Toulouse, and what happened when my eyes were on the train

I bought a train ticket from Toulouse to Albi even before I left Wisconsin. The idea of spending an entire Sunday in a big and closed up for the day city (the French avoid doing commerce on Sundays, unless it's food related) seemed wrong. Albi is one tenth the size of Toulouse and offers gentler rambles. But I left it to my feelings and inclinations on this day to decide whether I would actually take that train ride.

I make the decision over breakfast.

It's a go. It's a super windy day (that's why I actually choose to eat inside), but it promises to be very warm once again.

So, I take a protracted walk through Toulouse to the train station, quite aware of the fact that I just arrived and am now immediately leaving! I'll get back to exploring Toulouse tomorrow, when it's more open for business.

On the way, I do take a detour to the Victor Hugo Market. Open six days a week. And it is fabulous. Meats, sausages, prepared duck confits -- all that Toulouse stuff, but also many stalls with incredible seafood! The French really are nutty (in the best of ways) about food. 

I detour as well to another kind of market -- an antique one. Or perhaps more aptly -- someone's old stuff in the attic, for you to now admire. And then yet a third market -- a mish mash of pet stuff, jewelry, bags, scarves and other nonessentials. (Here's where I find the perfect Toulouse souvenir for myself: a small, imminently wearable,  pink stone bracelet.)

Did I say no one did any commerce on Sundays? 

(No French town I know of lacks a merry-go-round.)

(Cities to the south all have plane trees. Here's a little boy by the canal and by a big tree.)

Okay, finally. The train station.

The train ride to Albi is relatively short: one hour. And the countryside is so pretty!

Initially I had thought I'd stop at Galliac -- it's a wine producing place and no one loves walking the vineyards more than me. I'm glad I didn't. You need to walk a bit from the town to get to the vineyards and I am doing a hell of a lot of walking already. The "stroll" to the Toulouse station alone is more than 30 minutes and then of course there were the markets and importantly, the walks I'm about to take in Abi. So, vineyards, limited to admiring from the train window.

And Albi itself? It's a gem! Once again, like Toulouse, it is the rare French city where the buildings are predominantly made from brick. 

The main sites include a Gothic cathedral (embellished, as they usually are, through the ages) and the Bishops' Palace of Albi (Palais de la Berbie) which currently houses the Toulouse-Lautrec Museum. (For this I also bought a ticket in advance.) Both these building are on a vast square that is regarded as the heart of the city.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born in Albi (in 1864) and the museum is home to about 1000 works, by far the largest collection of his art in the world. Let me get back to it in a minute. First, let me give you a quick peek at the town itself. The historic sections are a UNESCO World Heritage site, so well worth your while!

Along the River Tarn...

It's just stunning! And relatively calm. And I hear only French. Not to say it's not a tourist town -- it is. But the strollers here seem to be French and that of course is very lovely when you are a foreigner and want so much to immerse yourself in their world.

Back to Albi's famous artist now. Whoa, not so fast! The place dedicated to his art is closed for lunch! That means only one thing: I must eat lunch as well. Easy peasy. There are countless eateries in and around the main square. I pick one (Le Hermitage) which is the most packed (a dangerous game I play when in doubt, since others play it too, leading to a domino effect, where one follows the next, and then they are followed by more, and so on). 

Well, this eatery turns out to be magnificent. Luck is with me. (So far.) I order stuff that I would never, ever order back home for lunch and not only because it would not be available say in a Wisconsin cafe. When I am away, I try so very hard to do stuff, to eat stuff that is unusual for me. So, in Albi I order a salad Albigoise.  It has duck confit, it has foie gras, it has gizzards. Well, okay, I ask them to skip the gizzards. I used to eat them when my grandma whacked off a chicken head and boiled everything imaginable for her chicken soup. But, these days I'll pass unless the situation calls for me to clean my plate. 

Here's my beautiful salad, made larger by an effort to please: since I skipped the gizzards, they insisted on loading on more duck confit.

So long as I am going all out, I order their dessert of the day -- a blueberry tart. This is an unfair choice on my part. The many blueberry tarts I had in Morzine last February were fantastic! This one could not compete. 

And indeed, it isn't as good as the others. But if we'd only quit comparing things, always comparing things, always sorting and sifting between the greats and the also rans, we'd come out loving a whole lot more in life. So, I liked this one quite a bit!

