In which there are many long and winding roads.

 

The last destination on our map before the language switched was the French coastal town of Hendaye in the Basque Country -- a beautiful location in the pinky toe of France, smogged with the superficiality of tourism. As we drove south, my glace started sweeping westward, searching out any sign of mountains near or far. (Turns out the Pyrenees were still a bit far.) However, almost as if on cue, the land began to rise and fall, stretching out the pavement like warm taffy over ever-growing hills. Architectural creativity was in low supply by the time we entered le Pays basque. Each town started looking like the one before it -- white walls, red tile roofs, dark wooden shutters. Palm trees popping up, spiking the skyline.

I must admit that upon the time of entry, I knew nothing about the Basque country, its history, or its language. Therefore I was very confused to see that, in addition to French, the street signs had taken on a rebellious new tongue, which had been created by throwing the contents of several Scrabble boxes (with an extra dose or two of X & Zs) into a blender and then pulling letters at random from the resulting alphabet soup. We did manage to take note of the most important terms pretty quickly, being HONDARTZA (beach) and KOMUNA (bathroom).

 

We finally found our way to the desired hondartza only to see that, in fact, there was no hondartza. The tide was high and hopping across the rocks that bordered the road, swallowing the staircases to the sands. The beach enthusiasts didn't seem to mind being beachless, however, and attached themselves to the rocks like spandex-covered barnacles amidst the spray. People-watching prime time. (Click on the photos for a closer investigation of the hilariwhimsy within.)

 

 

Fun but sub-optimal for water sports. Back in the car, we adventured the coastal curves until happening across the perfect camping spot amongst the fielded hills. Upon stopping at a crossroad to slurp up a particularly luscious view, a side road was sighted and explored. At the end of the side road was a field and surrounding the field was nothing but lovely landscape. This ideal, secluded camping spot was thus also ideal for young lovers, of which there happened to be a pair spotted by our scout. We gave them their privacy, but staked our claim on the field in parking nearby and making ourselves cozy near the entrance of the road. Music was musicked, dinner was dinnered, secret troves of blackberry treasures were pillaged, silliness ensued. It was the perfect sunset observation point, but sadly, the somewhat overcast skies shared no glimpse of tasty firmament but for a strip of hot pink fireball, dropping quickly through the bottomest strip of horizon where it extinguished without as much as a "pfff" or "plop". So much for potential.

Just as we were zipping up our sleeping bags, headlights appeared at the end of the not-so-secret lane and came rocking our way over the uneven ground. The headlights were connected to an RV which contained four loud but not unkind Frenchmen with the same squatting idea. They asked if they could share the field, to which we replied, "Bien sûr!", which we all know translates into "NOOOO! THIS IS OUR SECRET HIDE OUT! GO AWAAAAY!!!". After much chaotic settling, one of them came over to apologize for destroying the quiet and invited us to boire un verre with them. I thanked them kindly but said we'd already had enough wine that evening, thanks, to which he replied, "Vous êtes français?" "--Non." "--C'est pour ça." (Are you French? --No. --That's why.) I had to chuckle.

As the location was so good and we were in no rush, we decided to try our luck there for another evening. I for one was not feeling ready to leave France yet and, though I was excited for Spain, I was not exactly eager to be in a place where I could not communicate as easily. Of course, my hope of recovering my French while in France was thoroughly pummeled by the fact that I was traveling with Germans and speaking German the whole time, alas. That was also interesting in that I took on a more German identity myself. When people asked where we were from, it was easiest to tell them the Deutschland, as they didn't actually care and it would have complicated things in a most unnecessary way to point out that, well, I was actually from the States and have to explain the whole situation. It's not a big deal, but was somehow cool, like I was an undercover spy.

This uneager anticipation to leave France was heightened when we went in search of a grocery store and accidentally wound up across the border, which really was very, very near. (Good thing they have supermercados, too.) We were not even a kilometer across and already everything was so different and there was so much more chaos in my brain.

Other adventuring of our last day en France included yet more beach time (this time with beach, and with many a sand castle) and exploration of the town, where I had encounters with multiple very unfriendly persons. It made me regret leaving the north with its genuineness and friendly folks.

