our room, called the Fleur de Lys (see picture from his brochure here, and the photo from our window in the last blog). Wow!

After giving us free entry to the Toulouse Lautrec museum, and agreeing that we needed to see the inside of the cathedral in the afternoon, he told us to meet him back at the Tour at 12:00 and he would show us where to have lunch.

Toulouse Lautrec comes off looking really good in his museum set in the old Archbishop’s palace. Who wouldn’t? His family donated all the work left in his studio to the city, and they have done it proud. All the famous posters are there, including pre-sketches, along with some wonderful seldom-seen works. Since I’d lost my free pass somewhere on the street, they let me in for half price, amid a plethora of apologies. What does plethora mean? Ah, I was right. Thanks, google. An overabundance.

Outside, there was a plethora of tulips in all colors, it being a perfect spring day (see photo).

Then Bertrand walked us to the restaurant. It’s good we arrived early because by 12:30 the place was packed. And no wonder. The food is excellent. Our choices had been decided by Bertrand and the waitress, Rosille – then he left.

The salad was tiny spinach leaves and sesame seeds over chevre (goat cheese) and a pate of mixed veggies including eggplant, very light and smooth, on tomatoes, on crumbled shortbread cookies sprinkled with balsamic and oil. The main dish was savory slices of turkey with perfect vegetables and penne pasta. A+. Rosille said that dessert was “rice cooked in milk.” The reality was rice cooked in very creamy milk with a banana/apricot sauce flavored with lemon and ginger, sprinkled with chopped pistachios, and topped by a delicate flower of whipped cream. Not like any rice pudding I ever made!

Each dish was eaten very slowly to savor every tiny bite, not my usual “chow down or it will go away” style.

We left, fully satisfied and ready to take on the cathedral.

As powerful as the outside is, the inside is equally amazing. Paintings done in the 1500s have not lost their luster. The trompe l’oeuile is baffling [see photo]. The statues, big and little, have personalities. Go. See for yourself.

Just inside the entrance was a notice to all visitors that touched me deeply. Here it is, first in French because it’s so beautiful in the original language, then I’ll translate:

“En admirant la beaute du travail des hommes, puissiez-vous trouver la presence de Dieu. Que cette visite rest en vous comme un moment de Paix. »

English : In admiring the beauty of the work of men, you might find the presence of God. May this visit remain in you as a moment of Peace.

It is the most beautiful way of describing why great artists through the centuries have welcomed the chance to work on these buildings. Their love of God inspired them to heights they could not have achieved on their own. And now we, living in a crowded, tempestuous world, see their work and feel a moment of peace.

After exploring the town some more, it was time for dinner. Bertrand showed us to another specially-chosen restaurant where we were treated, thanks to him, like honored guests. More elegant than the lunchtime place, the food was excellent but not quite so excellent as that other. However, the dessert, oh my. Fondant (I’m not sure what flavor that was) glace (ice cream) with a thick perfect raspberry sauce.

It was quite late when we arrived back at the hotel, but Bertrand was waiting for us. We explained that our train left very very early in the morning, 6:00, I think. We would have to rise even earlier, probably 4:45 (because of Mary and makeup) to walk there in time.

He wouldn’t hear of it. No. He himself would drive us in his Peugeot to the station. We protested, but he insisted. So before the sunrise, he was at the gate with his little car, perfect for the narrow streets of French towns. He took our packs, loaded them in the back, and off we went, me in the back seat and Mary in front.

I am not imagining this – he had been flirting with Mary all this time. She denies it, but I am sure of it. She’s a widow of only a few years, so may not recognize the signs yet. I found it charming of him.

At the station, he carried both packs into the waiting room, then stayed with us until the train pulled in. He then carried the packs onto the train, which was crowded even at that hour, and gave each of us the little French kisses.

Waving to us from the platform, we waved back, knowing we would never forget Albi and Bertrand.

Amazing Albi

Albi is an hour by train from Toulouse. Three stars from Frommer’s France means it’s one of the best. I went online and found a hotel with good reviews, less expensive than the others in town, and booked one night. How could I know that La Tour Sainte Cecile would turn out to be our most exceptional stay in all the five weeks?

Let me explain --

We arrived about eight in the morning and found ourselves at a small deserted train station on the outskirts of town. Near the street was a large framed map of Albi, so we studied it, trying to figure out where we were and where we were going. There was no “Vous Etes Ici” mark to get us started. After about five minutes of confusion, a middle-aged woman ambled across the street to us and said, in French, “Don’t look at the map. It will get you lost.” She then pointed us in the direction we should go, saying, “Keep to the right, go across the bridge, always to the right. When you get to the cathedral, ask anyone for directions.”

Hoisting our backpacks, we started walking, not knowing how far we might have to go. We went down a hill and came to a cross street where turning to the left seemed to be the better-traveled way. While we stood there pondering, up trotted the woman again to help us out. She’d been watching us, caring about us! She is one huge reason why we loved Albi. Another is Bertrand, but that comes later.

Even though the walk wasn’t easy (the backpacks seemed heavier and heavier), it was along a lovely flower-bedecked and tree-shaded street that passed a school where children were just arriving. The small bridge didn’t span water, just a chasm, and then we were trudging uphill into the town which was still hidden by curves in the road and trees.

Rounding a corner, I stopped in amazement! At the top of the street was an overwhelming sight – the Cathedral of Sainte Cecile. Look at the picture! The largest all-brick building in the whole world, it has a commanding presence that simply knocked me for a loop! Right there in the little town of Albi!

Built in the 13^th Century, it is – once again, overwhelming. I must quote from the booklet I bought there (the only one I bought during the whole trip). Oh, never mind. You weren’t there so it might be boring to try to imagine it. Go there! You’ll love it!

We didn’t stop to go inside since we still had the backpacks, but instead went in search of our hotel. The street was easy, Rue Sainte Cecile, right off the main square by the Cathedral. The number presented a problem, though. We found 8, 10, 12 and 16, but no 14. Dismayed, even wondering if I’d been duped, I went to the hairdresser shop across the way and asked if anyone knew where No. 14 was.

Laughing, the owner set down his tools and walked us across the street to the ornate wrought-iron gate and pointed down a narrow private walkway between Nos. 12 and 16 to a heavy old wooden door.

Amazed, I asked, “Vraiment?” “Oui. 14.”

I worried that we were arriving too early, since it was only 9:00 and arrival time should have been around 11. The door was locked, but there was one of those communication thingies so I pushed a button and heard a phone ringing inside. A man answered and I apologized for being too early.

“No problem,” said he, sounding delighted that we were there. We heard the lock on the door open, then climbed up two narrow flights of stairs (later finding the elevator) to meet Bertrand, the charming host of La Tour Sainte Cecile.

It’s not a hotel, but a “Chambre d’Hote,” which I gather means that a private person is opening his home to visitors. What a delight for these two scruffy, inelegant women to be lodged in the 13^th Century home that Bertrand grew up in.

He and his two sisters inherited the family home when his father died, and partitioned it into three separate areas. Rather than keep his section to himself, Bertrand decided to share it with visitors so he could meet people from all over the world. He loves people of all kinds -- and I tell you, he’s adorable. When you meet him, you’ll see I haven’t exaggerated or used the wrong word.

The next blog will go into more detail. Don’t miss it! Our one day in Albi was a day of fairytale enchantment (but not at all like Disneyland).

The photos are my first view of the cathedral, Mary and I in Bertrand's living room, and the view out the window of our spacious room.