And now for the museum. The only one from this trip "down south," as Toulouse's art museum is closed for renovation. 

A word first about the artist.

Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec was born to an aristocratic family. Had he outlived his father, Henri would have had the title of Comte de Toulouse-Lautrec himself. Unfortunately, he lived a mere 36 years. Now his was a troubled life! He had any number of health problems (some of them attributable to a genetic condition passed on among family members. The Toulouse-Lautrecs did a lot of inbreeding between cousins), the most noticeable ones affecting his stunted growth: his torso was adult sized, but his legs stopped growing at a young age. So, a man of five feet, disproportionately developed. 

Perhaps because he felt himself to be a freak, he found solace in brothels and among prostitutes. (Or, here's a thought: maybe he simply liked the community of women he found in those places. This was suggested at the museum today.) He did also drink. A lot. In the end, alcoholism and syphilis killed him. But his artwork, so much of it created out of an affinity to Impressionist artists (he was pals with Van Gogh), has had a substantial following then and now. Oh, not everyone loves his stuff. Why? Well, some claim that the people he painted or sketched were never at their showiest or gaudiest and oftentimes he would leave you with mere contours and outlines of figures. (The Toulouse-Lautrec art you're likely to remember best are his posters, without a great deal of attention given to the subject's face, for example). Some have criticized him for being dispassionate in his style. 

Me, I've always found him interesting, perhaps because he is so... French. Of an era, to be sure. But still, bearing the imprint of his own country's artistic community.

Let's walk through this incredible gallery, housed in the Palais de la Berbie.

Okay, back to Albi walking.

And eventually I make my way to the train station to catch the 15:49 back to Toulouse.

There are a bunch of people at the station and I try to position myself in such a place where I will have the least competition for a seat. So, to the rear of the platform where the end cars will be. Oh, here comes the train!

It's a short one. I hurry forward, to get to the doors. 

I don't know how it happened, to be honest. Perhaps I had my eyes glued to the doors of the passing train. Maybe someone stepped out of my path quickly and I didn't notice. Ed will say -- you're just clumsy! 

I rammed into a metal post -- one of those thick ones that supports the overhang at the station. Head first. Hard!

My immediate thought was -- crap, I'm going to pass out at the station in Albi and it'll be such a bother. But, I did not pass out, so I quickly made my way with the throng of others onto the train. Except that it became painfully obvious to me and to all those others that my head is gushing blood. 

The conductor is on the scene instantly and he almost had me get off to seek emergency assistance, but I told him I was fine so instead he went to get a medical kit. Many wonderful people sprang into action (I have to say, they were all women). Someone told me to press hard with the gauze to stop the bleeding, someone else ushered me to the front of the train where I was given a good seat. And someone else took bandages from the conductor and bandaged me up.

This last person insisted that I see a doctor. You''ll need, how do you say.... (she googles it) -- stitches for sure. The conductor asked if I wanted a medcin (doc) at the station. I shrugged. What do I know. I can't even see my head. 

In the end, he couldn't reach one and I was feeling okay enough to tell him to stop trying. "I'll go to the pharmacy in Toulouse and ask them if it's really necessary."

Good plan. Now try finding a pharmacy on a Sunday afternoon that is open. I mean, I'm sure there is one, but googling for it produced nothing. Not on Sunday afternoon. Around midnight? Yes. But I can't find one now.

So I walk to the hotel, stopping at a grocery store (remember: you can always count on food stores to be open on Sunday) and pick up a whole bunch of bandaids.

Oh! I do also pass a city fragment of the Canal du Midi! 

At the hotel, the lovely people take out antiseptics and bandages and I feel myself to be doing just fine until I call Ed and he tells me that I really should have it stitched and cleaned. "I never have had a wound that long and wide" -- he comments to me after I give him the measurements of mine. If you were here, I could glue it for you. Anything to pull the skin together. 

I give this some thought over a drink in the hotel's garden. This one is called "Tiny" and though the bar person tempted me with describing it as having a splash of champagne, some thyme, sage and lemon juice, I'm nearly certain it also has a dash of vodka. Had I seen a doctor, I'm sure she would have said that that is a very good thing to have at the end of such a day.

Had I seen a doctor... had I seen a doctor... should I see a doctor? 

I go back to the front desk. She tells me -- you know, we had a guest bang her head on our front door. Bled like crazy. We sent her to the hospital to have it checked out. It was a good idea.