 

Back on our hill, there was wandering, chilling, and an ominous cloudscape that ultimately piddled out into another fireball sunset. The GDR-era Gas Cooker cooked up a mean compote of fresh blackberries, pears and peach, and in conjunction with our awful frying pan, totally botched our attempt at pancakes, leaving us with oily but somehow fascinating Kaiserschmarrn instead. To no one's surprise, yet another couple in the throws of young love were borrowing our not-so-secret camping spot, but luckily they giggled their way out and away before dark. We had the field to ourselves that night and, calling the sky's bluff, successfully slept outside again without getting rained on.

The next day made its way over the hill looking exactly like the afternoon before it, and after deliciously demolishing the rest of our Pfannekuchen-fail eggs, we headed back to Spain -- this time with more intention -- leaving only a sigh and an au revoir behind.

 

In which trees come in handy.

 

And it was a magical place. A shady grove just a field away from the main drag, green with a dark canopy of coolness. A perfect picnic oasis in an increasingly arid land.

After the rest came the beach. And on the beach swarmed the umbrellas, tilting hotly and with more spots and stripes than in the entire animal kingdom. Or was it the people who were swarming? Not really spotted nor striped, but browning in their sandy coats, some caked and some crispy. Wee ones burying themselves in the sand only to emerge like mummies from ancient tombs, shrieking joyous in their new found freedom, crashing and splashing into the front lines of the mighty Atlantic. It was people-watching at its best, my favorite watch of which was a woman spinning her delighted daughter in circles as the waves swooped in around them, hot on the trail of the setting sun.

 

Perched fluorescently above the sands was a snack bar, ACAPULCO, where the four sizes of ice cream offered were petite, moyenne, grande, and américaine. Na ja. We'll leave it at that. (I'm suddenly at a loss for snark.)

As we drove away from the beach in the sinking dusk, we kept our eyes open for hidden places down little side roads where we might put up our feet that night. However, none seemed as optimal as the idyllic grove from that lunchtime passed, so we took our chances and found our way back, crossing fingers and pressing thumbs that its magic would not run out at midnight like Aschenpüttel's pumpkin carriage. As had been immediately noted earlier in the day, the tree layout was superb for stringing up beds. Fellow Roadtrippers thus performed an advanced feat of triple hammock hangage and, feet successfully put up, we fell asleep to the twinkling of stars through the treetops and the cricketing of crickets. (Actually sub-optimal for sleeping, but that's all part of the adventure, I suppose.) I awoke the next morning to a big, red, juicy snail slurping on my birkenstock. Mmmmhmhmhmhmm.

The continuation of our journey south the next day (crossing through much wine country and passed rapidly changing church architecture) significantly smooshed all my expectations by leading us out of Florida and into a completely new landscape of hills rolling with tall, trunk-barren trees with piney hairdos and softly needled forest floors. It smelled wonderful. We found our way to and through Mimizan and, with the knowledge that all winding roads eventually lead to the ocean, eventually wound up again at the coast.

This was yet another beautiful sand beach, but different from the others in that its waves were giant and reflected a silvery turquoise against the sky as they slammed the shore with all their wavey umph. We all jumped in, of course, and upon realizing that the undertow was far more powerful than my swimming muscles, I considered myself refreshed and jumped right back out again. The Fellow Roadtrippers spend a good long time splashing in the crashing and emerged later with headaches and water that you could hear slooshing about in noggins for 24 hours afterward.

 

After the wild adventures of the last nights, we decided to veer back toward civilization and rented a plot on the outskirts of a campground in the area. A lovely place. Pretty full, but quiet and shaded. Our neighbors across the way were German and had a beautiful golden retriever that I wasn't quite brave enough to go play with, but spend a good long time observing/longing to pet. I don't know why I didn't. There we pitched the tent again and carefully strung the hammocks between cork trees (!), padding the lines so as not to damage the bark, er, cork. The beach wasn't far by car, we were all tuckered, and decided to stay an extra day to recuperate, recharge our batteries (literally & figuratively), and refresh our adventurelusting. And shower repeatedly. (I'm also not going to pretend that the free wifi -- the first free network we'd encountered -- didn't play a role in my support of this decision.) Lovely. Lovely, sweet civilization. The best campground experience of the trip.

On our way out of town a couple days later, we finally stopped at one of the churches alongside the road and had a peek inside. As always, it was cool and quiet. The sun was shining directly through the stained glass windows at the front alter, throwing colorful light onto the already dazzling bouquets surrounding it. It really made me wish we'd taken the time to peek inside more churches along our route. Their spaces are so soft and so cool on the lungs.

 

 

 

Coming up next: le Pays basque. (And a whole lot of it.)