Running Hot and Cold

We are in Libourne, a small wine-producing city a handful of kilometers from Bordeaux. We must have arrived at the exact hour when every school in town lets out because my first impression is that Libourne is a city of teenagers. They were everywhere I turned, vaping and kissing each other on the cheeks and drinking large beers at the “Kfé des Arts,” which was nothing more than an outdoor patio anchored at the end of a small parking lot.

I found something both intimidating and heartening about seeing a bunch of teens slouching around doing teen things. Having very recently been the parent of two teenagers (and, I suppose, having been a teen myself), I felt as though I were witnessing something universal, although it’s kind of hard to put my finger on exactly what. Adolescence looks the same the world over, I suppose. Maybe the teenage years are the human equivalent of caterpillars entering cocoons, but with more pouting.

Pictured: crummy patio in a parking lot. Not pictured: crummy teens.

Libourne reminds Martha and I of Sonoma, CA. Sonoma, as you probably know, is in the Napa Valley, heart of American winemaking. As an agricultural product, wine requires an agricultural workforce. So you get these intersections of monied and poor, high culture and low, natives and immigrants. Right next door to the tabac where the teens were quaffing and cheek-kissing there was a little café selling “specialties of the Kurds.” Apparently, the Kurds specialize in the same things as the Turks, North Africans and various Middle Eastern countries: kabobs and shawarma and merguez sausages but also, for some reason, tacos?

For the record, French tacos seem like a cross between what we would call a burrito and a grilled panini. There is nothing taco-like about them.

Also for the record, we did not eat there.

Food has been kind of a bummer in France. Martha and I agreed today that we haven’t had much luck with the restaurants we’ve sampled so far. Granted, part of the problem is the fact that I’m a vegetarian and the French of Bordeaux and nearby towns have not quite learned to accommodate the non-meat-eaters of the world.

“Do you have a vegetarian option?” Martha asked one waiter.

“We have calamari,” was the response.

Naturally, it’s not on others to deal with my dietary requirements, but the paucity of good options has dampened some of the fun of exploring a new country. So much so that I’m thinking of going back to eating poultry and seafood, at least for the duration of the trip. My favorite meal so far has been a baguette and brie with apple, ingredients purchased from a nearby Carrefour supermarket and consumed in the comfort (?) of our Best Western hotel room.

I’m leading with the fact that it was a Best Western, but leaving out the rest of the hotel’s name: “The Best Western Grand Hotel Francaise”! Gotta be honest, it wasn’t grand, but it was considerably better than one would expect from a Best Western at home. Plus, each afternoon they put out a basket of leftover breakfast croissants for the taking. After I took a chocolate croissant and told her my plan to take one every afternoon, Martha explained that the French don’t eat croissants every day. They’re like donuts to Americans, a treat to be enjoyed now and then. I responded that police eat donuts every day, and we both agreed that I am not really in the habit of emulating the police, so that was the only croissant I ate during our stay in Bordeaux.

When we arrived at Libourne today around dusk, I realized that while Martha had consumed a sandwich earlier in the day, I hadn’t yet eaten. I left Martha at our Airbnb to find something. Reader, when I tell you there is nothing for a man of my refined tastes to eat in Libourne at 5:00 in the afternoon, there is nothing for a man of my refined tastes to eat in Libourne at 5:00 in the afternoon. The only thing I found that looked promising was a pizzeria, which was closed. After walking around in the afternoon chill for about twenty-five minutes, I finally stumbled on a Carrefour, where I purchased a baguette, some brie, and an apple. Magnifique!

Returning to the teenagers for a moment: very few wore jackets. Frankly, it was baffling. I have been cold since November 1^st. Our Savannah manse was built in 1867. It offers almost no protection against drafts, which isn’t a problem for eight or nine months out of the year because, for most of the year, living in Savannah is like living in a washcloth. Once the weather dips much below the 50’s, though, the house holds the outside temperature like a young mother holding her baby in a Pie Made Out of Baby Shoppe: it is not letting go. Consequently, I’ve been freezing for months.

So far, our trip to France has been as much an effort at keeping warm as it has been exploring the country. The hotel was cold, the streets are cold, our Airbnb was cold until we blasted the heaters upon arriving and, hours later, I type this while wearing my hoodie, under covers, socks on feet, my scarf at rest just beside me on the bed.

But these French teenagers, like teens the world over, seem not to even notice the temp. How do they do this? Perhaps their young bodies are so filled with energy they act like dynamos keeping their interior temperatures well-regulated so that their exteriors can concentrate on acting like cray people. Martha told me that when she was a teenager in Minnesota, they did the same, often shirking their coats altogether. In Minnesota! Fools. Knaves. Teens. I hate them all. That is a joke; I am merely envious of their spark.