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For anyone who somehow has less common sense that I do: Sickness is likely to result from surfing in rain and cold when you only wear a wetsuit, sin booties or gloves. I think what´s worse than your extremities turning into floppy red pieces of meat while in the sea, is relying on your half-numb feet to carry you on home over cold concrete steps and cobbled footpaths through town. What seals the deal is doing something such as this, and then going out to smokey, thumpin´ bars until the wee hours of the morning over consecutive days. When you still have class in the morning.
This is the danger of San Sebastián.
Otherwise I´ve been living a fairly normal life here and haven´t been travelling around as much as I would have liked to. Sort of an inevitability when you get sick and when relentless rain, a gloomy grey sky and an ungodly chill are your companions on the walk home from school. However, I have some little excursions planned for this fin de semana, and because I´ve decided to stay home for Easter that will also mean more chances to get a feel for this region.
As chastised as I feel for my attempts at being young and carefree, I´m not entirely apologetic because San Sebastián is so beautiful at night. Perhaps this is only my belief because I´ve seen maybe 5 hours of sunshine in total since I arrived here two weeks ago, but I still feel complete freedom to state that I think that night-time is when the town is most beautiful. I will try to take some pictures on a clear night and will definitely take more walks around to clarify in my own mind what makes its beauty so doubtless at this time of day. What I can say is that… it evokes a sense of romance that is universally accessible, as also occurs for example when you´re gazing up at a limitlessly animate night sky from upon a wide open space like a beach, field or mountain top.
It´s that magic that Hollywood so generously allows us to participate in through vicariousness, when it generates stories centered around surprises, fortuitous chance encounters, the mysterious unravelling of fate, and the freedom that we find when we´re lost in a moment. Thinking on it now, what makes romance really work in a movie is probably less about any comfort and happiness we might feel in watching two people express affection for each other, and more about how these stories imply that the wider world, or the universe, or God; how this ¨greater than us¨ does have an attachment to each of us humans, no matter how puny we are. Real romance doesn´t come from thinking that it´s so nice that Jane got flowers from Brad. It comes from feeling a meaning to their story. It comes from wanting to be inspired by our world. So I´m always really grateful to find myself in a place that lets romance be felt and shared by all arrangements of people… In San Sebastián by night you can have a romance-steeped stroll with friend, family member or lover. And it really doesn´t have to be better experienced with one type of walking-mate over another.
Ah shit, now I´m realising I´m going to have to take some spectacular photos. No no no…. you just have to come here :)
It´s worth it. All that romance AND yummy pintxos (tapas) you won´t understand.
On my last full day in the Haute-Pyrénées I made a day trip to Gavarnie, to have a look at the Cirque de Gavarnie which is classed as a UNESCO World Heritage site.
I caught the bus up at 9am and was the only one there for the trip up in one of those big tourist buses. As such, I had the full attention of the very lovely bus driver, Pierre. Along the way he enthusiastically told me about the hydroelectric system and centre operating in the region; gave me the names of various pistes and cols; and told me about the risk of avalanches and things generally falling from high places. Things such as large boulders. We passed one house that was literally bookended, so both sides, with boulders as tall as the house. Those are some lucky buggers. When I remarked that it was pretty scary to see these massive rocks knowing where they came from, he good-naturedly replied: “Yeah, but that’s nature.” God I loved the guy!
I am aware that I am probably fast sounding like an idiot here but I went the wrong way as I was looking for the path to the Cirque via the township of Gavarnie. In my defense I really do think that the signs and path indicators here are much more subtle than they are in NZ. It´s almost as if in France they assume that as a naturalist-trekker-type person you would possess some especial conscientiousness, whereas in NZ we want to make absolutely sure tourists get what they want without falling down the side of a hill to their death. In my prosecution the Cirque is massive and unmistakeable,so even if the path that leads towards it didn´t look like my kiwi understanding of a path, I should have realised that going in a tangential direction had a lesser chance of getting me there. At any rate I could now draw a map of the streets of Gavarnie for anyone who so desired it. (Little more than 5 streets….) Read the rest of this entry »
Okay, so if you look to the left there on what is technically supposed to be the Blogroll I have a link to my photos on Flickr. I haven´t put all that I have up yet, these ones are only of a bit of home (for my benefit really), Paris and my accomodation in Luz. I have a couple more of the Pyrénées and an extremely limited number of Biarritz because I didn´t get around to recharging my battery. Well, the camera´s battery.
But, I think I will write some more about the Pyrénées and Biarritz before putting the photos up. I´m just horribly anal and sequential like that.
