flying trip to Spain

Still at the exorbitant café so still rushing ... If yesterday was Sunday, it must have been Spain. Michele took me on a flying visit - we'd thought of going to Bilbao but it was just too far, so we went instead to the small fishing villages along the north coast, the Cote Basque, near France. It is extraordinary to cross from one country to another with only a little sign to greet you, and suddenly there you are, everything is in Spanish.

We stopped in Hontarrabia to walk in the old village and sit on the avenue of plane trees watching the walkers after the mass, families gathered to eat grilled sardines and calamari and jabber at full volume. As Michele pointed out, Spaniards are much noisier than the French - all talking very fast at once, and if possible with loud brass bands in the background, or guitars. Saw lots of Basque costumes - beret, scarves, old-fashioned tied leggings - and a few large signs calling for independence, which is still a big issue in Spain though not in France.

We stopped a bit later in a bigger fishing village - don't have my map here and have forgotten the name - for a full lunch with scores of Spaniards doing the same thing. On the menu were "scorpion fish pudding, nape of hake and tournedos with garnishing," but we opted for calamari in ink sauce and grilled fish. Delicious, and the coffee was sublime. We watched the fishing boats go out and I realised - these are the ones that go to Newfoundland - the enemy of the Newfoundlanders. In fact, the village next to Hossegor here is Cap-Breton, from which many fish boats go to Nova Scotia - so surely this is where the name Cape Breton comes from. Learn a little every day.

Anyway, we had a three hour lunch watching the Spaniards en famille, many smoking - no anti-smoking laws here, and I can attest that they let their dogs poo freely, more than the French do now. Then we went to ... I have drawn a complete blank, I'm embarrassed to say - I think I'm travelled out. An elegant big town nearby where thousands of people were strolling along the beach boardwalk. Even though I can't remember the names, I can remember the grilled fish, the coffee, the sound of Spanish flashing by - me trying out my high-school Spanish. Me gusta mucho espagnol.

We had a great day, even though cold and rainy.

Back to Montpellier tomorrow night, where I can take my time and also look at a map. Hasta la vista. Mi casa es su casa. Etc.

on the beach

Must be quick - I'm at an exorbitant internet café in Hossegor, in the south-west of France on the Atlantic. Some English guy is cleaning up with his prices here, since it's the only internet access in town, except at the tourist office where you can have ten minutes for free if you want to line up with the crowds. The weather is not good - dark clouds overhead, drizzling rain, chilly - and I, travelling light for once for my trip to the beach, with 3 tank tops and 2 little summer dresses! Luckily one pair of pants and Michele, my hostess, has lent me a sweater and today, a raincoat.

Michele inherited this house from her parents, has been coming here in the summers since she was 12 years old; my family stayed here with her in 1965, as our European sejour wound down. Now her children and grandchildren come regularly to share it with her. Both her grown sons, their wives and children were here at first, but have gradually gone on their separate ways so now, it's just the two old biddies. Michele looks about 50, with thick black hair threaded with only a few strands of white and lively black eyes - when she told me she's actually 72 I nearly fell over. We are jabbering all day long. She did her Ph.D. in biochemistry with my father in the late sixties, knew both my parents, I knew hers ... much to talk about.

I went with her grandsons to the beach the first morning, a huge swath of sand for once - so many French beaches are rocky. Swimming was forbidden in the bad weather and is dangerous anyway, the current is so strong. I was paddling when a huge wave came and knocked me right under the water, which was fun. But what shocked me was the amount of garbage on the beach, brought in on the waves - plastic plates, bottles, bags, string - in a long row all along the sand. Horrible. Sylvestre told me that locals think the Spaniards throw their garbage into the water specifically to land on French beaches.

It's fun watching the surfers here - this is a big surfing town, with lots of tall blonde boys from Holland and Germany. The only car allowed for surfers is a VW, preferably a battered, painted bus like in the Sixties but a beetle will do too. It's like Florida or any beach resort in that, the girls in bikinis and the boys with their boards. But here, the parks are full of elderly men playing boules and at the market this morning, Michele and I bought the most sublimely stinky chevre and Reblochon ever.

She and I are thinking of taking a spin to Spain - she speaks fluent Spanish and lived in Valencia for some time. I will get back to you when I can - my bill here is mounting. Back in Montpellier on Tuesday.

Onward. En avant. Or, as they say in Spanish, Arriba y adelante!

on the road again

If it's Wednesday, this must be Montpellier. Off in a few minutes to the train station, to get a train to Toulouse where I'll switch to a train to Bayonne. I have a large lunch packed - you guessed it, ham sandwich, much fruit and much dark Lindt chocolate. Lindt has been one of the great discoveries of this trip - when you have no dessert for your guests, open some Lindt. I also have a P.D. James, a Kate Atkinson and a Nick Hornby. Fun reading guaranteed. Otherwise, you'll be happy to hear, I am bringing only a very small bag.

