Toulouse And Back

Friday, July 31, 2015

     If I lived in Toulouse, I would weigh much more than I do.

     I decided to go to Toulouse in search of a tube to put posters in, deeming it much more likely that I would find what I was looking for in a big city than in sleepy old Carcassonne.  Not that I didn't try to find what I needed in Carcassonne: yesterday I called the best known artists' supply store in the town and was put through to a man who told me I wanted a portfolio to lie documents flat in.

     I am not patient by nature, but it does not seem logical to me to work in an art supply store and not know about poster tubes.  However, that's Carcassonne for you: everyone seems to be just a little behind the times.  So I decided I would drive to Toulouse, 90 minutes away.

     The drive is now easy for me, as I've ferried friends back and forth from the airport and last year I visited the museums and had lunch in St. Cyprien, Toulouse's Greenwich Village.

      The GPS led me to Place Esquirol, where Midica, Toulouse's home furnishings store, is located.  Midica has an art supply department in the store which got good reviews on the Internet, so I thought I would stop there first, then go down the list of six art supply stores I found for the city.  I parked in the underground parking lot, circling down to the level five stories below, found parking quickly and exited.

     Midica not only had poster tubes, but it had a plastic carrier for posters, complete with carry strap. My errand completed, I walked back to the parking to leave the package there, and then decided to have lunch.

     Last time I was in Toulouse I looked for a place to eat on a French website called Le Fooding.  I have found the site a boon when visiting anywhere in France and searching for a good meal.  Le Fooding led me to Les Temps des Vendanges, where I had a memorable meal, full of the flavors of fresh herbs.  So it was there I wanted to go --but I did not have the address, and I do not own an IPhone or other hand-held device.  However, I remembered it was over a bridge not far from a used bookstore across from the Foundation Bemberg, a short walk from the Place Esquirol.

     Reader, I found the restaurant.  It was just after noon and they were serving.  I had a salad of green beans in vinaigrette topped with two small triangles of phyllo dough stuffed with cheese, garnished with bits of hard boiled egg.  The main course was lamb from the Aveyron, a mountainous department north of Toulouse, served with sides of grilled tomato and ratatouille.  I had a glass of rose from the Rhone, dry and solid.  The cost of lunch?  23 Euros and 50 centimes, about $26 USD.

     There are many good restaurants in Toulouse; in comparison, the food in Caunes is a notch below, although there are some very good restaurants if you are willing to drive about 45 minutes to an hour: l'Asphodel in Oupia, and La Table des Troubadours at the abbey of Fonfroide.  However, I rarely do that, so temptation is well out of my path.  If I lived in Toulouse --a modern, clean city with the dynamism of a great city-- temptation would be everywhere.

     I decided to return home after lunch to do some preparations for my trip to Prades next week and walked back the way I came.  On the way, I found a cageot, a wooden crate filled with old books.  They included a French-Spanish/Spanish-French dictionary and a dark green leather-bound set of Paris/Match, the leather elaborately gold embossed.  There was also a compilation of the best of 100 years of Le Monde, a book about Bordeaux chateaux, another about red wine in general, a children's novel in an expensive binding, and assorted guides to Mont Saint-Michel and Catalonia.  Leaving behind a few books I had no interest in, I carried the entire box to my car.  The temptation of visiting the past through the magazines was too great.  When I'm done, I'll give them to a friend from Caunes who sells used books.  Finding the box of books was a sort of lagniappe, an unexpected gift from Toulouse.  I returned home happy from my brief excursion.

     It's a little after seven in the evening now and it's raining outside, a steady, cool rain.  I can't feel unhappy about the cooler temperatures, after the two heat waves earlier this summer.  And to my mind, the rain is a harbinger of the change of seasons to come in a few weeks and the welcome resumption of activity.  In the minds of most of the French, however, a day like today, coming as it does on a Friday that is the last day of the month of July, only underscores the sad fact that there is exactly and only one month left to summer.  Bright and early September 1, the rentree --the return to classes and the end of the long vacation most French give themselves-- commences.