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Mind the Dog Shit

Bordeaux |

Relaxing weekend in Bordeaux visiting Lowri (of Contiki ’04 notoriety). Friday night flight to Bergerac. I believe they bought the airport arrival hall from IKEA. Basic. The use of more than one word to describe the airport would be a gross overuse of adjectives.

There was a huge welcome crowd, unfortunately not for me. It seems half of England has a home in the region and were here to meet their relatives for a spell in the sun, hooked up intravenously to the local wine. The English do not do sun well. On my flight home there were more pink faces than after a Weight Watchers instructor advises the class it was a day off and the Burger King down the road was only open for 10 more minutes.

I came to regret having no English relatives to pick me up at the airport, as there was no public transport and one taxi amongst 4 different groups waiting.

Managed to get into Bergerac and met Lowri and Delphine (frenchie) at the local English pub. I love experiencing different cultures. In reality it was the only bar open past about 11pm in what is potentially the town with the lowest people-to-buildings ratio in the western world.

Bit of rain Saturday, which I was told was the first rain in quite some time. Probably wouldn’t have felt so bad if I was told it rained every day.

Nonetheless Bergerac was very pretty, with some cool markets, but was ridiculously quiet.

Took the train to Bordeaux, which was really nice even in the rain. Some cool buildings, cathedrals, and squares, although the shear volume of dog shit was mind boggling. I saw a few dogs, but not the number to justify the amount of shitting that must take place. These dogs must be constantly shitting, like a conveyor belt of faecal production, although I am suspicious of the French. They are a very shifty nation. I’ve never trusted anyone who wears a hat lop-sided and carries a large phallic bread. Wear your hats straight and your loaves girthy I say.

Which brings me nicely onto stereotypes - by crikey every single one of them about the French is correct. It was like stepping into the cafe on ‘Allo, ‘Allo, minus the homosexual germans and idiotic English. Ok, only minus the homosexual germans.

Just to ensure I had a real taste of France, We headed off to an Irish pub to watch the rugby. An Irish pub packed with Frenchmen. A Stilton filled potato.

If there is one thing the French do well it is food. Dinner Sat night with a group of French and ex-pat English/Welsh. Frog’s Legs taste almost exactly like chicken (I was a little surprised it didn’t smell like fish). Although it could be that French shiftiness again pulling the old switch-a-roo and giving me baby chicken legs. Duck was awesome, and profiteroles nothing worth beating a Frenchman over.

Weather on Sunday was fantastic, and Bordeaux looked even better. Lo showed me the sites (top marks for hospitality all weekend – I owe you big time), my eyes constantly flitting between the view and the pavement. Pretty chilled weekend, which makes a change from the usual alcohol-filled European breaks with the lads.

Locations Visited: Bergerac, Bordeaux

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