EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALNovember 28, 1998
Arbonne
Cote Basque
Madam Banicq says, "I’m dreaming today" when she returns
to Brimborion with the contract. She has been back and forth from her home in
Ondres-ville to get it. She has written the metre number on the contract and needs it now
to calculate how much we owe for the heat and gas.
We wave goodbye and are careful not to flatten any geese on the way
from Brimborion. There is a herding Maltese-poodle keeping the road clear. Scruffy
could use a trip to the coiffure.
Biarritz is a short drive south and we arrive in time to visit La
Musee de la Mer before lunch. The aquarium is dark and spooky with its
scraggily-toothed eels and gelatinous octopuses. The place is empty. Upstairs is a display
of fishing techniques and nautical instruments. There is a whale skull and a seal tank and
a rather dim and rotting ornithological exhibit. A garbly announcement on the
loudspeaker--it’s too loud and we tune it out. Then there is another announcement,
and a seal feeder follows us around the museum. Finally we finish our browsing, purchase a
few postcards from the giftshop, have a conversation about the architecture and the
marbled interior and leisurely make our way down the stairs, meandering towards the door.
All of the museum attendants, including the seal feeder and the gift shop girl are waiting
at the exit. "Au revoir!" they chime, and as I push through the door Rich looks
at his watch. "No wonder…that blasting announcement was for us…it’s
the lunch three-hours".
Rocher de la Verge (The Virgin’s Rock) juts out from Gustav
Eiffel’s metal footbridge. Reefs and booming surf surround the craggy rock, crowned
with a pristine white Mary flanked with floodlights for amorous evenings. From the little
island we have an unobstructed view of Biarritz’s harbour and beaches. Tiny perfect
fishing boats bob in an enclosed, compartmentalized marina. It would be impossible for
them to moor any other way because the thunderous crashing surf would make kindling of
them. The marina looks like a group of connected cells. The Grande Plage is a mass
of smooth ochre sand, rolling waves and a dozen seal impersonators, floating aimlessly on
their surfboards. They are slick and black and every fifteen minutes one of them gets up
and is promptly flushed.
The streets are busy with Christmas shoppers and smoking teenagers.
Paris fashion dresses the shop windows. We pass three Ateliers de Chocolat. A drug
aroma. Nuts drowned in caramel and chocolate sculptures rest beside rows of marzipan and
candied fruit and jellies. The dark chocolate is black.
We arrange to meet Madam Aranna at Mendialde at 1600 heures. Or
so we think. She speaks very quickly and throws in a lot of "oui oui
oui"’s. The gite is easy to find, off the main road between Arbonne and St. Pee
sur Nivelle. It’s at the end of a muddy farmer’s lane, cut up with the
embossment of tractors and sheep hooves. It smiles with red trim, with an identical gite,
and a few larger homes nearby. The gite is built in the traditional Basque style with a
white finish, tile roofing and exposed cornerstones. Rolling farmland, with the Pyrenees
behind the undulating, green hills. The streets are named in Euskara, the Basque
language.
We arrive at Mendialde on the button, but there is no Madam
Aranna. After ˝ an hour we decide to leave a note and venture into town and call her.
We stop at the Intermarche for supplies. There is a young couple
with two toddling children ahead of us at the checkout. They are buying a lot of cookies.
When we get to Alfi with the groceries we discover the cookie family has parked beside us,
in the midst of defusing a temper tantrum. Simultaneously all four look to find us loading
our supplies. Alfi is stuffed to the ceiling already with our books, bags, guitar,
computers and maps. A turn of the engine and I take an enormous mouthful of baguette, and
then we back out of our spot and make our way out of the parking lot. The cookie family
has turned completely to gawk speechlessly out the rear window of their Citroen. Mama et
Papa are now laughing and inspecting poor Alfi from nose to tailgate. We can’t decide
if we are the embodiment of freedom or a ridiculous sideshow as we cough and roar away.
Madam Aranna is "oui oui oui"-ing on the payphone. She keeps
mentioning Les Chanteuses Canadiens and Roch Voisine and Celine Dion. Rich is
trying to make himself very clear by chanting "A bientot" and "Cinq
minutes…rendez-vous a la GITE". Madam was under the impression that we would
meet her at her home by asking around for her in the town of Arbonne. She keeps telling us
to ask for her in Arbonne even though she has given us detailed directions to Mendialde.
She is a prominent woman in Arbonne. It turns out her house is next door to the gite.
Madam shuffles down the dirt road and opens the gate. She takes a deep
breath and begins a long, accelerated speech about the door and the key and the dishes and
the Basque tablecloth and the oven which is only half an oven because the bottom is a
dishwasher and you can’t use them at the same time. The fireplace is very smoky and
should really be enclosed at some point and there are two bedrooms but one is for children
because it has small beds in it. Did you say you are Madam or Mademoiselle? Oh I see he is
your fiancé and you are Canadian? Oh yes yes yes yes yes yes there are singers who are
Canadian, like Roch Voisine? And here are the blankets and this is how you work the lights
and the shower and the bath and the heaters. Turn the washer to 40 degrees and you have to
wait and push this button to open the door and if it is a nice day you can hang your
clothes on the line which is out there but tonight there will be lightning. The television
has ten channels and here is channel one and channel two and channel three and channel
four, which isn’t very good and channel nine is the Basque channel and right now look
they are playing Pelota, a traditional Basque game. Channel ten comes from Spain
but I don’t know if you speak any Spanish.
Madam goes on and on and throws in the oui oui’s when we answer
her. She is very excited and has a gleam in her eye when I address Rich is English. She
asks again if we are Canadian, and what are we speaking?
The wind has picked up. It blows hard against the windows and through
the trees. We settle into the tub, which is six feet long. The salle de bain has been
renamed The Conference Room. On Monday morning we will call the gites office and ask how
long we can stay.
