I was born in the sea, forged in the belly of an oyster-- It took centuries. My blood is brine and my bones are made of coral. I have sandpaper for skin and kelp in my hair. When I laugh you hear seagulls; when I cry it is a whale song, and always have an albatross around my neck...
Dijon was beautiful, yes, but it was landlocked. I could feel myself begin to weaken after only a few days. Even from the highest point that I could reach (above), all that could be seen were hills and valleys. The rain smelled like mountains-- earthy and warm. The air was almost stale, as if the entire city were kept behind glass.
The minute I stepped off the bus in Bordeaux, I could feel life surging back into my lungs. Le Garonne, a river two or three times the width of le Seine, runs through the city carrying with it the sea air from France's Atlantic coast. To further accentuate the divide between these two cities, there is a huge Muslim population here, along with a strong Spanish influence...
To wit, Dijon was a museum. Bordeaux is a city.
The Tram crawls around the streets like a caterpillar. People are always moving, shouting and swearing. Car horns are honking, police sirens cut through the evening and there is always the sound of a drill or a saw or some machinery grinding in the background.
It feels like home...as well it should. This will be my home until Sunday...
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