EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 22, 1998
Ondres
Cote d’Argent
We’ve discovered that if we fill the bath bucket we can’t
heat our food for at least ½ an hour. There’s a tiny propane tank. It’s the
kind you heat your barbecue with. The tank musters a piping hot bath and then must
concentrate on the water heater for a spell. This leaves no spare energy for stove gas.
There’s a small black and white television at Brimborion.
Last night we watched a dubbed version of Melrose Place, which is a luxurious
French lesson. It’s easy to figure out what’s going on, and so we concentrate on
French colloquial expressions that weren’t included in our school texts.
There is much to explore from the front door, and investigating the
footpaths is a dog menagerie. We long for Emily as we walk along the trails. We can hear
the surf and walk through the trees towards the distant thunderous groan. The paths are a
maze, and we end up blocked by the small river Boudigau before we reach the beach.
The road to Ondres Plage abruptly ends with a parking lot and stairs.
The beach roars with the ominous white noise of waves building and crashing. The sand is a
warm Naples Yellow. It’s soft and we sink, even at the water’s edge where the
surf laps and recedes with daunting speed. World War II bunkers lean and shrug like buried
sandboxes. They dot the beach in an endless lineup, all cement built in a hurry, gun
mounts and hiding places.
Rich buys a two-stringed kite at the Lidl supermarche. He is anxious
for a test-fly but the sky is sleeping. Long shadows and the orange of my sunglasses
exaggerate my intoxication with the light. Everything is glowing. The sea and its edge are
enormous. Surfers bob up and down in the swell waiting for the big Kahuna.
