Toulouse is full of memories for me, but these memories are happy to be shaken up, reviewed and replaced. One warm afternoon, I sat in a cool cavernous Basilique St Sernin, wrapped in the warm glow of a tiny desk lamp as Bernard, a sweet man in his sixties who looks strikingly like my college theory professor, stamped my pilgrim passport. "Voila! Buen Camino" During our long chat, he explained that the french side of the camino is physically easy but as there is not much demand, it is difficult to find places to stay. He recommended taking a train to Bayonne to start from St Jean Pied du Port.."for your first time.." he added. He sent me on my way before sitting back down at his desk piled high with maps and books, to quietly wait hours or days for the next pilgrim.
*******
In France, June 21st is Fete du la Musique, and oh what a party it was! By 8 pm the narrow streets of Toulouse looked as though all the beautiful buildings had thrown up their occupants. Everyone was out; school kids, old lovers, thin smoking men and woman looking like sexy ashtrays, a mom and her small son walking side walk cracks as though on a tight rope..
In the city center, a gypsy violin sang mounfully through the capitol square and at each decrescendo a marching band could be heard a block over. On one corner a jazz singer battled to be heard over an african percussion band and a block down, a brass band won out over house music. Toward the end of the night, I found myself back at the feet of St Sernin, drawn in by a large group playing drums and hand cymbals while singing in Arabic with total abandon. As the music sped and crescendoed, a tall dark man pulled me into the circle to dance, spinning me like a whirling dirvish. "The music," he said, his voice hinting to his Morrocan heritage, "the music means, Come woman, come man...LIVE!"
*****Everytime I have come to Toulouse I have worried that it will be my last and so each time I have devoured sights, scents and tastes. Coming back four years later, I am older (obviously) stronger and supposedly wiser. Yet I worried that Toulouse might not welcome me back to her rosy streets. However, on my first night after stumbling on a jazz(ish) band playing Brittney Spears' Toxic, after being asked out by a shop keeper, after stuffing myself silly on falafel and chocolatines, and after playing ukulele by the river, I stopped worrying. I finished out my first night sitting in the grass strumming chords as the Garonne River passed by and the lights of Pont Neuf gently changed from green to red to purple. I was joined by two musicians with their guitars who insisted on playing "Let It Be." As we played and sang, I finally understood how silly I must sound singing French opera ;)
On my last day in Toulouse, I ventured to Sept Deniers, the neighborhood located a couple kilometers northwest of the city center where I had previously stayed. Paths that had just been laid out and planted when I had left were now fully grown and shaded with green life. I walked slowly next to the river, letting familiarity wash through me. Memories that had merely become photographs came back to life in the form of jasmin and rosemary hedges and beautifully painted houses. I walked lighter as my true pilgrimage destination came into view (Santiago?? Pfft..) This particular Boulangerie was home to the decadent creme catalan that I had lost sleep lusting over many a cold dark night. I happily walked in to see the same lovely skinny shop keeper only to nearly cry as she informed me that the creme catalan was now only an autumn offering. (WHAT??? Son of a....!!!!!)
I compromised on a rich chocolate eclair and sat on a bench to watch planes land and the river flow. I vindictively licked my fingers and chewed with obvious pleasure as sexy french woman jogged by, longingly looking my way. As the world settled into a warm late afternoon glow, I felt waves of nostalgia wash off of me with the flowing of the Garonne. I finished my eclair and called my husband.
Afterall, Sept Deniers was where my past ended in order for my future to begin.
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