All I had was one week. My plan was to rent a car and discover the Basque Country that straddles the Pyrenees between Spain and France. The Basque people‘s independent spirit had always fascinated me. These proud, rugged mountaineers speak a language whose origin nobody knows. They wear berets and espadrilles, they eat well, sing well, and play “pelota”, a unique ball game already played in medieval times. Just as any American park has a baseball or a basketball area, every Basque village has a “fronton” wall where village teams play against each other on Saturdays. That’s the basics. I wanted more. I reread “Shibumi”, the Trevanian spy thriller that took place in the French Basque area and singled out a few villages to explore.
My
rented car was waiting for me in Biarritz, a sea resort famous for its glitzy
casinos and health spas in the early 1900s. More recently it has become a
surfing capital. I took off across the Pyrenees to Pamplona. My car and I felt
light and happy in spite of rain and clouds. I don’t actually know when I
entered Spain seeing no barriers, nor border crossing signs but thanked the
European Union for making it so painless. I felt free and adventurous. But
soon, on a mountain pass, the landscape disappeared in a fog as thick as pea
soup. I decided to find protection and lodged myself between two huge trucks,
my eyes safely glued on truck number one’s left red light. Eventually, the fog
dissipated on the way down the Spanish side and I stopped to breathe and
unclench my teeth in a roadside café. Over a double espresso and a pastry
suggested by the owner, I asked him if he could help me find the easiest way to
my hotel in Pamplona. He said with a big smile:
“Easy! From here,
just follow Pamplona signs, then, in the city, follow the “hospitales” signs.
Your hotel is across from the hospitals, avenido Pie XII.” He draws me a straight line with many
circles all across the line, explaining:
“ Muchas, muchas
rotondas … dies o
mas… just follow “ hospitales”.
I thank him,
take the precious drawing, and hit the road to Pamplona. The radio is playing
Basque songs and I hum along. Once in town, at the third “rotonda”, I realize
I’d better watch more closely as the number of signs and options multiplied. I
know some Spanish, but this situation called for careful driving, speed
reading, and putting the turn signals on cue, simultaneously.
I go around
quite a few large rotaries and then, facing a huge one with a menu of seven
different choices on its panel, I enter boldly in the second road. Fatal
mistake. I soon find myself in the old part of town, complete with medieval
walls, small cluttered houses in narrow cobbled streets, following a trash
collector truck.
“Good! That
gives me time to think.” Eventually the truck turns left, I decide to go
straight ahead … and end up rolling slowly over an old wooden drawbridge. I
heard myself say:
“ Wow! Is this
real or am I in a time travel movie?
That couldn’t happen in Boston!”
Eventually, I
find myself out of the old town and stop a nice old gentleman to ask him:
“ Por favor,
que direction por avenido Pie XII.” He looks at me with horror and says:
“ Muy, muy lechos
(very far) !”
“Si, que
direction por favor?”
He points ahead
and adds :
“Todo derecho
(straight ahead)!” I ask: “ Derecho como asi?” and I show him my arm straight,
or como asi?” and I draw many circles with my fingers. He laughs and says:
“Muchas rotondas.
Siempre direction “hospitales”. He adds: “ beeeg houses!”
I giggle, thank
him and take off. As I look back in the mirror, he is still waving good bye.
The
return trip was smoother, but I have to confess that, shamelessly, I went
around a large rotary 3 times, just to make sure… My hotel was indeed right
there, just across from the hospitals. I slept well that night.
In
the morning, I left my car at the hotel and took a taxi to go and visit the
city on foot, following Hemingway’s footsteps in the city he described so well
in his novel “The Sun Also Rises”. No bulls in sight, though! I also found out
that, all by myself, I managed to, by chance, go through a very famous 16th
century drawbridge called “Puerta de Francia”! How’s that for a welcome from Pamplona!
The
sun was shining the next day, and the mountain roads, although quite narrow,
were nearly empty for my ride back through the Pyrenees. I was on top of the
world and could see miles and miles away… That’s when I learned to deal with
the unavoidable impatient local drivers sticking to my bumpers. I keep cool, try
to spot a space on the right where I can fit (there are quite a few), I put the
blinkers on, and he (it always was a “he”!!) squeezes and passes as I wave with
a big, generous and understanding smile. That’s the fun part!
In
order to ensure greater freedom and potential for adventure, I had no hotel
reservation for the week. So, I decided, there and then, to go to
Saint-Jean-de-Luz to spend the night by the sea. After all, it is from that
harbor that Basque sailors went to America, some with Magellan, and others to
California and Argentina as sheepherders in the 1800s.