And just a tip, I recommend trying out the slideshow on Flickr. I´m easily impressed sure, it made me feel like I was watching an advertisement… Plus that´s the option for you if you don´t want to read my commentary accompanying the pictures 
Happy looking!
Update: The link is broken. Sigh. I know why, but at this stage I don´t know how to fix it and I don´t have the time right now to look for the smarter way to add such a link, I know people do it all the time. Accept my low-tech solution: http://www.flickr.com/photos/7517188@N04/
Update #2: HAHA! I totally did it! Yeah, you can either click on this link here or you can click on the photos you see in the sidebar. Doo dee doo dee doo.
A bit of a suprise now: I have taken pictures. Since my last full day in Paris. So hopefully I get them up sometime in the next few days. I´m not sure if I can put them on separate pages here or if I will link to some other service where it is really easy to store photos. You are informed that I do not consider myself a photographer, there are occasions when I can’t even stop a photo from being wonky, let alone care about the light and focus. Fortunately the game of odds does suggest that a few will turn out to be visually pleasing or interesting however.
My first morning in Luz I fell into conversation with a local Frenchman. A middle-aged guy of small stature and a bit of weight on him, and eyes that were curiously darty and yet slow about it. He spoke to me in English the whole time, I think because partway through he forgot I could speak French. In general I find it best to run with however people want to communicate.
At first the topic of conversation was standard local-to-tourist fare. I mentioned that I was going to Biarritz after Luz, and so he proceeded to give me a rundown of all the lovely towns in that area and was clearly enthusiastic about its beauty. Then he informed me of Irun, a Spanish border town that French people abscond to for cheap shopping. Goods are taxed much less strongly in Spain than in France he told me. Well no, he actually exclaimed that it was tax-free and subsequently had his overexcitedness corrected by someone else who was nearby.
I found that an interesting fact and image and told him so. He nodded his head… and then continued with the not-so-secret secrets by telling me that French men go to Irun for the “clubs”. The “special clubs”. I wasn´t tout a fait clear about his meaning straightaway, I mean I had a sense but thought maybe he was talking about your comparatively more innocuous nightclub, after all if there´s less tax maybe drinks are cheaper? Maybe the nightlife is simply more hoppin´ a few steps over the border? My uncertainty didn´t linger for long however as he deftly explained that in France it is illegal to have brothels even though it is legal for prostitutes to streetwalk. (Personal opinion - This so stupid. Chalk up another point for France for taking care of women´s interests, sheesh. Seriously, if you want prostitution then you should take care of your women. That is all.)
Amused by this tidbit of information coming seemingly from nowhere, I smiled and laughingly said that I probably wouldn´t be interested in checking them out. He agreed, no, no, not for you. Read the rest of this entry »
This is going to have to be a quick report back because although I´m finally in more certain accommodation and have internet access here at home, it´s only my second day here. What I´m really trying to say is that I´ve been pretty busy these last few days and because of that my mind is not on that special setting that enables reflection. I think this becomes particularly true when the activity is mainly related to being with other people and learning things from them. The last while has just been people people people; as opposed to Paris and Luz which had some people-happenings but for the large part was about wandering and feeling new places. It´s a hell of a lot of fun, magically and randomly meeting minds with other people and using every single opportunity to go out and try something together. But it´s a lot for my mind, particularly when this opportunistic hyper-social activity is accompanied by having to learn how to manage your needs in an unfamiliar place. I think right now I´m close to my limit and may soon have to return to spending time somewhere where I can just sit and watch a bird having a dustbath.
I arrived in San Sebastian yesterday afternoon and had my first day of lessons at the language school today. I know where the city beaches are (of which there´s only one that´s really surf-decent; fortunately that´s also the one that is 5-7 minutes walk from “my” home) and I know where home is so I´m pretty pleased. Will have to think more than twice about where the school is… but there´s a reason for that. I did walk to school this morning. In the face of a gale and unrelenting rain. The temperature was 7 degrees. When two new friends and I left school it had risen to 8 degrees but felt colder. And by the time we left the tapas (or, seeing as I am in Basque country, “pintxos”) place at 3:30 in the afternoon, it had fallen back down to 7 degrees but of course felt even less than that. Oh yeah. The temperature yesterday was 18 degrees. That´s the painful part, not the absolute figures themselves. Plus the three instances of hail storms, one of which I experienced firsthand. What is cool about this stormy weather is that even in normal weather San Sebastian has a lot of walls that force waves to stop abruptly, and this seems to be a genuine source of entertainment for locals - watching the big waves crash and splash, the eruptions from all that trapped energy. You can imagine then that with this weather it becomes hazardous to be driving along the roads beside these walls. Or to be walking along one of the three large bridges that give access over the river that has only newly distinguished itself from the sea. It´s pretty crazy but maybe Basque people are just crazy. On the news today they showed the blooper roll of the presenter just getting pummelled by spray as the waves hit one particular bridge. Not just once, they filmed that happening to her a couple of times. I know there are some who will say that San Sebastian is touristy or expensive etc and etc, but I´m telling you, it´s a small town. This kind of “Yay for seaspray!” mentality reminds me so much of New Zealand.
