One of the concerns we'd had before we came to France was that our mental perception of life here was mostly formed in the mid 90s when we were teenagers, and that the reality of modern French life might prove to be a disappointment in the rose tinted context of carefree youthful summer holidays. However, the last couple of weeks have served as reassurance that the seaside world of our youth remains mostly in tact.
This weekend marks the end of les vacances, a month-long exodus for most people from professional work. Fully embracing the local culture, we've spent the last couple of weeks on a sequence of mini-vacations with various members of our family.
Despite the fact that the whole country is on vacation, the culture revels in informing you that the holidays are almost over. On August 1st, the supermarkets stopped selling fans and summer clothing, despite the fact it was still hot enough outside to cook eggs on exposed metal surfaces. The newspapers are full of stories of 'rentree' - the return to school and work, and there are endless slightly quaint adverts for exercise books and pencil sharpeners.
We spent the first week with Rosie's brother - Tom, and his family on the Mediterranean coast near Argeles-sur-mer in the kind of campsite that would have been instantly familiar our 13 year old selves. Every radio playlist seemed to have remained unchanged since the mid-90s - with Macarena, Seal and Freed from Desire being piped uniformly across the campsite, much to Rosie's delight.
Our holidays were interspersed with failed attempts to get lunch - a delicate endeavor in France in which any service is denied to you the moment you fail to observe any of the explicit or implicit rules. Perhaps the strictest is timing: lunch is between noon and 2pm - and this is non-negotiable. Arriving at a cafe with a baby which has briefly gone to sleep at 11.30am and asking for the menu, we were greeted with the kind of bemused stare which might have been expected if you'd just walked into a random stranger's house and demanded a sandwich.
Under-dressing or under-ordering for lunch seems to be downright offensive: Rosie was asked to go and change after sitting down in the campsite cafe in quasi-swimwear. Ask for a coffee and cake at lunchtime and you'll be sent elsewhere. Lunch is a sacred ritual, to be ignored at your peril. At best, you'll be moved on. But much worse, you'll sit down while the restaurateur intensely resents your presence for the duration of your stay.
Most of our time, however, was spent as a long overdue catching up with our family. On the first night, I was dispatched to take Tom's 5 year old daughter, Anoushka to the playground after dinner. I managed, somewhat improbably, to shift the topic of conversation to angular momentum - demonstrating that I could increase my rate of rotation on the roundabout my moving my mass towards the center.
"Are you a magician?", she asked.
"No," I replied, sensing and grasping a once-in-a-lifetime comeback, "I'm a physicist."
Feeling quite smug, we walked back to Tom's caravan, with my confidence slightly evaporating when I failed to find it for 45 minutes in the endless rows of identical caravans - eventually using a mix of celestial navigation and walking towards the source of the unending techno music to find our way back. Thankfully, Anoushka didn't seem to care - happily babbling about her newfound appreciation for getting lost.
The immediate coastline around the site was a mix of semi-developed beach activities with boat hires and inflatable toys which then transitioned to nudist areas which were totally unspoiled but full of middle aged naked men. We took to going for walks looking purposefully and definitively at the horizon.
After a few days of kayaking and pool parties (seriously), we took a train across the country to join my family in the Basque country on the southwest coast, in a country house my mum had rented. Sam took great delight in the arrival of my sister Charlotte's dog - Pip, as they collectively embarked on chasing balls and chickens around the garden.
Sam's linguistic development also seems to have passed a threshold, as he seemingly takes on several words per day. My Dad has tactically adopted a new name for the occasion based on the first sound he ever heard him say ("Bob") - which is now firmly imprinted. Sam, meanwhile, continues to confuse Rosie and I's name - often vehemently arguing the point ("My name's Daddy", "No!! Mummy!").
We all spent a few days in and around Ustaritz, a village on a sleepy train line in the lush western foothills of the Pyrenees. The Basque culture was ubiquitous - all signs were bilingual, and the houses all neatly painted in identical hues of reddy-brown and green. Even the odd (albeit rare) graffiti was perfectly color-matched to the Basque pallette.
On our last day, I decided I needed to run up a mountain - scoping out the nearest, highest peak next to the planned day at the river which served as a reminder that, unlike Colorado, trails are not always reliable in the Pyrenees. After a slightly tricky ascent, involving some unintuitive route-finding and passing some dogs who were unaccustomed and quite unhappy about seeing any strangers, I decided to descend a different way.
After a majestic start with the endless misty peaks cascading into the east while vultures circled overhead, the trail began to deteriorate. Now pushing the limit of the time I said I'd be away, and already having descended 400m - I decided to push on, increasingly regretting the decision as the trail disappeared entirely leaving a choice between thorny vegetation, steep cliffs and a stream. I chose the latter, sliding over slimy rocks, being attacked by insects and inwardly cursing myself for not just having a nice time with my family on the beach like a normal person.
Somewhat beaten up, I got back to the family in time to leave for farewell drinks with the owners of the rental house - the kind of situation where our French is hopelessly inadequate, but you drink sufficient wine to not care. We spent a pleasant evening imagining what it would be like to live in the same house for your entire life, rather than consistently moving every other year.
