A made-up mind

How do I feel on this, my last day in Bordeaux? Well, it's raining pretty hard and has been cold and windy for a good few days, so the gods of weather are helping me not to feel too strong a sense of nostalgia for the place (I've been here 8 days now which in traveller's time is an epoch.

Yes it's true. I've made up my mind. I'm leaving bdx tomorrow, taking my beautiful mobylette home to Le-Puy-En-Velay and moving in earnest to Toulouse. It's yet another mammoth ride but strangely it will be my last. I feel like a suitor who has chosen someone pretty and homely over a filthy but intriguing punk with constant designs towards kleptomania but who could potentially be a lot of fun. C'est la vie.

I have just enough time left in bdx to tell a few amusing anecdotes and maybe create a couple more, so let's get on with a tale I like to call: The Disturbing Neighbour

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There were three of us, couchsurfers all, staying in the appartment of the ex-boyfriend of our host, Ornella (see previous posts). We had met the guy upstairs once already; a silver-haired man of around fifty with an odd but vaguely smart dress sense and a bycicle in the hallway. He spoke good english and seemed friendly and helpful.

One afternoon as I was leaving the flat to head into town he was there on the landing and we started talking. He told me how nice it was to have youngsters in the place and how if he lived with people his own age the place would be dead. He said that if we wanted to have a party or anything then we were welcome and I thanked him for his generosity. He told me that he's a lawyer and used to live in a posh part of town but had had "a problem" and now lived in the moderate squalor of the appartment but was fine with the move. He asked me my name and told me his and all seemed very jolly.

We were by now out on the street and I could sense that the conversation was going to be one of those ones that don't end unless you force it. He seemed keen to keep on talking and I assumed he was lonely and in need of sociability. Fine. Things got a little rich though when he asked for my phone number. I said in a consiliatory tone that it wasn't necessary but wished him a pleasant afternoon. He quickly departed on his bike with a very hurried goodbye.

2 hours later I was back in the flat reading and relaxing when the buzzer went. The vioce told me it was Phillipe (the owner of the flat, understood to be away in Montreal) and that I should come down to help him do something with the bike in the hallway. I couldn't quite understand all the french but was amazed that the owner of the flat was back unexpectedly and hurried around the flat making things a bit tidier.

When I got downstairs however, it wasn't Phillipe at all, but Hugo and he was in a rage. He was pointing at the German guy's bike, locked to the staircase, and shouting in french and appeared to be in a furious state. His words were along the lines of:

"how can I put my bike away when this bloody bike is in my way. you need to move it right away. I have a very important appointment and how can I get to it if you don't move this bike. I promise I'll call the police if you don't move it right now....etc etc"

I tried to tell him that the bike wasn't mine and that there was nothing I could do but this only enraged him further and he was gesticulating wildly with his arms and shouting ever louder and faster. He told me again he was calling the police and got out his phone. I told him that it was a good idea to call the police and retreated upstairs to the flat, locking the door behind me.

Another hour or so passed in peace and I had forgotten about the strange incident when I heard a knock at the door. Fuck, I thought, he's here. He wants to kill me. So I sat very still and cursed the fact the I'd left the radio on as a giveaway to my presence in the flat. I thought if I just didn't answer he'd assume I was out and leave me alone.

The knocking persisted however, and eventually I resigned myself to opening the door.

I was surprised to find there, not Hugo, but three uniformed local police officers standing on the landing looking serious. They asked me if I was the owner of the mobylette downstairs and asked me if there had been a problem earlier on. I described to them the pleasant conversation, and the refusal to give my number, followed by the blind rage of earlier and they took my name, age and country of birth.

During my tale, two of the policemen ventured upstairs and were peering through the bannisters into Hugo's appartment and one of them started sniggering. He pointed at something to his colleague who in turn smiled wryly and shook his head. They came back downstairs and lead my interlocuter away saying "he's crazy. don't worry about anything". I asked if there was anything I could do but they seemed happy with what they'd seen and left.

What they saw up there in that appartment I'll never know, as I didn't venture upstairs to follow their gaze, but whatever it was was enough to convince the police that they were dealing with a madmen and convince me that we needed to keep our appartment door locked at all times.

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In other news, I have spent a wonderful evening at Ornella's mother's house enjoying fine french cuisine and not entirely understanding fine french conversation. We had an evening of music as one of Ornella's friends is a fine mezzo-soprano, Ornella plays the flute, Toni the German couchsurfer on his accordian, and I played the piano.

Also today, I experienced the joy of a fit of unstoppable giggles on my own, in a sophisticated cafe, whilst reading a paragraph from Love in the Time of Cholera. I'm reasonably sure that it ranks as the most I've ever laughed at a book, but I think some of the laughter may in part have been at the fact that I was laughing alone in public. A wonderful tonic on a drizzly afternoon.

Delights, delights. Next time in Toulouse?

Love from,

Rob