The beach in Roquebrun, L'Orb river.

We had a busy busy week last week. Always on the go it seemed. That’s not typically my M.O., but Tim and I had “a moment” after which it was agreed that if I was more proactively involved and willing to plan some daytrips, he would stop being a pain in the ass when I claim some reflective/creative/puttering time…and he would help out with the housework. This move abroad has chiseled into sharp relief a few of the ways in which he and I are very different: he has a list of the things we haven’t done, while I have a list of what we have done; he frets about what we’re missing out on, while I fret about not appreciating the experiences of the hear and now. So, no surprise that now and again there’s a raucous flare up. But, I think we managed to negotiate a good package for ourselves, harmony has been restored, and we’re both feeling like our essential needs are getting a fair shake. As much as our move to France has shoved some of the stress points of our relationship to the surface, it’s also forced us to deal with them. That’s a good thing. That’s another addition to the Bright Side list.

Gorge d'Heric

Well, I launched my end of the deal last Monday by proposing a hike at the Gorges d’Heric. It’s near Mons le Travail and only about 25 minutes from us, and a pretty drive through the more mountainy areas of Vieussan and Tarrasac. We’d been there once before but only for a little picnic at the bottom of the gorge. This time we walked the path through the gorge for over two hours, much of it up hill. It’s really beautiful. It wasn’t too hot, and the air was fresh. The river that runs through has lots of little pools, many of which are deep enough to swim and have this lovely mineral green hue. We’ve decided to go back there this week for a hike and a picnic and a swim.

Swimming hole at the Gorges d'Heric

Yum!

Tuesday I joined the female half of magnificent couple (more Bright Side) we’ve just recently become friends with for a mini-drive to Oulibo in Cruzy. It’s an olive mill where you can buy all sorts of mouthwatering or beautifying olive oil based products. Until I tried some of the olives called Lucques at Oulibo, I counted myself as one of the few people on the planet who don’t salivate over olives. But those Lucques changed me. Now I’m one of the droolers, and there’s a freshly opened 700g jar of Lucques in the fridge to prove it. I also snagged a bar of savon de Marseille and a bottle of chevrefeuille scented gel douche. I could have bought the whole store out, but the realities of my checking account put a stop to that nonsense.

Tuesday evening we went to hear a jazz concert held in the caveau de moulin, which is the cellar of the mill. We’ve become friendly with the bass player and his wife, so we get bits of gossip about this and that – a bonus. The guys in this jazz group live in Roquebrun or nearby villages, and they play concerts now and again, especially in the summer, and when they’re not at odds. They’re really quite good. A little three year old boy sitting near me was in heaven, rocking out to the music until he fell konked out. I’m sure “rocking out” isn’t the right term to use for jazz, but that’s the best I can describe it. At any rate, it was great fun to watch.

Then on Wednesday we met friends of a friend in Narbonne for lunch, stopping at a Roman ruin site near Colombieres. That evening we walked up to the church in Roquebrun to hear another concert, a flamenco guitarist this time. I love classical guitar, and this was my first opportunity to get a peek at the church whose bells I’ve been listening to since April. Normally it’s locked up except for Wednesdays when there’s a mass held at 6:30 PM.

On Thursday we did a vigneron “balade” in Berlou, which turned out to be an all-day event that is worthy of a post all on it’s own. Which is exactly what I’m planning to do…tomorrow. Then after a quick dip in the river, we had dinner with that magnificent couple. They returned to their home in London this past weekend – bummer. They’re some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met.

Friday was a tough day for Rufus. He had his first toilettage (grooming) in many months. While he was undergoing his torment, Tim and I drove to Serignan plage, a little beach on the Mediterranean. We’d been there once before, and really liked it. It’s easy to get to. It’s not overrun by tourists. There are a couple of places right on the beach where we can grab lunch. Ding, ding, ding – we have a winner! Tim was the first to get into the water. I stuck a foot in and couldn’t believe how chilly it was. After all, it’s July, it’s the Mediterranean, and I had this notion that the Med was warm water at least in summer. Not so. It was tres, tres chilly, chillier than the river water that I don’t splash around in unless it’s tres, tres hot outside. But, I was determined to have a dip in the Mediterranean anyway…because. So, I tried to bake a bit on the beach and work up the kind of sweat where you’ll think you’ll seriously pass out unless you get into some cool water. Couldn’t do it. The breeze was BRISK. After an hour of unsuccessful baking I sucked it up and went in for a dip…because. I walked into the water, got my hair wet, feared I’d get hypothermia, and walked right on out of that water. Hell, a 30-second swim is more than zero.

