Initially, we couldn't see our train number anywhere on the monitors showing upcoming trains for the day. I went to the information office and still couldn't find a train headed where we were going that had the same number indicated on our TGV reservations. I finally found someone who figured out what my concern was and told me I needed to look for a schedule for trains headed to another (further) location. I know that that's how the metro system works, but hadn't bumped into it on the train before. The tricky aspect was that the destination I had to look for was a place I had never heard of before, much less one that I would know was a couple towns beyond where we were going.
Once we got the right schedule, we could see that we only had 5 minutes between the train's arrival and departure. There are 17 possible tracks in the Bordeaux train station, so we both did some reconnaissance missions to get acquainted with how to get to the different tracks. Turns out you have to go down to and through an underground tunnel then back up to the right track. Fortunately, it all went as smoothly as it could. As predicted, our train track was posted about 20 minutes out. We lucked out with Track 4, so we didn't have to go to the farthest points. We bustled to our track and studied the digital picture that would tell us where in the train's makeup our car number would be located. Just as we've experienced before, we knew to expect the train to not show up where they say it will be, meaning you still have to run and pray you'll find the right car and be able to get your bags on and find your seats before it leaves the station. We did and all was fine, but we both let out a solid sigh of relief once we were seated and the train was moving.
Our good deed for the day: When we got to our track, I asked a woman her voiture (car) number, just to see if I had understood where we should be. She looked at me blankly and said, "English?". Turns out she and her husband are Canadians from Vancouver, BC, and had never traveled by train before and spoke no French. They had not punched their tickets before going to the track, a requirement throughout the French system. I finally convinced them they should do that. I knew they were looking for car #2, while we were looking for car #3. (It's not as straightforward as it sounds. They don't show up in numerical order.) As we were running toward our car, I noticed they started running when they saw a car with a big 2 on the side. They were very confused, because they saw 4 or 5 cars that said that. I quickly pointed out that the big 2 simply means it's a second class car. They needed to find one with a 1 on it and then find car #2 of the first class cars. When we ran by their car, I waved back to them to indicate which car they needed to enter. Hopefully, this all worked for them. As on edge as we were about making our connection, I could only imagine what a blur this all was for these folks.
Our ride was smooth and uneventful. We made some modest connections with a woman sharing our two-facing-two setup and a nice young man across the aisle. Since we had just spent 11 days in the company of Americans, it was good to get our feet wet about interacting with French-speaking people.
Once we reached Biarritz, we took a cab to the airport to pick up our rental car. (Being a Sunday, the car rental offices at the train station are closed.) We only had a 10km drive to our reserved lodging. It was set in the hills inland from the Atlantic coast. We settled in and had a very nice dinner.
On Monday, it was still raining, but we headed south to St. Jean de Luz. We got a break in the weather and got to see the beaches and the old town center. We also drove a corniche road with some lovely views. Shortly after we got to our farthest point for the day's exploration (Hendaye, a historical meeting point for Hitler and Franco, and the obscure town we needed to look for on the train monitor the day before), the skies opened up. Thunder, lightning, squalls. It set the tone for the next several days. We've never seen so many squalls, one after another.
On Tuesday, we waited out some particularly heavy rains and then took a driving tour of a handful of Basque villages further inland. Ascain, Sare, Ainhoa, and Espelette. Each had its charms, and, of course, each had its own fronton (pelote court). Throughout Basque Country, no matter how small the village, we found a fronton in each one.
We usually had a break in the weather when we were exploring the villages. We were not so lucky in Espelette, which is widely famous for their pimento peppers. Though we had planned to skip lunch, we made a late decision to take refuge in a cafe. We were late, and in France one's lunch timing is all important. Lunch time is noon to 2pm. You don't have to start promptly at noon, but you dare not wait too late or they shoo you away. We stepped into the cafe at 1:50pm or so and thought they might well tell us we'd missed the boat. Our suspicion is that they did not do so simply because we looked like a couple drowned rats. Water was streaming off us. How could they say no?
A hotel in Espelette, covered in drying peppers. White buildings with red tile roofs and red shutters are very typical of the architecture of the Basque region.
Here's a stained glass representation of Basque men (note the ubiquitous berets) playing pelote. Think handball or squash with basket scoops instead of a racquet.
A fronton or pelote court. They are almost always on the main square of a town or village, and are frequently adjacent to the church. Many, such as this one, have built in seats and some are lit as well.
The Basque cross, or lauburu, seen everywhere--on gates and fences, on signs and towels and just about anything Basque.
Some of the lovely countryside in this Atlantic area of Pays Basque.
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