The fast train from Paris to Bordeaux hurtles south, through farming country disguised as southwest Ohio, a wide swath of France minus its picture postcards. The first-time American visitor, gazing across these unremarkable vistas, wonders if he has been victimized by the Ministry of Culture; where is France?
Then somewhere below Poitiers, the country begins to redeem itself. Bordeaux presents its eighteenth century self elegantly, with almost none of the modern intrusions to which we Americans are accustomed. And so we have arrived. The patron is young and blond, very affable as we navigate the treacherous shoals of language. It was put upon me. I had no idea that the French surfed. There is a place south of here called Hossegor.
It is known for some of the best surfing in the world. The surf is—how do you say in America, sick? The French are very proprietary with their alphabet. It would be the perfect environment, here with these agreeable fellows, their hearty accents marching in and out of the place. But while the salmon salad was good, the menu was limiting. And I would probably have to learn how to surf.
Upon our return to rue de Lurbe, Chris is waiting in the street, ebullient as always, a grand host who, among his other duties, seems to have taken it upon himself to provide splendid visiting places for his friends and acquaintances. He and Lori have lived in Beijing and London, all over the United States, and visited most every place between. For them, home is where the hat is. Their invitation to Bordeaux came exactly a year after my friend Leo Bretholz died at My friend Chris would ground me in modern-day Bordeaux, even as I wandered historically backward.
On my first day, he and I set off to find La Chapon Fin, the restaurant where at the outbreak of World War II deputies of the National Assembly sat debating the merits of the local vintages as the country descended deeper into chaos.