One of our Rufus-perched-on-a-wall photos. There are many.

Rufus, by the way, received rave reviews from his groomer (il est tres gentile!), and he emerged from his ordeal looking cute, cute, cute. He also looks like an entirely different dog as the before and after pictures will show. Who knew he had such big ears! When we got home he tore around the house looking for some way – any way – to destroy his fresh clean dog smell.

Rufus, post-toilettage

We didn’t take him down by the river for his walk as per usual, because I know this dog and know the first thing he’d do is search for some duck poo to roll in. And that was not going to happen, because I wanted a little mileage out of his 32 euro grooming, and at least 24 hours of fresh clean dog. On Saturday he sniffed out some duck poo, but Tim managed to thwart the plot to undo the freshening and cleaning.

Also as mentioned previously, the Roquebrun feria was on from Friday night through Sunday. Each night a cover band blasted a bizzare mix of disco and pop, getting on stage at 11 PM and not getting off the stage for even a pee break until 2 AM. I know this because I would be drifting to sleep at 11 PM when I was jolted awake until 2 AM. Each night, three nights in a row.

A part of me says I should have just dealt with it, put on my best Birkenstock knock-offs, and traipsed down to the esplanade to join the crowd. But the other part of me that’s woken around 7:30 every morning by the neighbor’s chickens and has never really been able to develop a napping routine, has something else to say about the matter. Nonetheless, the feria is over. So tonight I won’t have to fend off the blazing awful thump of “Disco Inferno” and can get my zzzzz’s.

Matadors-in-training, Roquebrun Feria, 2008

Running of the horses across the bridge, Roquebrun feria, 2008

I don’t have many pictures of the feria, but Tim took some good shots of the running of the horses and the matadors-in-training doing their swishing. He also took a couple of the cows roasting on a spit in the esplanade, but they didn’t turn out as well as he’d hoped. We didn’t partake of said cows, because we were due to have dinner with the jazz bassist and his wife that night. Later on Tim couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of Disco Inferno, so he and Rufus waddled down to the esplanade. Having been denied a frolic in duck droppings earlier in the day, he found another form of consolation. Apparently Ru scrounged up a hunk of roasted cow and had himself a lip-smacking little feast.

So far, the fêtes are always memorable for one reason or another. The one we went to last night in Cessenon is a perfect example. Yesterday was Bastille Day, and every Bastille Day there’s a big fireworks display in Cessenon. So we went there to make up for the July 4th hoopla we missed out on. It was a good fireworks show, but not nearly as spectacular as the music and dance performances that went down on the esplanade thereafter. Such a small stage, so many interesting juxtapositions…and costume changes…at least 10 before I stopped counting.

I think the best way to describe the post-fireworks entertainment was a sexed-up Lawrence Welk extravaganza. Absolutely riveting. The set had some numbers that sounded like traditional French music, and it had Joe Cocker’s “You Can Leave Your Hat On”. There was an accordion player in a baggy suit, and a sax player in a red silk shirt. The dancers twirled in the usual sequins and chiffon, but they also bent over to flash their thongs.

I don’t see how I could ever forget this show. If I lose my marbles or get Alzheimers, maybe then. Otherwise, it’s just not possible. I say this with respect and genuine appreciation. And humility as I review the gallergy of sad little photos I have to choose from that don’t really do justice to this event. We stuck with the “night” setting when we should have switched to the “action” setting. Most of the pictures we took are a blurry mess. It’s such a bummer.

Before we moved to France my dear friend, Kyle, gave me a book called My Life in France by Julia Child. I’ve been saving this book for a special time, and I decided that the trip to Spain and Biarritz was special enough that it was coming with me on the journey.

