A Walk Through Bourges (pt 1)

Tuesday, August 15:
Today is a holiday in France – the feast of the Assumption of Mary. This being a Tuesday, and August to boot, this is essentially a four-day weekend for most folks. Knowing that shops and museums would be closed, I decided to spend the day walking around town playing the tourist and snapping pictures.

Cue the Mr. Roger’s music – “Care to join me on my walk? C’mon along, kids.”

Before we get started: keep an eye out for the dog poop. It’s everywhere: big, huge steaming land-mines, lurking on almost every block. Apparently, the notion of picking up your dog’s still-warm dung and carrying it home in a plastic bag strikes the French as unappealing, (go figure) and by the look of their droppings, most of the dogs are the size of small horses. Anyway, keep your eyes peeled.

I’ve been surprised by the number of dogs I see around town – although may that’s not it. I’m surprised less by the number of dogs than I am by the fact that folks bring them into stores, restaurants, hotels, etc. When I first arrived, I would do a double-take whenever I saw a pooch lying under a table at a restaurant. No more.

I’ve had a similar reaction to the cigarette smoke. I won’t say there are many more smokers, but they are more prevalent – restaurants have no smoking areas, but most places still reek of smoke: ash trays every where you look in the hotel, clouds billowing out of bars and cafés.

It makes me think we’ve banished dogs and cigarettes from society in the US: walk / smoke ‘em if you’ve got ‘em, but the rest of us don’t want to see it!

I love the name of this place: Speed Rabbit Pizza. I picture a bunch of really skinny, twitchy guys working there, biting their fingernails close and pacing while they wait for the pizzas to come out of the oven:

Guy 1: “C’mon man, let’s open it, I think it’s done.”
Guy 2: “BE COOL man! It’s not done yet!”
Guy 1: “C’mon man, I KNOW it’s done… just let’s open it!”
Guy 2: "Dude, you need to chill..."
Guy 1: "C'mon man, let's just check!!"

Here’s the competition, down the street. Yep: Domino's Pizza. God bless America.

Both places deliver the pizzas in hot-boxes on the back of the scooters you see in the foreground. These little two-stroke contraptions are the bane of my existence – the whine of their engines is everywhere, interrupting your thoughts and conversations. Motor cycles, too. Apparently, mufflers have yet to be introduced over here.

Anyway, for the rest of this tour, you can play along and imagine someone walking by with a leaf-blower or weed-whacker every four or five minutes. That’ll capture the ambience

Here’s a better alternative for pizza: La Scala. Natalie is the head waitress and she’s very nice but not a word of English. There’s another guy who’s very friendly – he may be the manager or something. But look out for the olive-skinned girl with jet-black hair and dark eyes. She is “too cool for school” and definitely can’t be bothered to help you sort through your French – so she just stands there, staring at you impassively, as you fumble through your order. Makes you realize how much we rely on the feedback we get through the facial expressions of others – and she’s not playing.

You can sit out in front of La Scala most nights, but be warned, it shares the square with Domino’s and Speed Rabbit is just down the street. By the end of the salad course, you may find yourself fantasizing about stringing piano wire across the street… right about chest high…

Next stop: Le Palace de Jacques Coeur. I’ll be honest here – I have no clue who this guy was. I think he was a successful merchant in the 1400’s who loaned some money to the king, and then the king decided to throw him in jail instead of paying him back. There may have been woman involved, I’m not sure. Anyway, the guy died five or six hundred years ago and he’s still the biggest thing going in this part of France. Everywhere you go: Le Place de Jacques Coeur; the Rue de Jacques Coeur, la Video Rental de Jacques Coeur.

I’ve never spent any time in Boston, but I bet there’re signs all over town: Paul Revere worked here; Paul Revere lived here; Paul Revere was born here; Paul Revere spilled a glass of wine on a guy here, and the guy was pissed, but got over it when he realized it was Paul Revere. It’s the same thing with Jacques Coeur.

Here's Jaques Couer's house. I'm told that he spent many years building this, but got thrown in jail just as it was being completed... never got to live there.

I was going to go inside, but just before I bought a ticket (7 euros, I think), I could see through one of the windows that they're in the middle of a big re-model, and most of the interior court-yard was wrapped in tarps -- maybe they're sand-blasting.

So, Jaques Couer didn't get to enjoy the place, and nor did I. But at least we can keep walking.

Let's move along, shall we? Mind your step.

This is Pat à Pain – I think that means Hunk ‘o Bread in French. It’s one of the few chain restaurants I’ve seen in France: there are several around Bourges, and I've seen them in other towns too. Unlike most places, Pat à Pain is open on Sundays, and Monday mornings when most French shops are closed. Pat à Pain is a bakery but they also serve sandwiches, coffee and salads. It lacks any sort of authentic French charm-- you might as well be eating in a Burger King -- and they fact that they're open on a holiday like today seems a touch shocking -- a capitalist intrusion on this socialist / agricultural environ.

I recommend the jambon et beurre. Just so we're clear -- that means "ham and butter". Didn't sound so good to me at first, either. But try it. I've always thought the ideal sandwich came stacked high with lots of meat -- thick, two-handed numbers like the kind they serve at the Carnegie Deli in NYC. But this is a different kind of sandwich -- only three or four slices of ham on the entire baguette, and a bit of butter. That's it. And it's ambrosia. I mean: out-of-this-world, never-want-another-kind-of-sandwich, bury-me-with-one-of-these-in-my-casket good. Of course, my old shoe-laces would go down easy on fresh-baked bread, but the ham in France is especially good. Already, I know, this is one of the things I'll miss about France when I get home.