I
drove straight to the town’s “Office du Tourisme” and asked my usual request: a
reasonable family run “nice” hotel outside the city, in this case as close as
possible to the sea. The woman looked at me, smiling and said: “ I think I have
exactly what you’d like. Let me see.” Her long red fingernails clicked on the
computer keyboard. A few more clicks, a run to the printer and she showed me
the printed photo of the hotel with prices and pictures of rooms. Perfect!
Done. In no time, I had a room, reserved and paid at Hotel BelAir, right off
the beach with a view of the whole bay. Prudently, I asked her to mark my way
out of town in RED on the map. Miraculously, I made it: no rotondas
(ronds-points in French), nor false turns.
The
time has come to pause and explain my ronds-points fixation. Here is the story.
It all happened a few years ago in Paris at the Champs-Élysées. I remember hearing myself scream “Never again!” as I was going for the
second time around the 12 lanes of la Place de l’Étoile. It was gorged with a
mess of Parisians pressing around me and forcing my small car near the center
where the Arc de Triomphe was staring at me, proud and aloof. That is when I
lost it. I leaned on the horn and literally plowed my way into the chaos and
veered into avenue Mac Mahon unscathed. That night, in my hotel’s comfortable
bed, I vowed to avoid driving through large cities in the future and use public
transportation and my feet to get around, stop or go as I wish. Thanks to that
wise decision my love affair with Paris is still alive and thriving, but the
memory lingers…
The BelAir
Hotel was practically on the beach. I parked my car in the yard and registered.
A nice young man, introducing himself as the owner’s son brought my suitcase up
in the room. With a big smile he
said: ”Voilà!”, as he dramatically opened the window, “ the Promenade, the
beach, the Bay, the Atlantic… and America on the other side. We don’t serve
dinner but you’ll find a few nice places on the Promenade. Bon séjour,
madame.” That evening, after a
leisurely walk along the boardwalk, I had a spectacular salad topped with a mix
of local seafood, elegantly arranged on a huge plate, accompanied by a carafe
of brisk white wine and a musical background provided by the waves. Heaven by
the sea!
When
I checked out the next morning, another owner’s son was at the desk. He asked
me where I was going today. I showed him my tentative plans on my huge map of
France, telling him I wanted to go deep into the Basque mountain villages, get
to know the culture a bit, and stay there if I like it… but I only had 4 days!
He smiled, asked me a few questions, then drew a bold line on a fresh map and
explained why I should see this one and not that one, and absolutely this one:
Urdax. I’ll know why when I see it! He also offered to reserve one night in a
super but fairly priced hotel that they had discovered recently in
Saint-Etienne-de-Baïgorry … with a cook to die for… a treat after all the
driving that day. I agreed that it would be fantastic and left with a
personalized itinerary, a clearly marked small handy map, and a room reserved
for the night… or more… if I wished. This reinforced my conviction that one
should always ask ”the natives” where to go. They know best!
That
first day spent driving on small winding mountain roads was simply perfect. My
first stop was in Sare, marked in red on my new map! I lined up to get into the
little cogwheel train that climbs the La Rhune peak (905m.). Up it went,
clunking. From the top, one could see the Atlantic, Spain and France. Actually,
that day, it took a bit of imagination, since very determined but shapely
clouds took over the show. On the way down, sturdy small Basque horses were
grazing on the slopes. They are “pottoks” whose ancestors were drawn in nearby
caves 10,000 years ago. The rest of the day was spent driving peacefully,
gaping at the scenery and discovering the Basque history through each village.
Some were full of tourists, some were sleepy, and some totally deserted. As I
went, history unfolded itself: the Romans mined lead in Urepel, in the 17th century,
copper and silver mines put Banca on the map, and that one can still visit a 18th
century iron foundry in Saint-Etienne-de-Baïgorry. That’s where I had an
exquisite dinner in the hotel’s terrace: grilled trout fresh from the Nive
river gurgling gently at the foot of this picture perfect village.
All
along the road I saw the shell shaped signs that had guided pilgrims since the
12th century as they passed through the Basque country on the Way to
Santiago de Compostella. They stopped overnight in shelters and local
monasteries. Indeed, each village had its own church. Always open, cool and
calm, these rugged survivors of wars and time, a mix of Medieval, Romanesque
and Baroque, still offer rest and shelter to all. I sat there often, admiring
the naïvely painted statues of saints and the religious scenes retelling the
same story in various ways, the Basque ways. That‘s where I promised myself to
come back and live in a Basque village for a while with time to learn how they
maintain their own culture in this crazy global modern world we live in, and to
meet some locals. Perhaps, I’ll even
find a grand-mother who would tell me her secret to make a perfect “pipérade”:
that heavenly Basque omelette I love so much…
The
last day, as I rested near a fountain looking at the red and white houses in a
sleepy village, I saw a surreal eagle flying majestically over me, back and
forth, high up there. Time stopped. I felt for a moment that we were the only
beings left on earth, at peace with the world.
***************
Blog attempt number One.
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