I watched the sun slowly fall into the ocean, her long orange reflection on the silvery blue water pulling back until there was no more orange disc, only a horizon of pinks, purples, and deep blues scattered like toffs of cotton candy over the darkening orange sky.
Every evening was similar in Saint Jean de Luz, a small fishing village in the southwest of France, ten miles from the Spanish border. We had come on vacation for two weeks and been given perfect weather. It was the beginning of July. School vacations had not yet started in France so, though the boardwalk and beaches had plenty of people, it was still easy to navigate one’s way from one end of the boardwalk to the other. The dense crowds would arrive starting Quattorze Juillet.
To some, Saint Jean de Luz is a resort beach town not just a fishing village. The Pyrénées is a majestic blue-grey backdrop that is a constant reminder of the geography between France and Spain. Sea walls have been built at the mouth of the Baie of Saint Jean to protect the town from the devastating floods that have wiped out the entire place several times. The Baie is a large U with one tip being the Chapel of Saint Barb situated on a cliff that is the beginning of the twenty-five-mile trail that goes north in the direction of Biarritz. The other tip is the small town of Socoa with its ancient fort and the route that takes one to Hendaye and then into Spain. The bottom of the U is La Pergola, a casino and boardwalk, built in the 1920s. Behind the boardwalk is the central village with its many boutiques, and the Port of Saint Jean where the fisherman board boats to fish for tuna, trout, and mackerel at one or two o’clock every morning, returning around 4 am with fresh fish for me to buy at Les Halles, the covered market in the center of the Port Area.
Every morning, my friend, Fatiha, and I, either together or separately, walked from our rented apartment, up to the Sentier (the cliff trail), turned left toward Saint Barb, and then were greeted by the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. For an American, raised with the certainty that the Atlantic ocean was and always would be the East Coast, each time I saw the ocean, I would shake my head to remember that this is the same Atlantic Ocean, the same body of water, that washes up on Massachusetts and New York. We’d follow a new path, with the ocean on our right, and the beaches below us, that made its way down the pristine grass of Saint Barb until we found ourselves on the far end of the promenade. We’d head towards La Pergola, watching the beach boys setting up the little “rooms” that people could rent to get out of the sun and rest in a lounge chair. At La Pergola, we’d turn right and wander the boardwalk full of touristy attractions, selling striped marine T-shirts, linen dresses and pants, and espadrilles, the shoes that the farmers wear daily whether in the field or climbing in the Pyrenees. We’d eventually reach the end of the beach and the end of the boardwalk, walk down some stairs, and turning backward, walk past the Port harbor with her colorful boats. We’d arrive at Les Halles.
Tuesdays and Saturdays (and Sundays during July and August) an outdoor marché surrounds Les Halles on all sides. There is an abundance of fruit and vegetables. Cheese made from goat’s milk is sold everywhere and to get cow’s milk cheese, one has to go inside the covered market. Each morning, we left with fresh fish for our dinner and an accompanying veggie to cook, and all our salad makings.
Then we’d make our way to rue Gambetta, the pedestrian street that goes south to north and has boutiques on each side as far as one can see. Another favorite for the tourist, me! is the colorful linens in the stripes of Pays Basque colors. Table cloths, napkins, washcloths, towels, cooking gloves, place settings, and bed linens. It’s a plethora of greens and reds and cream colors. I found it all so beautiful, I wanted to take everything home with me.
At the end of Gambetta, we found ourselves at the intersection with Boulevard Thiers. We would normally turn left there to head home. However, if we walked straight, crossing Thiers, we’d come to Monoprix and Carrefour. Carrefour has everything you can’t get at the Marché. And the Monoprix?…. Well, it happened to be the summer sales in France and Monoprix has some of the best clothes at the best prices, especially during the sales. It was irresistible not to go in there every couple of days and see what new things had been put on sale. I had to purchase a new over-the-shoulder bag to get all my purchases home to Paris!
Fatiha and I did this walk two or three times a day. For Fatiha, it included an afternoon at the beach, pulling out her blanket made of straw, a cloth to go on top, her earphones, and music on her iphone. I usually joined her for an hour or two. When the tide was out, we would splash around in the saltwater, swimming out towards the seawalls but always able to put our feet on the bottom. I spent my afternoons on schoolwork in the apartment. In the evening, I loved to walk down to the port where there was music from 9:30pm to 11:30pm in the large Rotonda. Everyone came out. Kids bought bags of confetti, threw it up in the air, and danced. They threw it on strangers’ heads who usually laughed. Couples danced old 50s swing to the music. Every night was something different. My favorite evening was a group playing Bob Dylan songs. I felt as if I was 25 years old and danced as I would have at a concert long ago. It all came back so easily. I thanked the lead singer who turned about to be British and lived in France, so he could sing the songs in English and in French.
We were there for Quattorze Juillet. It didn’t get dark till late and fireworks wouldn’t start until 11 pm. So we walked, taking photos of the clouds reflecting all the colors of the sunset, and found places to sit on a wall of the Promenade. Promptly at 11 pm, fireworks started shooting skyward above Socoa. We were too far away to appreciate them. Then at 11:15 pm, the fireworks started at Saint Barb. We were right under them. It was a spectacular show—not the Eiffel Tower show that I got to watch last year—but here I was in a sun dress, sitting on a wall with hundreds of other people. We had just witnessed yet another stunning sunset, the air warm, the laughter all around me (I never once heard a harsh word coming from anyone the entire time I was there), watching fireworks that hissed and sizzled and sighed and popped in all the Pays Basque colors and I thought “It doesn’t get better than this.”
Fireworks from Saint Barb!
We were in Saint Jean de Luz for two weeks. It passed in a flash. This small fishing village is fifteen minutes south of Biarritz. Biarritz has bling, glamour, very expensive hotels and restaurants and attracts the wealthiest of the rich. Saint Jean is simple. I didn’t see any glitz, nothing flashy. Even the popular brand stores were not there. Every person we met was friendly and helpful if help was needed.
Ah if only summer would last and last.
A bientôt,
Sara
I feel like I just went on the trip with you. I need to go take a nap now. Wake me up for the Apéro.