ALLEZ KELLY!!!

Translation: GO KELLY!!!

Exhausted. First day of a new weekend and I come home almost straight after class to relax instead of my typical commencing of epic adventures. But the past week had every right to cause me to feel so tired - it is a wonderful tired I must clarify.

Last Thursday, I found myself riding on an overnight train to Bayonne on the Atlantic Coast of Southern France. Carly, Ryan and I boarded the train, armed with their beer, my wine, brought in place of the forgotten benadryl in a vain attempt to help our sleeping in the half-reclining seats. We got off the train in Bayonne at 6:40 am with the sky still reluctant to show the first signs of daylight. The three of us wandered around the train station, sharing a small neon orange blanket and nibbling on dark chocolate and almonds, looking for a nonexistent bus stop in the dark. We had about 20 minutes to find it, but after walking to each stop visible at the roundabout and asking 4 different people, we found our bus - just as it was pulling away. The three of us instantly sprinted, packs bouncing on our backs, dodging cars in the roundabout, however we split in three different directions. Carly being my directionally-challenged friend mentioned in a previous post, went in the completely opposite direction (love you).

Ryan luckily jumped in front of the bus and paid the driver who graciously waited for Carly to cross two streets, and we sighed as we plopped down in our seats, finally on our way to Hossegor.

The early gray sky was streaked with warm pinks when the bus dropped us off. We walked through the town of Hossegor, admiring the surf shops and cafés that were still closed, excited by the smell of salt water. Carly goes to Santa Barbara as well, although we didn't know each other before, and Ryan grew up in Hawaii and now attends UCSD, so it's understandable how the smell of the sea can get us a bit excited after living in a bustling city, away from our natural habitat of beaches for over a month.

The beach welcomed us with a giant black stage, covered in Quiksilver logos. We had arrived. On the stage there was a large screen showing videos and interviews of professional surfers. The golden glow on the horizon, backlighting this stage made the excitement too much to handle. It was almost 9 am, and the Quiksilver Pro France 2010 would soon be starting it's first heat of the day.

We ran down to the sand, sinking or toes in, relishing in its familiarity. For a moment we paused with smiles, unable to register the sensations of feeling sand on the feet and ocean spray, the sound of the crashing waves, a subtle taste of salt and the view of the most beautiful beach. There was so much to enjoy, it was overwhelming in our delirious states. The white tents further down the beach caught our attention, and again we began our excited pursuit, feet sinking deep into the sand with every step on account of our heavy packs. By the time we made it to the tents we were exhausted, panting, but we were there. Brett Simpson was right in front of us in his white rash guard, slicing through a wave. It was incredible.

We spent the entire day on this magnificent beach, listening to the hum of a thousand cameras' shutters, watching crowds chase Kelly Slater into and out of the water, crossing fingers when we weren't sure if someone would make it out of a crushing tube. We ate hamburgers and chili dogs with fake hot dogs and cheese whiz sans bun - the hot dog vendor gave me the strangest look "Sans pain?!" explaining that he'd never done that before, but ok. And at the end of the day, happy and relaxed by the surf and sun, we took the bus back to Capbreton, after which we realized we could have saved the 2 euro and walked.

We had reserved a room in a little hotel, choosing the 2 person room to save money. Since there were 3 of us, Carly waited outside while Ryan and I went to check in. The kind old lady with an auburn beehive welcomed us to the empty building, and handed us a key to room number 7. We made it inside the room after 5 minutes of Ryan trying to work the old fashion key in the loose lock, and we discovered that room number 7 was a charming corner room with two windows, a tiny bathroom with a door that didn't shut, and one bed. One big bed. And wood floors.

We had to stop analyzing the room for a minute so we could figure out how to get Carly past the lady at the front desk in this empty hotel. Ryan went down to scope out the situation and talk to Carly, while I was left in the room, laughing at it and our big bed and bathroom door that wouldn't close. Luckily, the lady with the auburn beehive was just coming off her shift and leaving for the day, and Ryan and Carly were able to slip in behind her unnoticed by the new lady with her simple silver hair and cable knit sweater.

After laughing at whoever was in the shower behind the bathroom door that wouldn't close, and napping while The Simpson's in French played on the TV in the background, we head out to find some food, and some fun. Food unfortunately was skipped, since we had eaten burgers and fries only a few hours earlier, but fun was definitely found. There was a concert that Quiksilver put on in Capbreton that night, as they had had events every other night in near-by towns. We could hear the music from our hotel, but had no idea where it was taking place. Following the sound ended up being a mistake, in the small town, noises bounced off all the buildings, through every street, making it sound as if the music was coming from all directions. We walked in a big circle, back and forth down the same street, were searching for at least a half hour, before we made any progress. But then it appeared. Road blocks, preventing cars from driving through the town center, the back of a stage, and Quiksilver banners covering outdoor bars serving drinks with straws and glow-sticks. We made out way through the crowd, deciding to allow Ryan to weave through to the bar to get a round of drinks.

We had only been sipping on our drinks for a few minutes before a guy in the crowd in front of us turned around and greeted us in French. His name was Sylvan, and he lived in one of these small towns and loved to surf - like everybody else. He introduced us to his friend Tony, and a few others, and the group of us stayed together for the rest of the night. It was the most French Carly, Ryan and I had spoken in a given night since we usually all stick together. Between our French, and Sylvan and Tony's English, we all got along and had some fun dancing to the bands on stage, and talking about anything from surfing to music, how we felt in Paris, what California was like.

