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The rest day is something almost sacred. For the riders of the Tour de France, it is a chance for a little training ride to stretch the legs, a chance for some to see family, and a chore for the most famous riders in the form of a string of press conferences. For the Tour de France journalist, there are questions to ask (if you can be bothered) and there is laundry to be done. On rest day #2, that was our afternoon: sitting at a humid laundromat on the outskirts of Narbonne, watching underwear tumble around a big drum.
It’s a way to pass the time. Other ways: buying a little bottle of lemonade at a nearby minimart, explaining that I was from Australia to the surprise and delight of the other shoppers, having one of them mime a kangaroo at me, and then sitting on a park bench outside, next to a fenced-off enclosure where people could – and did – let their dogs in to do big shits. It was hot, I was in pants, and I had an article to write that I wasn’t quite sure of how to begin. But I think that I’ve cracked it now: a little bit of rest day gear, a little bit of an explanation about its sanctity, and now to the thrust of the piece.
On rest day #1 we were in Orléans, in an Airbnb on the outskirts of town. Fine place; had a laundry (which our hotel in Narbonne did not), although was lacking in air conditioning or functional internet, which docks a few points. Still, on a rest day sometimes you are chasing something less tangible. Something that transcends mere mod-cons and tips over into offering a little taste of home. This, based on decor alone, is something that I feel our Orléans Airbnb host had an innate instinct for.
After walking up three flights of stairs, two-thirds of them dark and gloomy and with slamming doors echoing off their adjacent corridors, we summited the building next to the overpass. Through a window one floor below, we could see a couple in a state of rumpled undress. Our landlords? Perhaps. At least one of them looked like design might be their passion. Maybe the other one was plugged into an AI, prompting it to design the most Airbnb Airbnb that has ever Airbnb-ed.
I should probably warn you that you’re about to get 45 pictures of motivational messages. At first you will probably think, ah that’s funny. At some point mid-pack you’ll be like, god, the novelty is wearing off fast here. Towards the end it will swing back to being wildly funny again. I don’t put you through this lightly. I want you to understand our lived experience and the steps of mental unravel we went through every moment we were in this apartment. Let’s live, laugh, and love our way through this together.
A fine start. A simple (if misaligned) welcome mat. The door opens and then slams back on a spring-loaded contraption. This leads the ‘Home’ sign to whack forcefully into the back of the slats.House of Happiness: here we are happy every day. The ghosts of vinyl motivational messages past, hanging beneath a little pot of plastic shrub.A second ‘bienvenue’ doormat, separated from the first by about 10 steps.You know what makes a home cosier? A draft-stopper that specifies it is for a cosy home.Geographical coordinates for where the heart is.Something about love and health. Could do without. (Side note: the chair Caley is sitting in is both deeply uncomfortable and in a state of near-constant collapse)Four remote controls for air conditioners, but here’s the kicker: none of them do anything. Nothing is safe from messages, not even the silicone oven mitt.A stirringly erotic triptych of vegetables.Straight out of the ‘rosé all day’/’wine is mommy juice’ school of thinking.Dreadful chopping board. In isolation it would probably be fine, but in the broader context of this apartment’s deranged collection of slogans it’s too colourful, too deeply American, and, in the absence of any cupcakes, too misleading.The thing I want you to understand about the lotion dispenser is that it had soap in it.I admire the optimism but by the third room in this house I was starting to doubt it.Even the bed linen (‘Paradise is my bed!’) wasn’t immune. By some margin my favourite bit of Art in the apartment, mostly because it had fallen off the wall, had shattered glass, the print was rumpled downward, and it said ‘Be the reason someone SMILE today’.The print had faded around this one, but it says ‘You’re my favorite daydream’. Which is a nice, albeit confusing, bit of messaging to give yourself every morning. More fake plants dangling, all fire-hazard-y, next to the meter box. I.e., a succession of strangers who have decided (for reasons unknown) to visit Orléans.The implied threat of the middle postcard is the masterstroke, but at least it makes sense …… unlike this collection of words that has been mindlessly stolen from a violent film and reappropriated for a shitty plaque.This was evocatively hanging over the toilet.A playful twist on ‘Live Laugh Love’.This was about a metre and a half across. Yes, that is too big. Even the candle holders had motivational messages …So wise.We’re not even close to the end, I’m sorry to say.In the main bedroom, the full width of the bed, was this tersely italicised directive.False. It is a framed print.Another twist on the old classics.Some useful design advice. This took up most of a wall. Another enormous piece of laser-cut plywood. This clock – which I think it’s important to understand was absolutely huge – was entirely decorative.“Out of all of the pleasures, it seems to me that the only respectable one is gluttony.”
