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.