There's no place like home.
Waze, the satnav app, guided me safely to the hire car depot where I returned the Flying Pistachio and waited with bated breath while the man checked it over. I hadn't consciously hit anything or been hit by anything, but you never really know. "It's fine", he said, and I danced and sang.
The Flying Pistachio was a Fiat 500 in very pale green. It was actually quite practical for one person, and would have done for two. Four would have been too cosy by far. It's worst fault was the sheer number of Fiat 500s on British roads now. I had one nasty experience in a BIG car park where I just couldn't pick it out from all the myriad other Fiat 500s. My dodgy colour vision didn't help. I had to carefully retrace my route into the car park in my mind to be able to find the car.
I had an agreeable flight, aided by my long-legs seat, extra bag allowance and speedyherding. Bags stowed, I caught up on some sleep. Too many late nights.
At the airport one of the Bordeaux public transport apps suggested I take the usual buses. "But they're on strike!" The other suggested I phone for an Uber car or walk. So I did the default long route. Bus 1 into town, bus 4 out.
I was sat next to two large bearded fellows wearing the green. After a short period of self-doubt where I wondered if we'd understand anything each other said, I asked the nearest one if they were through yet. His accent wasn't too strong. We chatted about Bordeaux (they love it), the Irish fans (just one big party) and the French police (very helpful, they're great). You know, I could get into football. Especially if I didn't have to watch the matches. This tournament has really brought something special to Bordeaux, I think.
"We've had a good time."
"I know. I've seen the videos. (he laughed) Were you under the bridge?"
"No!", he said, laughing more.
When I got home Catrin was out with mates, Pat was swinging in the hammock on the patio, the sun was shining and the world looked happy and cheerful. And it was Fête de la Musique.
After low-carb dinner I changed into my new African shirt (thanks Gwilym) and we wandered into Pessac Centre for a couple of hours.
We heard:
some rappers
a fife band
a music school orchestra
a local choir singing songs from all over the world
a recorder ensemble ( they were very good)
a gospel choir singing the Hallelujah chorus (we left on the first "for the Lord God omnipotent)
a choir singing settings of Shakespeare, including one by "the English composer", William Mathias (gasp)
and the stars of the evening, Madison Street Family, a funk band not unlike Maceo Parker, featuring Elodie, the vocalist and my friend Cyril on trumpet.
After a couple of numbers by Madison we wended our weary way homeward, thankful and tired.
The Flying Pistachio was a Fiat 500 in very pale green. It was actually quite practical for one person, and would have done for two. Four would have been too cosy by far. It's worst fault was the sheer number of Fiat 500s on British roads now. I had one nasty experience in a BIG car park where I just couldn't pick it out from all the myriad other Fiat 500s. My dodgy colour vision didn't help. I had to carefully retrace my route into the car park in my mind to be able to find the car.
I had an agreeable flight, aided by my long-legs seat, extra bag allowance and speedyherding. Bags stowed, I caught up on some sleep. Too many late nights.
At the airport one of the Bordeaux public transport apps suggested I take the usual buses. "But they're on strike!" The other suggested I phone for an Uber car or walk. So I did the default long route. Bus 1 into town, bus 4 out.
I was sat next to two large bearded fellows wearing the green. After a short period of self-doubt where I wondered if we'd understand anything each other said, I asked the nearest one if they were through yet. His accent wasn't too strong. We chatted about Bordeaux (they love it), the Irish fans (just one big party) and the French police (very helpful, they're great). You know, I could get into football. Especially if I didn't have to watch the matches. This tournament has really brought something special to Bordeaux, I think.
"We've had a good time."
"I know. I've seen the videos. (he laughed) Were you under the bridge?"
"No!", he said, laughing more.
When I got home Catrin was out with mates, Pat was swinging in the hammock on the patio, the sun was shining and the world looked happy and cheerful. And it was Fête de la Musique.
After low-carb dinner I changed into my new African shirt (thanks Gwilym) and we wandered into Pessac Centre for a couple of hours.
We heard:
some rappers
a fife band
a music school orchestra
a local choir singing songs from all over the world
a recorder ensemble ( they were very good)
a gospel choir singing the Hallelujah chorus (we left on the first "for the Lord God omnipotent)
a choir singing settings of Shakespeare, including one by "the English composer", William Mathias (gasp)
and the stars of the evening, Madison Street Family, a funk band not unlike Maceo Parker, featuring Elodie, the vocalist and my friend Cyril on trumpet.
After a couple of numbers by Madison we wended our weary way homeward, thankful and tired.
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