Some parting thoughts, as I sit here in that adorably posh little neighborhood of Chartron, along the rue Notre-Dame, my farewell beer (grande, pas petite!) by my side in the open air (en plein air), preparing my departure after a transformative week in Bordeaux.
My holiday flat along the Jardin Public was a treasure. A rooftop terrace view, a minimalist’s dream, a warm sunset to greet me on my arrival. Upon dropping my bags at Maison Labruyere, I immediately vowed to return. C’est magnifique, c’est parfait! There were so many small moments ahead of me, and it was those tiny delights that made all the difference.
The trips to the Carre Market for groceries was a step change in the way I took holidays. Stocking my tiny little efficiency fridge with yogurt breakfasts, charcuteries and fromage, and of course many bottles of wine. No longer relying on room service and concierge maps. It was Paris two years ago that had taught me the joys of living as a local. A younger me would’ve found grocery shopping and laundry mats devoid of adventure. Au contraire! There’s no better step outside your comforts than practicing French alongside the day-to-day errand runners.
Plus, this took a huge weight off, saving me the researching, reservations and rushing off to a set itinerary. Not spending all my time planning, not every night at least, giving me back the flexibility to do or to do not, as I pleased. Often back from a day of exploring for the sunset’s shift change, people watching from my terrace. And listening to my many manicured French playlists, both vintage and modern. Comme ca moi!
In my part of Chartron, I enjoyed strolling le rue Notre-Dame, breakfast and reading ‘The Intellectual Life’ at La Pelle Cafe. Writing my stories on a tiny patio table with une bierre petite at some nameless old man’s pub. All while speaking terrible French to the locals, many of whom seemed to genuinely appreciate my courteous efforts and stammering pronunciation.
As I ventured deeper downtown through the week, I discovered the vibrance of the Saint Pierre and Saint Paul historic districts. Weaving zigzags down the high street of le Rue Saint-Catherine, I was overjoyed by the confident strides of a fashionable people. Wide open esplanades and river walks by la Garonne. Tiny cobbled streets, as one expects from these quaint old southern Europe neighborhoods. And sunny oasis town squares, surprisingly opening up around each maze-twist turn.
The best among them perhaps lured me around the bend by its fan cheers of a rugby mob, standing over outdoor TVs, watching the French versus English Six Nations tournament match. I mingled in the open square, clinking glasses with the locals, totally selling out and booing the English. Apologies to my British mates, but you understand.
I surprised myself with a ‘get out and go’ attitude every day, even posting four epic park runs in my six days, a strong 5:13 pace by the end, and balancing in some mindful tempo runs. Afterall, the 72F sun was too gorgeous to be rushed! I read over half my book and wrote three new essays and one new story.
I spoke more French than I thought I knew, really plunging into Google Translate and latent High School vocabulary, not retreating docilely into English (much to many store clerks dismay). I ate well, cocktailed well, and drank local regional red wines – Margaux and Saint-Emile, being among the best. I chose my destinations without panic or haste and I never lingered long. Always allowing for the day to take shape, a new energy to emerge and transform.
So why was this so transformative? Besides grocery store visits and terrible French speaking, why was this a step change? Well, as a wise man once paraphrased: “wherever you go, no matter where you roam… there you are.” Simply put, I brought my best self to this holiday. Pacing my way through the merits of calm confidence and a desire to self-nourish.
I spoke better French because I stood my ground and looked people in the eye. I stood up tall with my shoulders back, whether while running through a park of sunbathing Franks, pushing into a crowded bar, or walking the midnight alleyways home. I strutted like I belonged. Because belonging is belief, no matter your locale.
Bordeaux, more than any other exotic travels to date, taught me that. How to not just stand my ground, but to create more space in my life. Not just to create boundaries, but to push back those walls in order to make your day abundant with open spaces. Spaces for thinking good thoughts, spaces for exploring exhilarating challenges. Spaces to seek and command nourishment for these tiny precious, present moments. Fleeting and delicious.
Spaces for renewing my trust in the spinning world again. A vow I whispered many times, catching my breath after browsing the shops, in the noon sun of a buzzing cafe. A vow of patient gratitude that all is working as intended. The world fairly and equitably giving and taking as it deems fits. A world that still promises to protect me, so that I may solemnly return my pursuits to meaning and peace.
And would you believe me to say, in this short weeklong stay in the Ides of March, I saw my terrace vista now bursting to bloom, flowers that were not there before. The dogwoods and cherry trees of the overlooking park, splashing pinks and greens amidst the setting sun of an endless garden, gracing my retreat. Ushering in a springtime for the lands, a souvenir for my heart to possess. Long live this springtime in my heart. Vive le printemps. À bientôt à Bordeaux.
Paul Carreo 