Back to Blistering Biarritz

My wife surprised me last night by saying, "Let's go for a walk."

I say I was surprised because it is usually harder to get her out of the house than it is to get a goat out of a cornfield--I mean when getting her out of the house means going for a walk.

It was ten o'clock and it was still around 28° C. Balmy was the word that came to mind.

We walked toward the old lighthouse, which is just seven or eight blocks away. Most of the summer mob had fled back to Paris and waiting jobs, schools, and sundry occupations so the streets were quiet, with few cars about.

At the lighthouse, there were also few cars, but we could tell from the license plates that they were locals. It seems that we who live here were ready to take back our town. We sat down on a bench to watch the lights of Biarritz that were bright and cheerful. Their reflection glimmered against the dark sea whose lazy waves seemed to say that it too was finally resting from the crowds that had frolicked in it just a few days before.

The air was so clear we could see the lights of Spain in the distance; overhead, the beacons of the late-night plane to Paris blinked among the stars.

"This is a perfect night for seeing shooting stars," said my wife. I started to sing an old Perry Como hit:

"Catch a falling star and put it in your pocket, never let it fade away..."

"You have a song for every occasion," said my wife,

"I have an OLD song for every occasion," I corrected.

Around midnight, we walked back home. On the way we noticed that some houses were now open (those whose owners were returning from vacation) and others were now closed and shuttered (those whose owner's vacation had now ended).

We noticed that the windows of a cottage we both like very much were brightly lit. We stood for a moment looking into the cottage's sitting room with its shelves full of books, its stuffed chairs, and desk piled with papers.

"It looks so cozy," said my wife. "And, somehow it looks as if a writer lives here."

"That's because that desk reminds you of mine. It is just as disorderly and piled with stuff."

But I did agree that the house looks as warm and inviting as an English cottage.

Along the avenue that leads to the Biarritz golf course, we saw that the large, stately mansions that had been open and brightly lit when we left three weeks ago, were now closed tighter than a miser's wallet.

"Shall I ring the doorbell," said my wife mischievously.

"No," I said, "you'll only wake up the poor night watchman they leave to guard the property."

Just as we turned the corner into our neighborhood, a large, black Rottweiler came up behind us. He was panting and trotting along with his tongue out as if he had been running for some time. We noticed that it was alone, with no owner in sight.

"The poor thing must be lost," said my wife, "or it has escaped from its home."

In Biarritz, it is unusual to see a dog by itself, loose in the streets without an owner holding it on a leach or at least walking along with it.

My wife tried to pet it as it walked along with us so the dog jumped up and put it large paws on her nearly knocking her down.

"You'd better leave it alone," I said. "It looks pretty anxious and scared."

The dog followed us home but when we closed our gate behind us, he looked up at us with a sorrowful look in its eyes. Deciding we were not its owners and this was not his home, he trotted off, panting and scratching its nails on the pavement as it ran.

The street was utterly silent and we could hear the dogs panting even as he was now blocks away and the darkness had swallowed it body.

Upstairs, I went into our bedroom to open the balcony doors so we could have some fresh, night air.

"Is the dog gone? Is he still there?" asked my wife.

"No, he's gone," I replied. "As gone as this summer's vacation."