The three of us split from our new French friends at around midnight due to the long day we had had beginning at 6:40 that same morning. We made it back to the hotel and into our funny room number 7 and all slept in the one big bed like pigs in a blanket; Carly and I didn't have the hearts to tell ryan to sleep on the wood floor without any pillows or blankets. We giggled at our little room number 7, tried to find more Simpsons in French and became disappointed with our 10 channel selection of late night TV before setting the alarm for 7 am and turning off the light.

I rolled over in the morning light to check my watch, 8:15. We scrambled a bit to get our things together - Saturday was the finals of the pro tour and we didn't want to miss it. Carly left a few minutes before us to get past the front desk, Ryan and I checked out with the simple silver haired lady, and we were off - walking to Hossegor again with all of our belongings. We stopped at a grocery store in the little town to buy some breakfast and at a pharmacy for a tiny 15 euro bottle of sunscreen and soon we were again walking down the beach to the white tents. My feet had become raw, walking on the more grainy parts of sand with sharp pebbles and small bits of broken shells. Each step in the sand became extremely painful, and I tried to walk tenderly on the wet sand as I wouldn't sink so far into it as the dry sand with my pack. I was nick-named "baby-feet" by my two wonderful friends, and slowed us down a little bit from a run to a brisk walk, but we made it there all the same, and we hadn't missed the final. Semi-finals were just finishing up by the time we claimed our territory beneath the dunes, ready to devour our incredible breakfast.

At the store we had bought smoked salmon, yogurt, apples, bananas, potato chips and champagne to go with a bottle of orange juice we had brought home from the concert the night before. We sat on the sand, feasting on the best breakfast I've ever had, warming up in the sun and getting ready to watch incredible surfing on some of the most intimidating waves I've ever seen.

Kelly Slater was in the semi-finals, I think against Owen Wright, now I don't really remember. Towards the end of the heat, Slater took a wave, slid down into the tube, and no one was really sure he was going to come out...but he did. The announcers that had been keeping us so entertained the past two days counted down together in English " 3...2...1...10! Kelly Slater you have received a perfect 10!". I don't know very much about surfing, but after watching a lot of it those past couple days paired with Ryan's tutoring, I didn't really think a 10 was possible. It was absolutely insane!

Unfortunately, Kelly didn't win, in the finals he got some crappy waves and so the crown went to Mick Fanning from Australia, the current world champion of men's surfing. Second place isn't too shabby though, and Kelly still had to run from all the crowds that would chase him all over the beach.

When the competition was over, the crowds clear off the beach. Ryan and I went and jumped in the water as it wasn't so cold. It was the first time I've been in the Atlantic ocean! The salt water felt so good on my skin, it was so refreshing that I didn't even mind when we got yelled at by beach patrol. Nothing could have spoiled my mood that day. After a couple hours of lounging in the sun, we had to find our way back to the bus stop to get to Bayonne for our next over-night train back to Paris.

Bayonne was a totally different world. We crossed the bridge from the bus stop into the old center and found ourselves traversing through allies and narrow cobble-stone streets. Each pub was overflowing with people wearing blue and white, blocking the streets making it almost impossible to walk through. There was a rugby match, Bayonne verse Biarritz, their biggest rival. Each of the tiny stone streets lead to the stadium where the sea of blue and white eventually drained into.

We found our way to a small restaurant away from the crowds called El Asador. We were first drawn to it because we could hear someone inside singing - the place was empty though. We went inside and sat down at a table - the restaurant was basque food, something we had been wanting to try during our whole trip, and the menu offered a "formule", a 3 course meal which you could chose from a select menu. The server was incredibly nice and helped me to order food that would be gluten-free, and helped us with various other things throughout the evening. Before the entrées (appetizers) came out, the server brought out a carafe (pitcher) of sangria for us to share, some bread, and gazpacho. The three of us argued over which glass the sangria went in - the smaller one, or the wine glass - we asked the server, just to ensure our etiquette, and I was right! Alcoholic beverages always go in the smaller glass in France, the larger, even if it is a wine glass is reserved for water. If you put wine in your water glass, you'll be getting some chuckles and possibly accused of alcoholism. We also tried to figure out what the appropriate way to eat our gazpacho and pepper, and whatever that thing in the spoon was the server told me I couldn't eat. IN our hunger we just went for it, but after, we observed a neighboring table, and I tried to coach Ryan through the process - he failed miserably, leaving us all in fits of giggles.

The entrées (appetizers) came out, mine being different from that which was on the fixed menu, because both of the choices contained gluten. Instead I received a plat du jambon (plate of ham, prosciutto -like For the main dish I had mullet, baked cod-like fish in a cream sauce with potatoes, mine without breadcrumbs. And for dessert, I had crème au something - but basically crème brulée only the custard was heavier like that of flan. Everything was absolutely phenomenal! I dare to say that it was by far the best meal I've had since I've been away from home, for going out for meals anyway - Madam does cook some mean gluten-free crêpes.

Full and happy, we left the amazing little restaurant to make our way back to the train station. We hardly took any pictures while we were there, thinking that it was something that was too good to be captured in a photo, or to be described. It was something that we would remember forever, and people would have to go there to understand.

I already miss it there, but I'm hoping with how close Bordeaux is to it that next semester it will be an easy day trip. It's made me become even more excited for what's to come.