Don’t read this on an empty stomach…- cb

If Paris was Hemingway’s moveable feast then I’ve decided Biarritz is going to be my stationary one for as long as I’m lucky enough to be parked here. And I’m already asking myself how I’ll ever go back to shopping at Safeway again.

Just back from my first visit to the weekend market down the street, and the offerings blew me away. This is why I’m here. This is what I love about living in Europe. And I’m not just talking about the fabulous French food. I’m talking about doing my morning chores and feeling like it’s a lesson in learning. And in France, more often than not, that lesson is bound to be a crash course in good living, too.

The grannies were out with their pull-behind trolleys, overflowing with veggies and the requisite baguette antenna. Inside Les Halles, young families posted up at the tapas bars, where you can take a break from your shopping with a noisette coffee and a bocadillo sandwich (Spanish influence is strong in the Basque Country).

Is this their Starbucks? I do believe.

How is it that the thinnest slice of Serrano ham on a crispy white baguette can fill your mouth with such flavor? When I first saw a bocadillo, the American in me was tempted to fret, “But where are the fixins!?” Then I took my first bite. Just meat and grains. Simple is best.

The options are tantalizing. It’s like stumbling upon free sample day at Whole Foods when you’re used to slumming it at Winn-Dixie – but the prices are fair, and most everything is sourced from nearby. The platters of freshly shucked oysters, glistening over ice in the seafood hall, come from up the coast near Bordeaux. There are perfectly poised langoustines, looking like no crustacean I’ve seen before – a cross between a shrimp and lobster, curled into perfect pink question marks awaiting a sure fate in the pot. And vendors who drive in from the countryside bring their fois gras, canned confit du canard and Basque cheese.

In the end the choices overwhelmed me. I wanted it all. So I sat for a coffee to mull things over, and ended up leaving with two frilly heads of lettuce, a bunch of those oddly cylindrical French radishes and a bundle of dark green spinach.

Bizarre picks considering all the options – that adage about shopping on an empty stomach must apply here as much as it does at home.

– by Terry Ward

I blame Kerouac for giving the term “road trip” it’s whimsical gravitas. Don’t get me wrong, I understand the power of the open road, the rush of adrenaline when you’re going 75 miles per hour in the opposite direction of familiarity. But, invariably, you’ll hit the Jersey Turnpike. Stopped dead in a sea of overheating cars, you can’t help but think that familiarity has its perks.

I was on the road to a wedding in Maryland. Google maps told me it was only 220 miles. I did the math. Driving the way Long Island conditioned me to drive, as though you might win money for reaching your destination five minutes sooner than the person in front of you, that should only take 3 hours. Leaving at 11:00 for a 6:30 wedding would even leave time for lunch and a dip in the hotel pool. I love road trips.

I picked up the couple we were driving with at 11:00. We stopped for Starbucks at 11:15. The line was pretty long, but fuel was necessary. I bet Kerouac never waited for an iced soy mocha.

Traffic in the city was bad. Apparently we weren’t the only ones looking to leave Manhattan on a beautiful Saturday morning. Go figure. Half the world is trying to move here (trust me, I’ve been apartment hunting) yet the sun comes out and everyone’s ready to leave. It’s like the world’s biggest commuter college.

We are through the Lincoln Tunnel by noon. There was a hold-up due to 50,000 cars trying to fit through a two lane opening. Go figure. Still, the open road was ahead.