Un week-end à Biarritz

Sometimes you need to take a break from your life to figure out what you're living for. Daily routines, needs, and desires can snowball into an existence that's moving faster than the speed of life. I notice this when I'm home for a break from school, or take a weekend escape. It's when I have time to think - not about irregular subjunctive forms or what to choose for a history paper topic, but just THINK - that I'm able to evaluate whether my actions are corresponding with my dreams. The pace of modern life doesn't give me enough chances to truly stop and reflect. I love Paris, but it was time for a break.

10 minutes after getting off the train in Biarritz, a surf town in south western France, I was hit with a blast of peace and quiet. Following my nose from the station to the youth hostel, I could hear birds chirping and nothing else. Now a lone rooster. I, too, was lone, but I wasn't lonely. Of course it's nicer to share the excitement with family or friends, but when exploring by myself, I don't feel loneliness, but independence. I have a connection with the place I am experiencing, as well as with the other travelers who for some reason or another sought out the same adventure. Anyway, walking down the sunny lane, gawking at the palm trees, smiling at the flowers, listening to the silence, I could hear only one word: serenity.

I came upon the Auberge de Jeunesse with its bright white walls and grapevine fence. Two girls were playing ping pong on an outdoor table. Learning from the receptionist that check-in wasn't for another five hours, I threw my bag and coat in a storage room and ventured into town, about 3km away. There is always something special about that first sighting of the sea. La mer! The black dots were surfers. I made my way up the coast taking in the views, then stopped at a little beach called Port Vieux to rest. Several sunbathers were sprawled on the sand. My favorite: an elderly woman leaning against the wall, cane beside, knitting, with her swimsuit rolled down to her waist. Gotta love France! Napping in the sun, I was once again very aware of my senses. The smell of the sea was subtle, refreshing after the metros of Paris. The constant yet ever-changing sound of the waves was somewhere between a gentle crash and a violet caress. German voices to the left; French to the right. The stone in my hand smoothed from a long sea life. I was utterly in the present.

Explored centre ville for the next couple hours and scoped out restaurants. By this time, my camera, phone, and iPod were all out of charge. Then for the first time, I requested a table for one, and ate a three course dinner with no one across from me. So I played the restaurant reviewer game and took notes in my Moleskin. Tikia restaurant would have been pleased with my review. A delicious salade au chèvre chaud to start, saumon à la plancha avec riz for a main, and an île flottante for dessert.

Back at the hostel later, I met three guys in their 20s in the computer room: a German and two Canadians. They had wine, so we imbibed in the hostel bar/rec room and compared our adventure stories until drowsiness augmented by wine took over.

Saturday was supposed to be my day trip to San Sebastian, Spain, but... vive la grève. The French transportation strike cancelled all but a couple trains, so best case scenario would have been two hours there smack dab in the middle of siesta time. I seriously considered hitchhiking. Looked up the word in my French dictionary and asked the hostel receptionist if that would be a bad idea. Risky, he said, "tout le monde est fou maintenant."

Plan C: go surfing. The Canadians were off toward their next destination, but Fabian from Germany took me along while he bought a new board. It was chilly and cloudy in the early afternoon, and the sea was fairly flat. While waiting for the conditions to improve we ran into another hostel guest, Eva from the Netherlands. During tea at a seaside cafe, the sun and waves appeared, and the day transformed. Eva and I rented wetsuits from a surf shop - 3 euros for two hours, maybe because we were girls.

For those two hours, my smile didn't leave my face. Fabian let me use his extra surfboard, and walking along the beach with it under my arm, I felt cooler than ever. Surfing is something that takes a lot of practice and patience to succeed at, let alone master. So as much I would have liked to have ridden a wave standing upright, I was okay with the stomach version. Paddle furiously with arms, feel the wave start to take you, push up torso, and fly. I was now one of those black surfer dots, which I would never have expected 24 hours before. Around 18:15, the sun was beginning its descent, and I got a rush of adrenaline just admiring in disbelief the beauty surrounding me. The coast of Spain in the misty distance, a cerulean sky above the roofs of Biarrtiz, a rosy reflection on the water. And I was surfing for the first time. Pure bliss. The Dutch, the German, and the American drank an after-surf beer on the beach then found a restaurant in town for Basque-French cuisine and stimulating conversation until late.

Sunday morning I woke up early and took a much-needed shower. You know you're in a hostel when you've used the same provided sheet as bedding, a bath towel, and a floor mat. Ran to the station and after a ticket machine glitch and imperative split-second decision making, I hopped on the train with no real ticket and not a minute to spare (it's okay - it worked out). On the way back to Paris I realized that during just the short weekend away, time had slowed a little to let my life catch up. With only two months left abroad, I've been stressing about taking full advantage of the experience, but now I fully believe I am.

The beauty of travel is showing up in a place alone and leaving with new friends. It is being open to new experiences when plans don't work out. It is establishing a bond with places and people you've never seen and may never see again. I could live for this.