I loved the book, and it’s helping me smooth the little bouts with the blues and an edgy restlessness that I’ve been bumping up against since we’ve returned from our travels along the Côte Basque. When I get restless like this it’s a sign I’m focusing on the negatives of our current situation (the remoteness, the flies, the dust, the far away friends, the differences in certain everyday matters, etc.) and not the positives (the scenery, tthe opportunities, the pace, etc.) Which is not to say that the negatives should be ignored, that there isn’t useful information threading through them. But, the fact is that we can’t just up and move at the moment. That’s the real deal. So, I need to retune, the positives of our situation deserve a fair shake, and the restlessness needs to take a rest.

The biggest adjustment dogging me, though, is to village life. Village life isn’t easy when you’re used to the relative anonymity of an urban neighborhood. In Atlanta if I woke up in a little funk, I could take a walk with my head down, just think, and walk, and not fret about remembering to greet everyone I pass. Not so in a teeny village. Especially if you’re a newcomer, and a foreigner. Inside your house your privacy is sacred. People will pop-over without warning only if it’s really, really necessary and never on a frivolous whim. Once you step outside your front door, it’s different. You’ve entered the public domain where certain courtesies are expected irrespective of the mood you’re in that day. I understand this. I don’t even disagree with it. I’m struggling, though, to curb the habits of “what was then” and adopt the habits of “what is now”. Just saying….

How does Julia Child fit into all of this? When she was a blushing bride of 36 or 37, Julia’s husband – who worked for the American foreign service – was transferred to Paris. He loved France. She fell in love with France, too, learned the language, met all kinds of fascinating and somewhat infamous people many of whom became good friends (Alice B. Toklas showed up at one of her dinner parties), became an expert in the detailed and precise art of French cuisine, enjoyed an amazing career as a television personality, lived to be 92. But those aren’t even the bits I find most inspiring. It’s her big, wide-open, blue skies attitude and her ability to make the best of her situation without being fake or stupid about it.

Being a foreign service spouse wasn’t always easy. For many years they had to contend with the ever-present presence of impermanence. (The children of people in the armed services know all too well what that’s like.) And although she and her husband adored France to their very core, for many years they had to live elsewhere. But Julia tried to make the most of wherever she was living, be it the States or Germany or Norway or France. Even if the lifestyle or the culture didn’t float her boat, she found things to like about it. Maybe it was the way the butchers cut the meats or some item she could always find in the markets. She had a talent for peeling back her discontent to find her capacity to appreciate. Because she was able to find the bright side, there was much brightness in her life.

If Julia and I were to stand side by side, we’d be an incongruous duo, her 6’2″ frame towering over my 5’2″, her passion for the precision and protocols of French cuisine vs. my casual yen to bake a no-crust quiche from a recipe clipped out of Real Simple. Despite the obvious mismatches, I’m claiming her as a role model. From her, I can take some good cues.

So much so that I’m going to get carried away and give myself a posting challenge. I’m going to post ten things I like about where we are. Before Tuesday. Before cocktail hour that day, because it’s better to do this little exercise in the crystal clear light of complete sobriety and not because our favorite apéritif has an alcohol content of 17%. Which makes it dangerous. And delicious.

A friend of ours has an apartment in Toulouse he’s renting out to holiday goers, but when not rented it’s at our disposal. So, we took advantage of this perk to rest our travel weary heads in Toulouse for a night before returning to Roquebrun.

Rest? It’s good to daydream.

It’s summer. It’s hot. It was, in fact, about 95 degrees when we reached Toulouse in the late afternoon. The building doesn’t have A/C, so that means the windows have to be left open even after the lights go off. But the lights never really go off, because there’s a street light right outside.

While the apartment is not on a main street, it’s an active street. The neighbor in the apartment below us enjoyed one hell of an orgasm around 12 AM. Scooters whizzied down the street, horns a-tooting, at about 3 AM. Cab drivers returned home after their night shift around 5 AM, West African music blaring and cracking jokes with one another. The little lad who lives across the way pitched a hissy fit when his maman left for work around 8 AM. This tiny tot with his tiny tot lungs was so loud, that Tim – even with a pillow bunched around his ears – wearily asked, “Who’s murdering the children?” And yeah, I thought about it.

