Most people treat Bordeaux like a service station for wine. Quick stop, drink something red, back on the road. But give it even half a day and it starts working its charm. I only had twelve hours between trains and by the end I was actively hoping to miss the next one.
The city sits on either side of the Garonne, a wide caramel river that moves with the confidence of somewhere that’s been exporting booze for centuries. One bank is all grand stone buildings and arches that look like they’ve been hand-polished for postcards. The other side is students, street art, trams and vintage shops, with baguettes in one hand and beers in the other.
That mix of old elegance and young chaos is what makes it feel alive. Tourists queuing for pastries. Locals on bikes like they’re running late for the next revolution. Students turning laneways into an epicentre of politics
Sure, the wine is everywhere. You can’t ignore it. But the real action isn’t in the tasting rooms. It’s out on the promenade. Cafés spilling onto cobblestones. Pop-up markets appearing out of nowhere. Church bells going off like hourly reminders to chill out.
I didn’t plan anything. Just wandered. Followed smells. Butter from a bakery. Smoke from a rotisserie. River spray from a passing ferry.
Twelve hours was nowhere near enough. Bordeaux isn’t a sample. It’s a full glass.
