the small-town girl in me made me do it

I took a day trip today and bummed around the medieval town of Saint-Emilion (see previous post). I’ve recently been musing about making such a trip, but finally decided to come at Lindsay’s suggestion that I meet her and group of Californians (veterans from last semester and new arrivals alike). They were going to take a walking tour of the city followed by a wine tasting, and Lindsay insisted that I could join them by slipping in among the fifty or so students unnoticed.

I called Lindsay this morning as soon as I had checked the train times. I would arrive in Saint-Emilion at 2:10 PM. “Perf,” she said, in the California tradition of abbreviation.

I debated at the ticket counter but finally settled on a return ticket leaving Saint-Emilion at 6:04 PM. I would be glad that I hadn’t opted for the tempting 7:40 PM return.

While I was waiting for my train, Lindsay called with some bad news. She wasn’t sure there would be time for them to meet with me because their excursion was more carefully organized than she had anticipated. If it wasn’t too late, maybe I would want to get refund on my tickets?

Not wanting to call it quits, I decided to go anyway. The train ride was only about half an hour and the weather was gorgeous when I stepped onto the platform in Saint-Emilion – sunny and almost too warm for the thin fleece jacket and cotton jersey scarf I was wearing.

I had been forewarned that the train station sits a little ways outside of Saint-Emilion, but as I stepped into the road it occurred to me that I had absolutely no idea in which direction the town lay. From my vantage point, I couldn’t even see it. I followed a gang of cyclists until they disappeared from sight and then, luckily, found street signs that led me into the southernmost tip of the city.

I grabbed a map from the tourism office and then set to exploring. I wandered through the twisted streets, not missing a chance to descend a crooked staircase or to explore nooks and crannies that reeked of medieval secrets. I walked through cloisters near one of Saint-Emilion’s churches and hiked through neat rows of vines at the town’s borders. I visited the only remaining medieval door to the city, of which some of the original wood remains from the fifteenth century. I’ve also been reading The Golden Compass, lent to me by Hannah during my family’s visit, and I frequently stopped to rest on benches throughout the city, basking in the warmth of the sun and falling into the brilliantly crafted story.

I met up with Lindsay and the others for a brief moment between their activities, during which Lindsay apologized profusely and unnecessarily. I wasn’t at all let down; I don’t need to be told that days to myself are to be treasured, but this was an honest reminder.

After saying goodbye to the Californians and trekking a bit more through the decidedly steep alleys, I needed a rest. I entered a small brasserie and ordered a café crème and a gauffre, a very crispy waffle eaten as a snack or dessert but never for breakfast. Hydrated and refueled, I started the two-kilometer walk back to the train station.

Julien was on his way back to his parents’ house for a weekend visit and while I was waiting for my train, he stopped to say a quick bonsoir and to see me off. The sun was setting when I boarded my train, and I slept the whole thirty-six minutes it took me to get home.

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