Dumbfounded in Tours

You’re forgiven if you thought this blog was going to be about tours we took. It’s actually about Tours, France. Even the computer got it wrong! I tried several times on Hostels.com to book a room in Tours, but every time, I got “Tours of France” instead of Tours, France. Finally, I went to another site, Bookings.com, and got a great room at the Mirabeau -- in Tours.

Be careful what you name your towns! Like Worms in Germany. I know it doesn’t mean the same in German as English, but still . . .

I skipped Tours on the blog so we could hurry to Albi and the Mediterranean, but now I’ll take you back to Tours, Amboise, and Toulouse, all great stops. These were in April, right after St. Malo on the English Channel, if you remember back that far.

It was a long train ride from St. Malo, but I almost made it shorter by getting off at the wrong station! It was kind of obvious that the little town wasn’t the major city of the Loire Valley. Luckily, Mary asked someone and sure enough we had to run (as in run) up stairs with our backpacks to re-board the train before it left for the next stop, the right one.

It must have been my day for messing up because when I went into what looked like a tourist office and showed the lady inside, the address of the Mirabeau on Blvd Heurteloup, she had no clue but pointed us down a pedestrian walkway to where the major bus lines were. A few blocks later, hot and tired, we reached Rue Charles Gille and, sure enough, buses. The google map I’d printed out seemed to say the hotel was near the river, so we decided to walk since on google it didn’t look that far.

Reached the river and didn’t know which way, left or right. Asked again. Directed to the right. Started walking. April 2011 was a record for heat. Most days that was great, but not when carrying the backpacks and not knowing where we were going. Walked and walked. Decided to catch a bus. Found a stop and got on, hoping it would get us somewhere closer to the hotel. At least we got to sit down. To shorten this story, after over an hour of much walking and much getting lost, we found the Mirabeau. It’s in plain sight on a major road with a pedestrian tree-shaded walkway down the middle.

The lady in charge was puzzled when we asked if we could possibly get a taxi back to the train station on Wednesday morning, two days away.

“But it’s only three or four blocks away,” she said, showing us her location on the map, and the train station.

We were dumbfounded! We’d walked and bused all around town to get there, and we could have easily covered the distance in ten minutes! Not only that, but the tourist lady’s office had been practically right on Blvd Heurteloup and she didn’t know it!

The Mirabeau was superb! Our room faced the street, with a balcony. Two double beds, bath with a shower, sink, and toilet. We hadn’t minded sharing a bed, or the trips down the hall to the WC in the other places, but this was blissful luxury for us.

Mary was miffed that there was no soap, even though we each had brought our own. “It’s a little thing; drop it,” I said, but she went to complain.

In doing so, she had a nice chat with the lady in charge, who showed her the beautiful breakfast room and talked about the history of the place, how the entry used to be the place where horse carriages entered the courtyard. Now it's the patio off the breakfast room, and the stables are in the next property over

Mary brought back soap, and we signed up for the bounteous, leisurely Petit Dejeuner (breakfast).

This was April 11, an auspicious day because in Vancouver, BC, my newest granddaughter was slated to be delivered by Caesarean to daughter Alisa. Here I was, nine hours ahead of them and half a world away, trying to get in touch with anyone who could tell me what was going on. I called daughter Celia three times and husband Thrim once, with no answers, then finally found daughter Mieke in New Jersey who said Alisa wasn’t going in until 1:00 p.m. Vancouver time. I would have to be patient.

Sahana was born healthily and happily, and Mom, Dad and baby and sister were doing just fine. What a relief! Also Indian grandmother Lakshmil who had come all that way to help out for two months!

In Tours, Mary still hadn’t completely recovered from the mystery malady that hit her in St. Malo. However, we were desperately hungry, so we trekked into the old town, which was very close to us, past a marvelous cathedral, St. Bastien. The high old walls bordering the street – see the photos.

All through this area were narrow winding streets and architecture with wood and wattle or brick patterns like you see in old England. We ate on Rue de la Monnaie (Money Street). It was a darkish place that wanted more “monnaie” than it was worth, but the green beans were tasty. Usually there weren’t a lot of vegetables with the meals unless you ordered a salad. I missed veggies.

Tours is in a great location for chateau-viewing, and one of the best and closest is the Chateau d’Amboise. The next day we took a regional bus there, getting tickets at the same place where the woman steered us astray.

Since Mary needed rest, she took a nap at the hotel for the 90 minutes before the bus left, and I went exploring. The old town is full of schools from preschool to high school and even college. I hurried to the cathedral, got some pix, then wandered around and ended in the Jardin Mirabeau to the sounds of joyful children at recess. Happy, obedient children, who are noisy at play, but so quiet at other times you hardly know they are there at all.

Tours is well worth a stop, should you be in the Loire Valley chateau country. Just don’t ask directions at the place that looks like a tourist office outside the train station but is actually the regional bus ticket place. They don’t know Tours. The real Office du Tourisme is half a block north on the other side of Rue Heurteloup.