You really ought to try CouchSurfing: Be you old or young, traveller or settler, wise man or dunce, CouchSurfing is cool.
Last night I met my latest host, Ornella (I think you can check her out here but don't blame me if it doesn't work) in a charmante little square in central Bordeaux. We had a drink or two and then met up with a couple of her friends.
She told me that she was sorry she couldn't put me up at her place but she did have the keys to a couple of her mates' flats that I could use at my leisure as long as I watered the cannabis plant that was growing in one of them. I, needless to say, said that this was fine.
So, she seems really cool. Popular type (which I wouldn't necessarily have attributed to people who list themselves as hosts on something like CouchSurfing. You would assume they're all lonely or wierd) very pretty, and outgoing. Speaks plenty of English but was also full of compliments for my french. Her friends were more of the same: outgoing, enthusiastic and friendly young girls. So that's all cool. We're going to hang out again tonight I think.
They all live a little way out of the centre and Ornella has just pranged her car (her fault apparently but the guy had no insurance so she escaped more-or-less scot free) so had to get the last bus home. I strolled home after our rendez-vous and as I was at the road that my hotel was on, I saw a dimly lit, super-smooth looking place with a pearl-white baby grand in the corner and an attractive bar-maid wearing only a bra. This combination of titilation and instrumentation was too much for my curiosity to bear to I attempted to get in.
It turned out that it was the sort of bar where the owner had to buzz you in after he'd gotten a good look at you. I was fortunate enough to pass whatever tests he was running on me.
When I got in, there was about 7 people in the bar: 1 Hugh Heffner-style silver fox of about 65 who was chain-smoking and drinking something golden off ice, one smooth piano player who was doing soulful renditions of jazz standards at the white delight, one attractive young gypsy-esque man in a sharp suit doing magic tricks with the barmaids vest-top and a cigarette and four youngish-to-not-so-young girls instantly recognisable as high-class rent girls (unusual levels of flesh on display, improbable levels of affinity for the silver-haired patron). There was a high level of touching-up of the girls occuring, but the place didn't seem overly threatening or seedy so I stayed for a Jack Daniels (11 euro a glass, but the shot was as long as the legs of the barmaid that served it to me) and a song or two.
I got chatting to the pianist and the magician and we were suddenly a small troup of normality in amongst the aging nymphs and punters (we had been joined by a man who looked like a builder and a Buster Merryfield lookalike who must have been his grandad). It was a cool night, and we talked about music (in french of course!) and the pianist let me sing one of the numbers (Fly me to the Moon - I did my best smoky cabaret singer impersonation) and play a little of my own. Great fun, and I insisted to the owner that I'd be back the following evening. I'm not sure that I will.
No comments:
Post a Comment