I´ll leave it there for now. Shit it´s 10:50pm! Ah, Spanish time. I could probably adjust to it really well if I stopped wearing a watch, because as soon as I find out how late it really is I immediately feel fatigue.
But one more lovely thought before I go: it´s supposed to snow here in Sunny San Sebastian Spain tomorrow. I´ve been informed that that actually might be a good thing because it´s so uncommon to see snow on beaches. I have pretty unoriginal opinions about what a beach should be like, so I´ll wait until then to give my verdict.
I’m finding it somewhat tricky to keep up with all the notes I’ve already made, if only I could sit down at a computer without having to worry about the countdown! This post goes back to Paris.
Aux cérises de lutèce is not your average Parisian eatery; not a brasserie where people come to have a predictably satisfying lunch, or to socially drink un café at the bar or on the terrasse. It’s not a dark little restaurant that specialises in fare of a certain region, and where you have to squeeze yourself into the sides of other people’s tables just to get out. These places are great but this one seems to have another purpose.
It is a café of well-loved kitsch, offering hot drinks, desserts, and a small number of low maintenance light meals. One thing I have always admired in the French is how well they shut out the bustling outside world with their eateries. There is an obvious relationship between this arrangement and their savoir-faire at taking time out to unwind. Once you have entered, whether it’s to eat (I kept being surprised by the question “you’re here to eat?”) or to have a drink, that time is yours and the restaurant might as well be your living room. Though I have yet to see if I could get away with leaving my socks on the floor. So to me, restaurants and cafés were sanctuaries in Paris. Cérises de lutèce went a bit beyond that however, it not only shut out the outside world but made you feel like you were in a whole other world.
So, I arrived in Luz on Saturday and spent the rest of the day having a wander around town, getting a feel for the layout and checking out particular places of interest. Sunday I took several walks around the area and up the hills, and ironically or not enough, got lost when I tried to follow the guidebook and got it exactly right when I decided to choose my own paths. Yeah that could be interpreted in a very cheesy grand-scheme-of-things, meaning-of-life way I’m sure.
On Monday after a morning of lounging around I decided that I should go experience the slopes of Luz Ardiden given that that seems to be a significant reason why French people holiday in the Pyrenées. Now, before we start, a little background. I’ve done some beginner’s skiing and snowboarding in NZ, though it’s been a number of years. Skiing is alright but I always enjoyed snowboarding and never found it too confusing. In fact, having the one board felt more natural to me than the two planks. This was even before the discovery of surfing!
Not too confusing until I signed myself up for a snowboarding lesson in French. I had a feeling beforehand, you know, a pressentiment… that something was not quite right about this plan of mine. But I shrugged it off thinking it was simply due to the fact that I’m not much of a snowbunny. (It seems like snow activities always require a lot of equipment and clothing and time and planning and that’s good and well if you make a big trip of it with friends, but otherwise…mmmh…)
Wow, I am absolutely shattered right now. I’ve made the move from Luz to Biarritz, it’s not really such a big deal, two little bus trips and a 2h train. Ohhhhh yeah I’m probably shattered because of the walking up hill on snow and attempts at snowboarding the day before, in addition to carrying my 20kg pack on back and other items in hand. It’s scary how quickly I forget things. So I’m going to attempt to write a bit… you’ll have to excuse my English. It is my first language but a tired brain knows no sense in any language.
I left Paris for the Pyrenées on Saturday, and am currently writing from a smokey bar in a town called Luz-St-Sauveur. I had planned on spending at least a week in Paris, possibly longer, but a few days in I realised I needed to scrap that idea. Given that I was only able to get one night’s decent sleep in my hostel since completing my 25 hour+ plane rides on Monday, and that I felt like all the steps I was going up and down was going to be my main memory of the city, it really was for the best that I came to the country.