As predicted, solitude was much relished yesterday - I walked a lot around the town, including, I confess, popping into Galeries Lafayette and other stores to see what they're starting to serve for fall. (FYI: So far, the colours are grey and purple, lots of different layers, tuxedo or very short jackets and vests, cardigans, and as always, utterly absurd shoes.) Downtown Montpellier is a maze of tiny, rambling pedestrian streets, and around every corner, there's another tiny square with its own café or two under the plane trees - utterly charming.

Then I went to see the new Woody Allen, "Whatever Works," as much a fantasy as the Harry Potter I saw yesterday. I'm so impatient with Woody's faithful belief that gorgeous young women will fall in love with nasty, misanthropic, elderly depressives because they're smart and funny, I almost walked out of the movie theatre. Honestly, give me a break. However - I stayed and the film got better and better. Again, his fantasy that if the red states only moved to New York they'd discover their inner freedom ... if only. But in the end, the film is highly enjoyable, if only, like Harry Potter, for the parade of great actors having the time of their lives.

And then I sat in my outdoor café again, had a beer, watched the crowds and read the London Review of Books. There is absolutely no discomfort here for a single woman to have a drink alone and sit for as long as she wants. I must find a place in Toronto to do this - it satisfied my need for company, and then I went happily back to the flat and sat in the glorious silence.

Bruce sent me some great articles about productivity and creativity which I will summarise for you when I return from my travels. Very inspiring. There was a beautiful obituary for Sarah Torchinsky in the Globe yesterday.

This is the last jaunt into the unknown on this trip. Wish you were here.

last views of Provence

Be still, my beating heart - a cheese stand at the Cavaillon market

The best tomatoes in the world, and the seller isn't bad either

They may be a cliché but they're still lovely

View from my gite balcony

Portrait of a marriage

Issaak with his first moules frites by the sea

My birthday in the garden in Gordes

back in the swing

The trip is back on, kids - I'm back in the game, looking forward to 3 more weeks of French adventure, bout of homesickness over. For one thing, I remembered Sarah's absolute lack of self pity. Even when she was obviously suffering, she never even acknowledged her illness; what a boring subject. She wanted to talk about books, travel, world news, life, not waste time with complaint. So she told me yesterday, in a nice way, to pull myself together and shut up.

For another, after weeks as part of a boisterous crowd, it is a great pleasure and relief to be alone once more, beholden to no one and fitting in to no one else's schedule. I went to see the new Harry Potter last night, at the multiplex which is not five but two minutes from here. As I watched the fantastic quiddich matches and the little wizard kids turn into sex-crazed adolescents, it was hard to believe that the cinema was not in Toronto, Canada, where I've seen all the other Harry Potters, but in beautiful, exotic Montpellier, France. Then emerging afterwards into the narrow, crowded, carless streets and the vast open Place de l'Opera, packed with people and activity at 11.30 at night - and a tiny bit chilly. Yes, chilly. This morning, there's a blue sky and a fresh breeze. "Fresh" and "Montpellier" are not usually used in the same sentence in August.

There are no bugs here. Last night I slept with the windows wide open to the air, whereas in Gordes, they were tightly shut against the huge bouncy grasshoppers, the giant spiders, the beetles like small black helicopters. Yesterday morning one of Elissa's friends went to take a shower and found a scorpion in the bathtub. It's embarrassing to be neurotic, but there you go, I have a phobia and in the country, have to endure it. In the city, it barely exists.

There are people here, movies, shops, restaurants, museums under a bright blue sky, and I'm free to explore them if and as I want. The apartment is full of books. A day of solitary pleasure awaits.

Tomorrow, I am headed, via Toulouse, to the south-west coast of France, to Bayonne, where my friend Michele will pick me up to take me to her summer place, a beach house, as I recall from my last visit in 1965, in Hossegor. Her sons and their wives and children will be there too. I won't have the internet there, so am not sure if I'll be in touch that week. Back in the bugless joys of Montpellier probably August 12th or so.

Here's a Sarah story: she was a voracious, discriminating reader, and I'd try to find hardcover books in second-hand stores, particularly fairly recent ones, that she hadn't read. But almost always, when I arrived with my offerings, she had already read them. Or else, she started them but they didn't interest her.

One day, I said, "Sarah, I'm afraid I haven't had much luck finding the right book for you."

She looked at me with amusement.

"Keep trying," she said.

I'll be in touch.