EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 26, 1998
Ondres
Cote d’Argent
Il Pleut. Il pleut for two days, only today there’s
no wind. It’s like Saudi Arabia in here. We dry our laundry in the stuffy heat and
peel our woolen layers.
We book our next gite 4km from Biarritz and on the road from Arbonne to
St Pee-sur-Nivelle. Rich is pleased with our imminent proximity to the town devoted to
the Patron Saint of urine (not really). The gite is called Mendialde. It sits at
the foothills of the Pyrenees, we think a comfortable landing spot for Christmas. Madam
Arana, the gite’s proprietor, is a "oui oui oui"-er…which means
she begins and ends each sentence with a long and meteoric "weeweeweeweeweeweeweeeeeeeeeeweeweewee.
I remember the woman who rented the house to my father in Brittany when I was eleven. She
replied in the same manner, and after we had made the arrangements and driven away we
looked at each other and simultaneously screeched, "oui oui oui oui oui!"
Madam Arana has given us the mailing address for Mendialde which
has enabled us to launch Plan C in the France Telecom Saga. Rich has mailed the
application for Wannadoo and is hoping to receive an approval and access number by
poste sometime next week.
There’s a bike path from Ondres to Labenne, our neighboring
plage/ville. We take the wooded path from the front door and keep to the right instead of
following the sound of the ocean rumble. The path takes us to a small bridge that crosses
the Boudigau. The route then follows the river behind houses and a holiday campground, and
spits us out at the main road from Labenne centreville to Labenne Plage. We look for a
boulangerie but everything is boarded up. It’s a ghost town with only remnants of its
summer onslaught present in the form of a few wooden menus and a string of glace booths.
The rain taps my face, mild like droplets from a friend flicking wet
hands. Like my dog shaking after a bath. The air is fresh and delicious after all those
hours spent in Saudi Arabia. "Emily would love this." She’s into trails and
falling leaves, with a variety of sounds and smells. This is her kind of place, all sand
and dirt and wind.