Stepping off the bus, heartwarming scent of horse shit in the wind. Cherry blossoms and magnolias in full force, which really goes beautifully against the grey houses and clear light blue sky.
Kevin and I met in the Hotel de ville Métro station, we had both been on the n° 1 line, didn’t even know it. I accidentally looked him in the eyes, and he responded with that ever-faithful courting signal - the eyebrow flash. I kept moving towards my staircase of choice, but seconds later he was at my side, spilling out words as if he needed help or recognised me as a long-lost friend.
He asked me where I was from. I obliged him with the Malaysia-New Zealand response. Flattery ensued. My noseyness and sense of Asian kinship inappropriately kicked in and made me ask him where he was from.
“Canton, I’m from Canton” he said.
“Oh, you’re from Hong Kong then?”
“Yes, I’m from Hong Kong.”
Already we were above ground and as fate would have it, still going in opposite directions. He insisted on giving me his card, which proved to be a perfect example of the sweet symbiosis between simplicity and mystery. A white card, his name Kevin stood large and black right in the center in front of a background of two faded blue letters. Italicised and in lower case, there they were: bg. Below that, his phone number. Above this he wrote in his email address. In turn I furnished him with my spam receptacle address, my hotmail account. We parted ways with him giving me my first European Left cheek bisou - Right cheek bisou of this trip. Cunningly he stalled somehow for some seconds more to enable him to then go in for a final Left cheek bisou, the real cheek press and rub. The good stuff.
Coming back on Friday evening I shared space in the ligne 7 –> Ivy.Villejuif Métro car with guess who…… the French Mr. Bean!! Talk about excitement!
He even had those long pale hands with fingers fidgety and fiddly, looking for something to crawl onto (he was busy poking at his blackberry). He even nervously licked his lips in that quick, sloppy way, as if he were trying to slurp them back into his mouth. Even those big round eyes, deep set and buggy; and ears that stuck out.
For those few stops between Chatelet and Censier-Daubenton I stood there resting my head against the pole, admiring him in his Beanness. He was hunched in the upper body, legs apart with his feet pointing inwards. With this posture his shirt slackened to gather in creases above his tummy, giving it freedom to protrude in gentle roundedness. His suit jacket stretched across his shoulders and arms as he held his gadget straight out in front of him with curved arms.
I was seriously in heaven. How could this be possible? A real Bean? And the secret is that he’s French? He looked up once or twice to my massive smile and impolite stare, but seemed totally unconcerned or surprised.
What more is there to say? Wow. The French get it all, the stylish cosmopolitans and the Beans of this world. Where is the justice?
Observations about the French(-Parisians):
Their dress sense and aesthetic is encouraged and cultivated from a very young age. I’ve been gazing in awe at the gorgeous leather boots that a 4 year old girl wears, along with suede miniskirt, funky coloured tights and casually co-ordinated hat and scarf. The little boys are a bit more normal but maybe somewhere in adolescence they realise they need to make an effort to get the stylish girls because it seems that by 18 at the latest most of them have style as well. It’s freaky. And obviously shows how controlled French people really are because with all the velvet jackets and silky scarves going around I don’t know how people can not be stroking each other all the time. My younger brother gave me a furry-hooded hoodie to wear, and I try to discreetly nuzzle back into it whenever I remember that there’s fur mere inches away from my skin.
They are the absolute masters in the western world at taking time out. Well… I can’t know that for sure, because there may be other such as the Spanish or the Italians who have honed that skill as well. Nevertheless they’re the best, whether they’re alone or share the top spot. I’ve always thought that I was pretty good at wiling away time, until I realised how incredibly surprised I was that restaurant/brasserie staff won’t make any attempts to shoo you out after you’ve finished eating. I mean once you’ve bought a coffee, or established yourself on a nice seat in the park, no one gives an ounce of a damn if you spend two hours sitting there reading, writing, staring meaningfully into space as if you were philosophising or remembering a past love affair, tapping away on your laptop or chattering into your phone. No one cares. Really. Not at all.
Conclusion: I am very much not Parisian.
On another note I love the Pompidou Centre. It taught me today that I love Kupka, Luigi Russolo (?) and Sonia Delauney as well as a cubist sculptor called Laurens. I have no idea what I will do with this newfound discovery of my affinity with their work but I’m very appreciative of how they’ve thrilled my brain today. Though I have to confess that after 3 hours of walking around just one section, I had a bender of a headache. That’s one of the problems of some of the museums in Paris I think, they really pack way too much into one ”section”. You really have no chance to savour it all, it’s no lie that the brain has limits!!
Final note: All the joggers are American.
