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

It’s interesting how different cultures respond to fear.

If my recent flight from Ireland back to Biarritz is any indication, certain European nationalities seem to greet life-threatening circumstances with a hearty dose of whooping laughter.

My flight had been full of mostly Spanish travelers returning from St. Patrick’s Day in the Emerald Isle. As we descended into Biarritz, the rolling mosslike landscape out the plane window took a sudden, ominous turn – namely it started rocking violently in and out of my line of sight as the plane prepared to land and the ground shot toward us in a decidedly abnormal fashion.

A few feet before we would have touched (and I use that word loosely) down, the pilot aborted the landing. I imagined him flooring it, or however that works in the cockpit, as the plane shot pretty much straight back up – engines roaring – and my seatmate gave me a weary look that translates in any dialect to ‘oh, crap.’

Then, competing with the roar of the engine, there erupted a similarly exuberant and determine drone – the low roar of scores of Spaniards hooting and hollering and patting each other on the backs as if they had just survived the first big drop on Space Mountain.

As we screamed noseward into the heavens, then leveled off and circled over an ocean that was whipped into a frenzy by the gale force winds, the hooting only quieted for a few brief moments – when the pilot came over the PA system to announce ‘There were some high winds on the ground in Biarritz, as you can see from looking out the window at the ocean, and we’ll be attempting to land again in a few minutes.’

My legs turned to jelly as it hit me just how squarely my fate was out of my hands. But nearly ever face I turned to for solace was busy swiveling on its neck, smiling at its neighbor, and, much to my awe, giggling away the fear.

When we came in, we came in hard.

There was a moment when the plane shuddered and pitched in a strong, sudden gust and I thought, right, this is the end.

It was seriously scary stuff, but what surprised me the most was how I just sort of let my eyes glaze over and rolled with the punches. Looking back, I’d have to say it was because everyone around me was just sort of rolling with the punches, too, albeit in a far more boisterous manner.

Finally the wings caught a comforting angle. The ground was right there. And a split second before we landed, I had the relief of knowing we were going to be fine.

The cheer that erupted at that moment would have competed with that in any World Cup stadium, I assure you.

And I was right there along with the rest of my fellow passengers, hooting and hollering and screaming my head off in joy that we had won.

- by Terry Ward

Travelistic has posted blogs about the good-karma lodging concept before (check out www.couchsurfing.com if you’re unfamiliar with it), and I’ve written about Couch Surfing myself for the Washington Post’s travel section.

But when you’re a CS member and the new experiences never end, there’s always more to say. While I haven’t been crashing on anyone’s spare loveseat since arriving in Biarritz a few weeks ago, it’s thanks to the site’s mission of bringing like-minded travelers together that I’ve made a great local friend here named Thierry.

He shows us the best tapas places, text messages my boyfriend daily with the surf report from his end of the beach, and is always keen for a cultural conversation that sheds light on the complicated but fascinating nature of Franco-American relations.

He corrects my French, too, which I love.

Last night we had dinner together, and Thierry brought along another Couch Surfer who had contacted him through the site – an Englishman, Chris, who is hitchhiking his way around the South of France during a two-week vacation.
“My mother is very worried,” said Chris, a seasoned hitchhiker in his 40s, as we sat in a cozy Biarritz Italian restaurant and tucked into entrecote steaks. I relayed my own mother’s response when I told her about meeting strangers through Couch Surfing: “There’s no such thing as a free lunch,” she warned.

If the matriarchs could only see us now.

Travelers from three countries, sharing conversation and a meal, when we otherwise might have been dining alone – and none of that awkwardness of a blind date. Brought together by the Internet, we had a lot in common – most obviously, seeing the world and learning how things are done beyond the backyard. How is it that travelers can talk endlessly on such topics?

“This is what the Internet was meant for, connecting people,” Chris said as we drained the pitcher of vin rouge at the end of the evening, “Not for Ebay.”

And I’d have to agree with the Englishman that hitting up the information super highway to make travel friends offers as much as thumbing it on the open road when it comes to enhancing the travel experience.

- by Terry Ward

Who says Americans aren’t bilingual? I just discovered that in addition to English, we also speak damn fine Globish. That’s right, Globish.

Never heard of it? Well, if you speak English, believe me, you speak Globish. Granted it’s dubbed a ‘constructed’ language and not a ‘natural’ one, but still…

The language was formalized by a Frenchman – a former exec for IBM who had spent some time working and living in the States – in an effort to create a simplified version of English that foreigners could learn to speak among themselves. There are 1,500 words in Globish, most of which anyone with an elementary education (even those children left behind) should know.

The reason I know this is because the Frenchman’s tome is our classroom textbook in my weekly Globish class in Biarritz. In an effort to meet people and improve my French, I signed on to help a group of septuagenarians (Biarritz is a major retiree community) wend their way through Globish. In exchange, they give me free French lessons. They call it exchange de saviors (knowledge exchange) – I call it a win-win situation all around.

The women are real characters…

Geez, can’t think of many things that make me more envious…A month in Biarritz. Check out this, the first of many great posts by Terry Ward. – cb

This must be what it’s like to be retired.

My boyfriend and I compromised on Biarritz in the south of France (I know, relationships can be so demanding), as the place to spend a month ‘settling down’ before continuing our travels.

My requirement was that I wanted to be in France, and Chris’ was that there had to be waves to surf. And voila, here we are – with nothing to do, not a care in the world and a schedule as wide open as a senior citizen’s Saturday. We have a phone but it only rings to signal text message announcements from our provider.

So far, we know only one person (a local surfer, Thierry, who we met on Couchsurfing.com), and it takes everything in our power not to call him every five minutes to see if he wants to meet for a drink or tapas.

It’s weird, attempting to live in a foreign country and not knowing a soul – especially when you don’t have a job that ensures social interaction on one level or another.

But it’s liberating, too.

I wake up in the morning, let the daylight in through the volet shutters that fold up, slat by slat, filling our tiny studio with sunshine, and then start wondering what the day will bring.

Conjugal visits to the corner boulangerie are no longer allowed. Chris prefers to go on his own so, like a leering grandpa living off social security and pain au chocolat, he can flirt with the cute cashier while procuring our power breakfast.

Today he returns, wondering, “If someone says ‘Bonjour Madame,’ to the bakery girl, does it mean she’s taken? Mais oui, I explain to Chris – if not, they would call her mademoiselle.

I, too, get my thrills by random encounters with people in retail settings. And I’m reminded of my own grandpa, who used to live for his daily outings to the post office and bank.

Watching shop owners scrunch their faces with bewilderment when I begin struggling in French, then seeing their expressions relax into sudden comprehension is like a virtual pat on the back for my progress with the language.

Who needs French class and weekly exams? Success! I have made myself understood.

– by Terry Ward