And so now, we finally reach the end of our vacation. Tomorrow I will turn up at the front gates of Meteo France, knowing less French then I might have hoped by this point but hopefully enough to explain to the guard that I, at least in theory, have a job.
This weekend marks the end of les vacances, a month-long exodus for most people from professional work. Fully embracing the local culture, we've spent the last couple of weeks on a sequence of mini-vacations with various members of our family.
Despite the fact that the whole country is on vacation, the culture revels in informing you that the holidays are almost over. On August 1st, the supermarkets stopped selling fans and summer clothing, despite the fact it was still hot enough outside to cook eggs on exposed metal surfaces. The newspapers are full of stories of 'rentree' - the return to school and work, and there are endless slightly quaint adverts for exercise books and pencil sharpeners.
We spent the first week with Rosie's brother - Tom, and his family on the Mediterranean coast near Argeles-sur-mer in the kind of campsite that would have been instantly familiar our 13 year old selves. Every radio playlist seemed to have remained unchanged since the mid-90s - with Macarena, Seal and Freed from Desire being piped uniformly across the campsite, much to Rosie's delight.
 |
| Chill |
Under-dressing or under-ordering for lunch seems to be downright offensive: Rosie was asked to go and change after sitting down in the campsite cafe in quasi-swimwear. Ask for a coffee and cake at lunchtime and you'll be sent elsewhere. Lunch is a sacred ritual, to be ignored at your peril. At best, you'll be moved on. But much worse, you'll sit down while the restaurateur intensely resents your presence for the duration of your stay.
Most of our time, however, was spent as a long overdue catching up with our family. On the first night, I was dispatched to take Tom's 5 year old daughter, Anoushka to the playground after dinner. I managed, somewhat improbably, to shift the topic of conversation to angular momentum - demonstrating that I could increase my rate of rotation on the roundabout my moving my mass towards the center.
"Are you a magician?", she asked.
"No," I replied, sensing and grasping a once-in-a-lifetime comeback, "I'm a physicist."
Feeling quite smug, we walked back to Tom's caravan, with my confidence slightly evaporating when I failed to find it for 45 minutes in the endless rows of identical caravans - eventually using a mix of celestial navigation and walking towards the source of the unending techno music to find our way back. Thankfully, Anoushka didn't seem to care - happily babbling about her newfound appreciation for getting lost.
The immediate coastline around the site was a mix of semi-developed beach activities with boat hires and inflatable toys which then transitioned to nudist areas which were totally unspoiled but full of middle aged naked men. We took to going for walks looking purposefully and definitively at the horizon.
 |
| Don't stare |
After a few days of kayaking and pool parties (seriously), we took a train across the country to join my family in the Basque country on the southwest coast, in a country house my mum had rented. Sam took great delight in the arrival of my sister Charlotte's dog - Pip, as they collectively embarked on chasing balls and chickens around the garden.
 |
| Dreaming of chickens |
Sam's linguistic development also seems to have passed a threshold, as he seemingly takes on several words per day. My Dad has tactically adopted a new name for the occasion based on the first sound he ever heard him say ("Bob") - which is now firmly imprinted. Sam, meanwhile, continues to confuse Rosie and I's name - often vehemently arguing the point ("My name's Daddy", "No!! Mummy!").
We all spent a few days in and around Ustaritz, a village on a sleepy train line in the lush western foothills of the Pyrenees. The Basque culture was ubiquitous - all signs were bilingual, and the houses all neatly painted in identical hues of reddy-brown and green. Even the odd (albeit rare) graffiti was perfectly color-matched to the Basque pallette.
On our last day, I decided I needed to run up a mountain - scoping out the nearest, highest peak next to the planned day at the river which served as a reminder that, unlike Colorado, trails are not always reliable in the Pyrenees. After a slightly tricky ascent, involving some unintuitive route-finding and passing some dogs who were unaccustomed and quite unhappy about seeing any strangers, I decided to descend a different way.
After a majestic start with the endless misty peaks cascading into the east while vultures circled overhead, the trail began to deteriorate. Now pushing the limit of the time I said I'd be away, and already having descended 400m - I decided to push on, increasingly regretting the decision as the trail disappeared entirely leaving a choice between thorny vegetation, steep cliffs and a stream. I chose the latter, sliding over slimy rocks, being attacked by insects and inwardly cursing myself for not just having a nice time with my family on the beach like a normal person.
 |
| Never trust openstreetmap |
Somewhat beaten up, I got back to the family in time to leave for farewell drinks with the owners of the rental house - the kind of situation where our French is hopelessly inadequate, but you drink sufficient wine to not care. We spent a pleasant evening imagining what it would be like to live in the same house for your entire life, rather than consistently moving every other year.
And so now, we finally reach the end of our vacation. Tomorrow I will turn up at the front gates of Meteo France, knowing less French then I might have hoped by this point but hopefully enough to explain to the guard that I, at least in theory, have a job.
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