Home, did I say home? I did. That was the lingering impression of Biarritz, an area where we could make ourselves a home in France. But, we’re not ready to commit any new location just yet. More exploring to do.

Anyhoo, we took the slow road up the coastal mountains from Bilbao with the intention of reach San Sebastian by the end of the day. I think we stopped in just about every village we passed through and most of them were worth at least a little looksee.

Guernika, Spain

A way-lay in Guernika was a must, because we wanted to see the replica of the infamous Picasso painting. The replica – a mural – was rather anti-climatic, I must say, as was the Henri Moore sculpture in the park. Worse, the sculpture was covered in graffiti. They’re fierce with the graffiti in Spain.

Market day in Guernika

But Guernika was a stand out, nonetheless. For me, anyway. The people were a hoot, the place was so vibrant and alive. They seemed a bit more used to tourists, so we weren’t stared at dourly. People here had their own lives to live, chitty-chats to carry on, things to do. Therefore, unlike in Bilbao, staring was unnecessary. Ray Charles would be able to see that this was a welcome change. This was the Spain of my imagination. Plus, it was the big market day, and the market area was hopping. Shouting, singing, jesting, gossiping, and furious purchasing — it was this wonderful mayhem. I wandered into a quiet handbag shop, had a lovely conversation with the husband and wife owners who had toured the US thirty-five years before. I ended up buying three bags. I needed a new everyday/sensible/waterproof bag, and a bag I could take as a carry-on when we fly Ryan Air. The tote was all of 15 euro and the other purse less than 30. I splurged on a beautiful cream colored leather purse — the couple was so nice, the conversation was so nice, the purse was so nice….

After enjoying Guernika for a couple hours we got back in the car and stopped next for lunch in Leteikio which is pretty little port town with a rather grand cathedral. We lucked out in snagging the last two outdoor seats at the cafe, and prepared ourselves for the three-course menu plus bottle of wine and coffee. We had no idea what we were ordering; we’re not even sure if the menu was printed in Basque or Spanish, but no matter we eenie meenied minied ourselves into some choices. I ended up with chicken. Tim with squid stuffed with squid and in an ink sauce. Let me just say that although said squid was aesthetically scary, that dish was lick-the-plate good. Next time I spy ink sauce on a menu, it’s mine.

Squid stuffed with squid in ink sauce - yum!

Now, we weren’t planning to polish a bottle of wine at lunch, but the wine and beautiful weather and nice cafe got the better of us. So after lunch, we needed to walk around the harbor a bit and get the blood pumping. Our only other option was to find a bench in the shade and nap it off. With San Sebastian on our minds, we chose exercise and ended up encountering two marvels: 1) a very American-looking American woman with her three ancient dogs who had recently relocated with her partner from Washington DC (we had a nice chat with her), and 2) seeing a giant flag of Che Guevara planted in the medieval cemetery. That’s when I started noticing that Che Guevara’s face shows up a lot throughout the Basque country. I don’t know why, but I’m sure there’s a connection be it historical or sentimental.

Big Honking Che Guevara flag, Leitikia

The coastline in this part of Spain is absolutely gorgeous. Dramatic, mountainous, lush. Many of the villages along it, though, aren’t so lush. Rather than cute little cottages, there are high-rise apartment blocks. The result is that the beaches might be lovely, the surrounding scenery even lovelier, but the villages themselves don’t have a lot of character. Of course, there are exceptions.

By the time we reached San Sebastian it was later than we would have liked, so we decided to do just a quick drive through the city. It’s divine, San Sebastian. Elegant, bustling chaos. Fresh ocean breezes. Can’t wait to go there for a long weekend, which is something we’ll probably do in September or October.

The plan thereafter was to spend the night in Biarritz (the Hotel Mirano already had our previous room ready and waiting for us), spend the next day wending our way to Toulouse with Bayonne and Pau being our principle diversionary stops, and then rest up in Toulouse for a night before heading home the following day.

I was so glad to be back in Biarritz, but I don’t want to wax on about it. It makes my heart pang.

More pix from Spain below.

Not so little pink house on the harbor in Leteikio

Yes, they're biodegrable but puleeze no fish bones in the recyle bin. Gracias!

The "other" Guernika in "the" Guernika.