Montauban
Blog 07-11-22 Monday Hot in Bordeaux
Montauban
In Paris I searched for a suitable Airbnb in my next desired stop, Bordeaux.
In my strange world Bordeaux has historical significance. In May of 1940 the French government fled Paris, one step ahead of the advancing Nazi juggernaut. The Prime Minister, Reynaud, had taken the reins from the dishonored Daladier, who had tried to buy peace from Hitler at Munich. Now France was beaten, her armies on the run from the panzers. The Prime Minister and his cabinet (including Daladier!) crept down the overburdened (with refugees) highway to Bordeaux in the South Atlantic corner of the Republic. Unfortunately the effete Reynaud had a nazi-sympathizing mistress who helped confirm his worst instincts. Ultimately the government was ceded to the crypto-fascist World War I general, Petain, who made a deal with the Germans to turn France into a Nazi client state, centered in the small southern city of Vichy.
Which is why I wanted to spend a few days here in Bordeaux.
I found a suitable Bordeaux lodging and applied for confirmation from the owner. Then I sought a train or bus ticket to get me there. Except…….there were none. I gazed at three pages of potential train tickets. Every one said “train sold out”. Same for the busses, which I turned to next. In panic I quickly rushed back to Airbnb to cancel my apartment request. Fortunately the owner had not yet accepted my offer. I was able to escape that obligation and save the $200 that I would have forfeited if I’d secured the room without having the transportation to get me there.
The next day I found myself on trainline.com again, trying to devise a strategy to get myself south. If I could find a way to get close to Bordeaux I was fairly certain I could find a way to knit together a journey that would land me in my desired destination with perhaps a short diversion.
And I found a way. Trainline offered me a trip to Montauban, a small city southwest of Bordeaux. From there they had a ticket to my goal.
Closer inspection revealed a problem. Trainline wanted me to layover in Montauban for nine hours, ten p.m. to seven a.m. I’d be sleeping in the Montauban bus station. Forgedaboutit.
The answer was apparent. Secure an Airban in Montauban for two nights, then travel to Bordeaux. I checked the site and found my strategy would work. I purchased the travel tickets and quickly unearthed an apartment in downtown Montauban for the two nights.
The raison d’etre of this trip was to experience Amsterdam. Everything I had read told me that the dutch city was the place most congenial for an urban-loving soul like myself. I went to Paris mostly because I knew everyone would expect me to go there. I couldn’t very well travel to Western Europe and overlook the number one tourist destination in the world.
The odd thing was that, after five days in Paris, my expectations had been dismantled. For reasons that I can’t explain, I loved Paris. This city touched my heart in ways that Amsterdam did not. But writing about it here I have no rational explanation for my feelings. So when it came time to move on to Montauban I was sad. At some point I will be able to explain my Parisophilic emotions, but for now I had to concentrate on my next move.
Google maps directed me to the train station (Bercy Seine) in the south of the city. I exited the metro and searched for my train. Oddly there were no signs directing me to the depot. I tried asking passers-by for directions to the train station, but they all looked at me quizzically. Adroitly I had given myself several hours of time to get to the train. Still I worried. I stumbled around, hefting my heavy backpack, hoping to find some sort of indicator that would lead me to my train.
At a crosswalk I asked a man — who spoke little English — for directions to the station. He looked at me just as uncomprehendingly as the others, but when I showed him my ticket on my phone he hesitantly pointed at the city park behind us. Why would a train station be in a city park, I wondered, but I had no other choice but to give his directions a try. I followed a wide pedestrian path through the park hoping for some confirmation that I was on the right route.
Then in the distance I saw a sign, one of those metallic, dark-colored guide posts that cities use to indicate some important juncture. And, indeed, the sign was just what I hoped for. Turn left for Bercy-Seine, it said. I happily complied. After a couple more signs and a series of twists and turns I found myself inside a………..bus station. My ticket, in French of course, was for a BUS, not a train. Trainline.com was more than trains, apparently.
I was embarrassed, but to be truly embarrassed you need an audience, and I had none. There was no one who would know of my stupidity, so I picked up my ego and moved forward. A little investigating revealed that my bus would leave this terminal at the time designated on my phone. I had nearly three hours to wait. I settled down outside on a shady bench and waited for the assigned hour.
My ride was scheduled for eight and a half hours, leaving at 12:45 pm, arriving at 9:30. I texted my Montauban hosts, apprising them of my upcoming arrival. At 12:25 I found my bus and stashed my back in the storage area beneath the bus. My assigned seat was ready for me. I settled in for a long ride.
And then I realized there was another, bigger, problem.
“Please note that check in time for your Airbnb rental is between 5 and 8 pm only,” my hosts messaged me.
I texted back. All I could do was confess my mistake and hope for the best.
“I have made a terrible error,” I texted them. “My bus will not arrive in Montauban until after 9 pm. Should I arrange for a hotel and forfeit my first night’s fee to you?”
There was a pause.
The time for the bus to depart came and went. Minutes ticked by. Then my hosts texted back.
“Due to special circumstances we can accommodate your late arrival. Please text us when you get close to Montauban.”
Meanwhile the bus failed to move. One o’clock….no movement. 1:10 still no sign that we were leaving.
Finally at 1:15 the bus jockeyed out of our tight parking spot and set off for the south of France. We were 30 minutes behind schedule. What could I say to my hosts? I said nothing, hoping that, on the long journey the driver would find a way to make up the lost time.
My hosts had stretched the check in time from 8 pm to 9:30. What would they do if I was even later?
And I was. No time was made up. At 9:20 I notified my hosts that we were running late. There was another long pause in communication before they messaged that they would wait for me.
Finally at 10:15 we arrived in Montauban. But there was another problem. The ‘bus station’ was nothing of the kind. The driver dumped me at a nondescript parking spot in the extreme south of the city. There was no station, no taxis, no bus stop, no shelter, nothing.
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I exchanged texts with my hosts but, ultimately, they despaired of greeting me. “We have other obligations,” they replied. “I’m sorry. We can’t wait any longer..”
I stood in the darkness, my backpacks at my feet. The thought of spending the night in a vacant lot in the outskirts of Montauban appeared to me in a vision. I tried contacting Uber, but soon realized I had nowhere for a taxi to take me. Then I espied a neon sign across the highway: “Brito Hotel”. I hefted up my backpacks and trod through a weedy ditch and across a wide avenue. The door to the Brito was locked. A guy stood smoking a cigarette to my right. He spoke no English but he had no difficulty informing me that the Brito was sold out.
He pointed behind me. He mumbled some words that ended with ‘hotel’. I was given to understand that if I walked some unknown number of meters (better that than kilometers!) I might find another hotel.
And I did. And it was cheap (47 Euros for the night). And it had a bed.
The next day I found a bus that took me to my Airbnb. The hosts admitted me in the early afternoon and I spent a comfortable night in downtown Montauban.
And the next day I caught my train to Bordeaux where I am now.
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