Toulouse or Bust!

Feb 20, 2007

What a day! In leaving Cauterets we experienced a wild bus ride down the mountains and back into the valley, after which we wandered through Lourdes while waiting for our train to Toulouse. It was a beautiful day - the kind that lends itself to travel. We explored the famous basilicas in Lourdes, stood at the foot of the town's old fortified castle, and picked up a few things from a market. Then we boarded a train for Toulouse and arrived after some time hungry and tired as dusk was falling. We toyed with the idea of heading on to Barcelona, but decided that before we made any such maneuvers we ought to have some sustenance first.

We tried one cafe in the station - but they didn't have what we wanted. We went to another eatery, said good evening to the waiter and sat down - but he never came to serve us. Fed up (and not fed), we decided to try the train and possibly get some food on board. But we would need cash, so we sought out the ATM and discovered it out of order. I asked about a train to Barcelona at information and was told there were none that night. How about tomorrow? Something garbled in response. The woman at the ticket counter certainly spoke a different French than I do. I detected a Spanish accent, so that may have complicated my understanding her. She also wasn't eager to make me understand. She told me about a train the next morning only to then say it wasn't taking any more reservations - so no possibilty of us taking it. I asked about another and she showed me that there was one early the next morning: 6:50am. Uggh.

So, we left the ticket counter and found a map of Toulouse with the intention of finding accomadations for the night. While trying to decipher the strange map, a drunk man approached me and breathily asked for money "to get a ticket." (Yeah, right. I'll bet that's what he wanted.) Next, we went across the street to look at the prices of the hotels near to the station (prices are posted outside hotels in France). As we walked a little further from the station, they were cheaper. Of course, we had to wonder if we were in the best part of town, as we passed a sex shop in an alley. We were eyeing one hotel´s prices when an old man approached and spoke to us. He seemed to be miffed about something - perhaps another hotel? - and I asked if he spoke any English so that I could better understand. He said his English was terrible, but that he spoke Castillian, and Catalan. And then it was a contest to see who spoke more languages, only I wasn't playing... If I was to take him at his word, he would win, with Basque and Italian skills thrown into his lingual prowess. Though I tried to speak with him in Spanish (Castillian), his own skills in that were humorously poor. Eventually we (he) gave up talking and we went inside (we had decided silently that any place an elderly man would stay couldn´t be too bad), thus having settled on the Hotel Chartreuse, which was strangely devoid of that arresting color.

We paid the 35 euros for a double room which promised a grand lit (a huge bed). As directed, we walked up to the fourth floor and opened up our assigned room, to find the lights wouldn't work and someone's clothes and luggage were already there! Quickly we walked back down and I explained the situation. The receptionist swore ( Merde!) and we were apologizingly given a new room, this time without the other possessions already present. And the huge bed? A queen - big by European standards.

After sloughing off our packs in the room, we hit the streets again in search of an ATM and some late dinner. All of the days troubles were by now weighing upon us and we were ready to eat and get to bed. I found an ATM and withdrew some money while Mandy was approached by a somewhat drunk woman hoping for money. She seemed quite nice, but strange, and asked Mandy if she spent her days like she spent her money. A strange question... Soon after we wandered on and found a place to eat at a bistro along rue Bayard, with some big salads and quiche. The food was delicious and, to compliment it, I ordered a rosé, which came in a petite bottle. The waitress with protective foil and cork still in place, and left. I turned the bottle about, wondering how to get into it. I suggested that maybe it was standard issue to bring your own corkscrew to a restaurant. Mandy suggested it was a screwtop. And as I sat turning the bottle, studying it, something like a cave man and ready to crack it against a rock like one, the waitress reappeared - with corkscrew in hand - and gave a hearty and friendly laugh at our confusion. We had to laugh, too.

We finished our meal, stuffed full by the generous portions, and returned to our hotel to sleep and make ready for our early morning train. Lying in bed, we watched the end of a CSI episode, dubbed in French (which worked surprisingly well), and we found it a fitting close, the last of the day's absurdities.

And it would have been, if as we turned out the lights and prepared to close our eyes our upstairs neighbors had not determined to grace those below with what seemed like rain but clearly wasn´t, streaming from the balcony and weaving its way down our window - artificial precipitation. And the color was vaguely chartreuse.