How far is the hospital?

A twenty minute walk. Just across the river.

This is how I find myself walking yet again, this time at dusk, and to a neighborhood I never expected to visit.

The hospital is small. I quickly look up EMERGENCY on my phone. Urgance. In my fifty years of solo travel, or any travel actually, I have never had to visit a doctor or go to a hospital while abroad. A dentist once, in Scotland. And with Ed -- the ER room with him, when he was bitten by a wild dog in Cappadoccia, Turkey. Me? Never. 

I enter this one. Dark corridor. Guard at the entrance. he points me to the end of it. Go there, he says. 

Door opens to a waiting room. Two men there, no one else. Are you ahead of me -- I ask. They give a very long explanation which I do not understand, except for the upshot which is no, they are not. There is a tiny "interview room." I go in, a nurse eventually shows up to interview me. And within five minutes I am in an examining room. Down the hallway, a young girl is coughing so violently and so constantly that I have images of Covid flashing in my head. France's Covid came after Italy's, but they, too, were hit very hard especially in the first wave. I hear a nurse shout to someone "Negatif!" Must be about the coughing girl. Must be a Covid test.

Nurse comes in, cleans my head wound. She apologizes for the wait. We change doctors in ten minutes so you have to wait for the new one. 

You are apologizing for a fifteen minute wait in the ER room? Who are you?? When I go to the ER back at home it's a many hour commitment. But here, they probably don't want you to occupy valuable space. The doc comes in shortly after 8.

He examines my head. Asks me where I'm from. The U.S. Which part? Wisconsin. I'm sure you've never been there. We Americans, when we travel in France, we tend to visit coastal towns. On the Mediterranean. On the Atlantic. On the English Channel. You French, you do the same. You go to New York, you go to California. Maybe Florida.

He smiles. It's a rare thing on this very serious face (he is about the age of my daughters). It's true. You Americans go to Nice and Biarritz. I do not tell him I like both Nice and Biarritz. And it's also true, I do not know Wisconsin. You know which cities I love in the US? Washington. And also Atlanta. The people are so friendly there!

Oh man, your criteria are so incredibly sweet!

I ask him if he was working in ER during the height of Covid.

Yes, but I was actually in Madagascar then. The first wave -- they weren't hit so hard. But the second -- it came from South Africa and it was rough.

Heroes. All of them. Total heroes.

He, too cleans my wound, then says -- I'd like to seal it with  biologique stiching. I don't know how you say it in English (he has switched to English now. People here who speak it like to practice it in the same way that I like to practice my French. So often, I ask in French and they answer in English).

I'm fine with that. He does his work then tells me -- I'll write up a report. I'm sure you'll need it for your insurance. We both have a few choice words to say about the insane health care payment system in the US. 

And I leave. I would have hugged him, but I dont think that's appropriate.

The waiting room is now full. I'm glad I'm relinquishing a space. I go to the little interview cubicle and ask if maybe I should pay. They shrug. If we need anything, we'll notify you at your address. I remind them that they don't have my address. Just the hotel. Another shrug. You can go. I leave, paying nothing.

It's nearly 9. The Old Bridge is illuminated. Beautifully.

Dinner, at Patio de la Table Ronde. I should have skipped it. Three big meals a day is a lot for me, even if I have broken all records today in the amount of walking I have done. Still, to pass up a dinner in Toulouse? I can't do it. But I did cancel my reservation at a far away place and the hotel staff came up with something good, but very very close by. Le Patio, at three minutes by foot, checks that important box. I'm warned it's very simple, but very Toulousian. 

I take the three course menu at some low 30s price, all inclusive. Eggs, soft, with pieces of foie gras. Fish from today's market (this is how the menu describes it), which to me is an irresistibly persuasive selling point. It comes with dark rice, probably from the Camargue and cabbage. I did not think I'd leave Toulouse without eating cabbage. And dessert? A huge concoction of cream, meringue, red fruits and ginger. 

All three:

I walk home with a throbbing head, a full stomach and a sense of wonder at our world. People, taking care of each other. And all searching for the same: genuine and sincere friendliness. Just that. It's what makes for a good day and so by that yardstick (and really, by all others) I had a tremendously good day!

But I need to sleep. No longer worried that I'll bleed up the bed linens, I plop down on the big bed, finish up this post and close my eyes.

Good night!