Bordeaux Claveau

I had a miserable time during my placement year in France, but I found the sleepy suburb of Bacalan on the outskirts of Bordaux like a cold towel on a burnt hand.

I'd like to go back there to take some more photos. Maybe if I get enough scratch together from my living nightmare and just fly out, hire a motorcycle, and stay there for a bit.

The tram stops went: Bassins a flot -( New York - Brandebourg - Claveau )
It felt like escape past Bassains a flot. Escaping from the landlord, Vacuous Americans, and all the other shit. The other stops weren't even on the tramway map

There was a gypsy camp nearby so occasionally there would be a minor disturbance like a little pikey wheeling his shitty motorcycle in the middle of the road, for 10 seconds, without any protective gear on.

We passed a group of unemployed Arabs playing pétanque under the motorway bridge. The motorway which cut right through the suburb.

There was a huge isolated lake nearby which the motorway continued over, which we never explored.

Boats covered in tarpaulin lay idle in drive-ways covered by leaves.
The swimming pool was never open

One time we ate at one of the 3 restaurants that Bacalan had to offer. The other two we visited briefly to get a drink, and each was peculiar in its own way.
This one had a series of huge electric Pylons for a garden. The owner was quietly pissed at midday and seemed intrigued by our presence there. He even dared to ask us a few whispered questions, and undercharged me for the meal (I like to think intentionally, rather than through his state of inebriation)
The food was tasteless but it didn't matter as it was the first thing I'd paid for which wasn't grossly inflated in price.
There were 2 locals watching a episode of Inspector Poirot, which ironically was the British series dubbed into French. One of them was happily smoking inside, and after experiencing the bullshit of French bureaucracy for several months; was life affirming to watch.

On the 3 occasions we visited this place, and rode the bus to our destination ("Le Caf" - A shiny Government Building situated on a sleepy country road amongst other anonymous shiny buildings), I used to look and wonder at the bus drivers and what there lives were like, and what went through their minds as they perpetually drove around this suburban cull-de-sac.

On my second trip there I went alone. And on the way back from the shiny building of bureaucracy, through the suburb to the tramstop; I listened to Silver Rocket by Sonic Youth on repeat.

I imagined if I were a famous junky musician or actor, I'd buy one of the wooden houses there and convalesce between tours.