EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNALDecember 2, 1998
Arbonne
Cote Basque
I’m cutting Rich’s hair. I’m doing an abstract job of
it. He sits in a chair by the window and patiently waits for the mail carrier. He waits
for France Telecom to mail back his approved Wannado application so he can surf all
day.
The road to Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port is a seam in a patchwork quilt of
rolling green squares with tiny sheep-flowers. Beyond the quilt is a dome of cumulous
clouds bordered with naked winter trees and the jagged brushy mountains. Alfi dips up and
down, up and down and handles a road fit for a such performance vehicle.
You can put a petite canoe in the Petite Nive and have a petite
whitewater experience. Or you can drift leisurely down the wider River Nive and cross
under The Pilgrim’s Way. In the Middle Ages the town was the rallying centre for the Jaquets,
the pilgrims en route to Santiago de Compostela. They came from all over Europe, and when
a pious procession was announced, everyone in the town would get into the spirit of things
by praying, ringing bells and offering provisions.
Our walk through the town is accompanied by Christmas Carols. Someone
pipes the music through a loudspeaker system, although we don’t know who because the
streets are ghostly empty (are we looking around during the lunch hour again?). It
feels like we’re in a movie and something dramatic is about to happen. The music is
loud and I have to yell at Rich in order for him to hear me say, "so it’s
Ding Dang Dong instead of Jingle Bells around here".
We follow The Pilgrim’s Way and climb the steep cobblestoned road
to the Citadel, encircled by 15th C ramparts. The walls were built to defend
the route into Spain and provide an archer’s window for every few feet of rampart.
The houses below are red sandstone, all built in the Basque style, with their tiled roofs
and red trim and red doors, often with the date the building was constructed over them.
The houses are crammed and lopsided inside the old, upper town, and look like tiny,
perfect, handmade dollhouses, wobbly lining the bumpy streets.
