SAW MY FIRST PAIR of French cans at the beach today. They hung from a large, pale woman sitting with her family. I had to cower behind my surfboard to hide my mega-bone.
The last few days I've been flirting with the coast, like a timid toddler along the water's edge. The south west coast is incredibly crowded this time of year, so my main challenge was to find a campsite that didn't rob me blind. All the sites on the maps or advertised on the road are all "four star" sites, meaning they have a pool, a ping pong table, maybe a washer/dryer and LoADS of tourists. The fact of the matter is I'm still going to sleep and waking up in a tiny tent. A piece of grass shouldn't cost 34 euro. Unfortunately, that's the best I could do. And the site was way out of the way of my intended surf spot for the next day. I checked in angry.
Defeated, sweaty and tired I plopped Ginger down and set up my tent. I looked around, and for the first time ever, the cheap camp spot had put me smack dab in the middle of a wild pack of young people.
I managed to avoid them and after my shower I walked up to the bar watch the world cup final. The big screen TV promised turned out to be not so big, and it was recessed into the wall behind a large corner. Its hard to describe, but for the 300 people who wanted to watch the game it was very difficult watch.
I watched the game and in the end all the Netherlands people were very sad. I thought they played a rather nasty game anyway. Go Spain.
I retired to the tent and met the two Holland kids who were adjacent to me, and they introduced me to the very rowdy brits who were in the far corner. We talked (or yelled) late into the night. At one point I was assigned the task of doing all the American accents. Then they did all the English ones. The beers here are tiny and we had a mountains of empties by the end.
In the morning we all dispersed. I sheepishly said goodbye to one of the French girls who didn't hang with us the night before. Then I decided I would surf, even if the weather sucked.
I went back North through Bayonne, caught some Internet, and got some directions to a magical sounding campsite. But en route to said campsite I discovered something even more magical. Monkeys.
French monkeys --or singes as they call them --occupy a small, enclosed plot of land north of Bayonne. They share the land with goats, one pig, and French tourists. And on this day, they also shared their magical kingdom with me.
My favorite monkey took the foot bridge over the pool as his own. Any other monkey that happened upon the bridge would soon be bitten. The monkey would dip his radish in the water, holding the stem, then follow it into the pool Monkey could swim.
I said hi to the goats and pigs, but they can't reach out and touch your pockets like monkeys can.
Why did the most beautiful girl I've seen in weeks work the counter at the monkey park? I bought things from her at the gift shop.
It was getting late and I decided to go to my dream campsite by the beach that cost 7 euro with morning bread delivery.
If you download the iPhone app "campsites" be prepared for lies and deception. Not only was the said campsite incredibly expensive, it was members only. The dream was a nightmare. Out of a place to sleep again.
To the tourist office! They pointed me, with much disappointment in their eyes, to a "rural" campsite right out of town. I'm slowly learning that the campsites Europeans hate are usually the ones I like.
After getting mega lost I found the site tucked away in the woods- the cheapest one yet.
I set up my tent and resolved to go swimming in the ocean. I packed a small bag, put on my suit and headed out. A half hour later, after following signs through, town I finally made it--
--To a fucking lake.
I followed a tributary to the beach. I jumped in the water after locking ginger up on shore. The water was great. I was relieved.
On the way back to my campsite I again lost my way. Certain I could find the way back, I'd left my maps in the tent I now so desperately needed to find. I ducked into an American restaurant for wi fi and ended getting a burger. It was good. The Internet didn't help so I tried my now tried and true method of guessing. I turned right off the highway and went. And went. Oh wait, there's that polar bear billiboard! And the sign! I had rediscovered my campsite. Preparing for the night in the dark sucks. Adding a flashlight to my things to find list right above "a towel".
It didn't take me long to realize my new site was a dark place full of vagrant drunks. The guy I talked to in the bathroom had the characteristically huge, puffy, drunk hands that made his wrist watch look tight around his wrist. The group of men huddled around a table outside had each polished off a whole bottle of whiskey. I just hoped for a quiet night.
I woke up to someone's voice outside my tent. I unzipped and poked my head out. One of the drunks was standing two feet away from me, cursing at his unlit cigarette. I yelled at him (in French!) and zipped back up. Before long he was snoring like a banshee.
The only upside to not securing your tent with steaks is that you have the ability to move it at any time. I moved to the other side of the campsite and fell asleep instantly. Tomorrow was going to be radical.
In France, there is some stigma against constant streams of water. You continually have to press a button to keep the shower going. If only I had someone to press it for me. Then I'd have both my hands free... A LUKE ALONE.
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