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Bordeaux City Lights

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<p><strong>The Grapes of Wrath</strong></p>
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<p>It all started in the scarier hours of the night, when it gets very cold and humid. It was such a long time ago that Jesus wasn’t even born yet. He was actually not to be born for another couple centuries! Dark times, I’m telling you. That night, as the stars were shining over what was soon going to be called Burdigalia by the Romans, the founders of that little port -a Celtic tribe coming from the north of what would one day become France- all gathered around a big fire. The “Bituriges Vivisques”, as historians would one day fondly remember them as, had an ugly business to do. But, hey, there’s no such thing as tin business…</p>
<p>Just kidding!</p>
<h3><strong>Red wine and fine skating</strong></h3>
<p>Got you worried for a sec’, uh!? You envisioned yourself embarked in a five thousand plus words lyrical odyssey about a French town you only know of because it seems to embody the making of fine red wine. Or, even better, you probably have never even heard of it because you are young enough to drink carbonated sodas only, and your parents are crass enough to believe there is no such thing better tasting than beer in tall metal cans… well, I’ll try to save you from the cultural verbiage and go straight to the point: the shredding! Hmm? The schralping! Uh? Ok, the nollie flips…</p>
<blockquote><p>It was pretty common knowledge that the city offered a great plaza.</p>
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