An ongoing series about uprooting our lives in America and moving to France. For what's happened before, see previous Jours of Our Lives entries here.
WE'D BEEN IN Auray working for seven weeks (the owners of the house had graciously allowed us to extend our stay), but now it was time to leave for the light-filled South. Our final day at our borrowed home was frightful, trying to get work finished and to face cleaning the house and packing up. It was sad yet exhilarating to be leaving. We didn’t get through until late afternoon, lighting out for Nantes at 4 P.M. We would stop there to see a Matisse exhibit in the Musée des Beaux Arts. After that, we would spend a few days in Bordeaux with French friends who once lived in Little Rock!
Ultimately, though, we were bound for La Côte Basque. Not via the barbs of Truman Capote writing about New York’s elite separate society in one of their favorite lairs…but the Southern journey of Matisse and his hideaway on the independently-minded French and Spanish Basque coast. We were ready. From here on out, it would be sun and sea, and the promise of color and light excited both of us. It was the promise of illuminating ourselves.
Jacques Henri Lartigue au Pays Basque, a book of wonderful photography of this region
One thing I’m learning from this trip, about art and the artists who created it, is that art is emotion. I didn’t understand this in the same way before. I did know one of my own goals as a writer was for people to feel something from whatever I’d written. That was essential to me. But I didn’t fully comprehend that that was the point. I thought there was an intellectual element that was full of intricacies—that historical period, technique, style, and so on made a difference in an educated perception. Now what I realize is that art—whether with paint, clay, or words—is emotion unveiled. This is the element that gives a piece cohesiveness, life, and energy.
That’s what I was mulling when we arrived in Biarritz. I’d always heard about the glitz and glamour of this Côte Basque resort but had never been to this part of France. The Empress Eugénie and Napoleon III put the fishing village on the map in the 1850’s, building a palace for their summer court on the sea. The beautiful people naturally followed them, for the next three-quarters of a century. Then, in the 1920s, the trendy coterie of stars and affluent stargazers moved on to Cannes and Nice.
Jacques Henri Lartigue au Pays Basque: Images of Biarritz, above and below
We were happy for our little tour of the legendary resort. Biarritz is built on the hillside with
cliffs jutting down to the sea, but it’s also blessed with a wide sandy beach. As the “retirement capital of France,” it still exudes great appeal—though now with a touch of faded elegance. Waves crashed on rocks as we strolled above the surf and crossed a little bridge to climb the stairways of the island boulders, from which we had views of the seaside Hôtel du Palais (where the palace once stood) and, in the other direction, the “Rocher de la Vierge,” the Rock of the Virgin. A statue of the Virgin Mary stands looking out to sea, and a group of terrible musicians played outside the tunnel below her. I hope she shut her ears.
It was only a few kilometers from Biarritz to St-Jean-de-Luz (illustration by James Morgan below), which also must be stuffed with people in the summer. We hadn’t made a hotel reservation. Big mistake. The Season was gearing up, the weather was bright and sunny, and vacationers were flocking to the beach like mad. We lucked out and found a room at the pleasurably modern Hotel Hēlianthal. Our room had a terrace overlooking the garden, and the bathroom and its products were fabulous. The hotel has an ocean-front spa that I would so love to sign up for another time.
That night we strolled over to a restaurant we’d spotted and savored amazing Serrano ham (the beginning of Basque world for us) and fish. About the latter: This is very strange turn of events, but I who love fish, and always looked forward to going to the beach because I only ate fresh seafood, am now finding it weird. Maybe it’s from going to the French fish markets and seeing these sea creatures intact with teeth and eyes. Anyway, I’ve gotten squeamish and don’t want to see peculiar or creepy body parts on my plate. Fillets are fine. Oysters are delicious. Nothing too fishy-tasting is okay—but suddenly fish is iffy.
After dinner, I saw a tray of enticing after-dinner drinks delivered to a table full of men— cherry red and served in snifters with ice. With my usual insouciance, I said to the waiter, “What’s that stuff they’re drinking?” Thus we became devotees of the Spanish after-dinner drink, Patxaran. Oh, it is delicious, and packs a deceptive punch.
St-Jean-de-Luz (illustration by James Morgan on right) is as pretty as its name, with avenues lined with plane trees, a promenade by the sea, a sandy beach, and Basque architecture which mixes Spanish and French details. It is white, light, and silvery, with splashes of Southern color. As in Brittany, all the road signs have two names on them—French, and in this region, Basque.
Across the bay, protected by a seawall, is the village of Ciboure, where M. Matisse holed up for a while during the beginning of World War II. Ciboure is quieter than St-Jean and smaller. We only saw one hotel (I’m sure there are more). We’d driven the few minutes over for lunch and found a row of restaurants with terraces that look across the moored boats and blue water to St-Jean. A tethered fleet of young student sailors were being pulled behind their teacher in a bigger craft with motor—they looked like a row of baby ducks.
Ciboure, Jacques Henri Lartigue au Pays Basque
The next day we switched our devotion to Hemingway and drove the 30 kilometers or so to San Sebastien, Spain. It was so close and the romantic pull of Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises wouldn’t let us resist it. San Sebastien was not a sleepy village as we imagined, but a city. On this Sunday afternoon we parked and promenaded along the harbor with the Spanish, as is their nature and habit, then caught the end of an orchestral concert in a gazebo on the end of a grand boulevard. We were starving and stopped at a café for lunch—tumblers of refreshing Sangria and mouth-watering tapas of various combinations of bread, anchovies, mayo, ham, roasted peppers, and croquettas which basically resembled mashed potato hush puppies peppered with bits of ham.
As we promenaded ourselves along the streets and squares of San Sebastien, we looked through the doorways of restaurants and bars. Platters of tapas lined up on the counters scented the air with their savory aromas. The crush of lunch had ended with cigarette butts stomped on the floors. But people still sat in the afternoon sun eating and drinking, while others performed their social sauntering. We stumbled upon a trio of jazz musicians—including an accordionist—playing for a crowd. (Illustration by James Morgan on right.) Jim sketched the scene while I poked around the colossal and attractive Constitution Square.
For me, there was no trace of Hemingway except perhaps in the spirit of a Spanish Sunday afternoon in the separatist Basque Country. I suppose you could say that “La Côte Basque” society that Mr. Capote captured in his own inimitable way was just as separatist as the Spanish coast it was named for. And the modern flocks of beautiful people who adored and then spurned him were just as fickle as the glamorous who moved on to the Côte d’Azur.
Beth Arnold
St-Jean-de-Luz, France
April 25, 2003
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Plutchik's Wheel of Emotions image via Fractal.org
Unless otherwise indicated, photos by Beth Arnold. Not subject to use without permission.
Beth Arnold lives and writes in Paris, where she produces her "Letter From Paris" new media project.
You can find the Chasing Matisse book by James Morgan here at Amazon--or you can find it in or order it from your favorite book store.
Jours of Our Lives illlustration by artist (and couturier) Elizabeth Cannon. To find out more about her, click here.
