Spoonerisms Abroad: Merci Ascension Catholique.

To sum it up, my trip down South with my brother "to catch the sun" involved rain, tolls, driving and rain. But other than that, it was a total success.

We left Paris late, after I gave my brother the shortest tour of Paris in the history of short Paris tours which pretty much involved driving from Place de la Concorde, up the Champs Élysées, around the Arc de Triomphe (twice, actually, but not really for shits and giggles) and down the Seine, past Musée D'Orsay and Musee Quai Branly and ending at the holy dome of Paris, la Tour Eiffel. By this stage all that he'd really got a taste of was Paris traffic, which isn't going to leave the best lasting impression (read: it is a mixture of constant tooting, dangerous stunts and near death experiences).

But after getting out of Paris the landscape opened up and the French countryside beamed its beautiful brilliance under the shining sun and we were able to drive the 6 hours to Bordeaux eating Speculoos and admiring, in my opinion, one of the best landscapes in the world.

About 6 hours later we arrived in the world's major wine industry capital, Bordeaux, which also happens to be a historic city on the UNESCO world hertiage list, which I was about to find out was not at all a misplaced honour. It is one of the most visually arresting places I have been, and certainly so in France, as driving through the central streets, it is impossible not to feel the 18th century presence (and somewhat claustraphobic simultaneously). The buildings are built up right at the edge of the street, practically on the footpaths, with no gaps in between each building and all stopping at the exact same height, making driving through seem like a looming optical illusion in which the building's are getting closer together and starting to bend over on top of you. Amazingly, people still live in these buildings as if it's just another apartment, but I couldn't fathom making a home in what was clearly waiting to crumple. To be a UNESCO world heritage sight, and therefore obviously untouchable to some to degree is great, but they seriously need a case of the Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.

After making a quick tour through, and having now be able to claim I've stayed there by spending one glorious night in a lovely hotel, we got our drive on and battled the constant rain on our way to Biarritz, a town slightly out of our way on our way down to Spain, but a stop I've been dying to make since I got to France. And it was worth the detour.

A wonderful tangle of tiny streets lead to the edge of the coast, which garners the most fantastic views along the edge of France down a rocky outcrop of golden cliffs and terra cotta style roofs. I think I may have found my Achilles heel of France. Apparently I wasn't the first, it was pumping. Despite the gloomy weather, there were droves of tourists clearly equally stunned by the sight I was captured by. This meant finding a park was like trying to make a fat kid eat brocolli. The only option was to force it in. So we did. We found the tiniest park and managed to swindle the little Deutsche car in.

The town was quaint, historic and one of those places that pulls your eyes in every which direction (with which lack of looking at the ground and France's cobblestones makes for a dicey situation. Unforunately one German couple found this out the hard way. I'm not going to say I laughed. I'm also not going to lie.) It was a town with an abundance of everything, history, people and glamour, this was a glaringly wealthy town. The views when walking through the town onto the shorefront were stunning and the beach was incredible. It had an incredible natural set up with the cliffs jutting up straight from the end of the sand and a long stretch of beach winding round the edges, complete with promenade to accustom the sand-dislikers. There was even a walk stretching all the way around the edge of the cliffs (much like Coogee to Bondi if you've ever been lucky enough to make that trek) with the idyllic ocean views keeping 'les yeux' happy.

I was more than sad to leave. Unfortunately the ceremonial, wanderlust, longing departure was made that much more real by our leaving present, un contravention. A parking ticket. Turns out we'd missed the 'payant' signs more than 5 metres away from where we parked. Merde.

We ignored this glitch (or I did) and made our way on to Spain, driving further into the rain. Now the one thing B had told me was that he could not take the car into Spain, he had hired it in Germany and had it insured to take into France but Spain cost a lot extra and therefore our plan was to drive to France's border (in Hendaye, more specifically). I was aware. I was also designated navigator (in lieu of anyone else being able to, in which I'm sure they would have been), and I was in charge of making this happen. Directions have never been my strong suit. Needless to say, after going through a toll bridge (which we had been through a lot of, so didn't ring any bells. Nor did the strange Hispanic looking uniformed officials standing at the entrances), I suddenly realised I could no longer read the signs. "So, I think we're in Spain" was not met welcomely. Nor will I repeat how it was met. But by the speed with which we turned the car around and went back through the toll bridge in the other direction, I'm fairly confident that's my shortest stay in any country. Ever.

We managed to make it to Hendaye (in no part from my help) which happened to have extremely inviting surf on our arrival and I cursed our short stay, parked the car (checking the ground repeatedly for the evil 'payant' signs) and loaded ourselves on the Euskotren to San Sebastian. It was just a short trip, about 20 minutes in which I spent the majority staring avidly at our neighbours and their strange language.

Our arrival was met with more rain but San Sebastian was instantly stunning. A beautiful town of mixed colour and standard of buildings and a large inlet of beach with shiny, inviting, golden sand. Our hostel was located right in the heart in what I'm assuming was one of the hot spots for a late night drink and mere metres from the beach. We spent our time there eating (more applicable to me), staring at the surf (again, more applicable to me), and orientating ourselves to this small, but beautiful town. I managed to walk to the top of the closest hill (something I have grown accustomed to doing while travelling, the motto 'if there's a hill, I'll climb it' is not an inaccurate way to describe my travelling technique. Nor is it actually a motto, but that's not the point.) Anyway, the weather somewhat hindered the view from the top but regardless, what I could see was stunning. There was also a museum at the top which I slowly walked past, which ensued the ticket man inside to come running outside chasing me and yelling something in fluid Spanish, from which all I picked up was espere (wait) and libre (free) and followed him inside to the most useless museum I've ever been to. And that's really saying something. Not that it wasn't interesting, but I'm not going to get much out of a largely written based history of a town with only Spanish and Basque translations. But I appreciated the man's dedication to get me to go and forced myself to stay for as long as I could possible look at a selection of about 4 pictures and a 3 minute film.

We bidded 'despedida' to San Sebastian but with the look of the surf etched into my mind, it won't be my last trip. We caught the train back, picked up our car (sans parking ticket, hoorah!) and headed back up France for a night in Toulouse. The 'ville rose' or pink city, was just that and its colours gave it an enchanting, romantic feel which shined through the relentless downpours. (The joke about the 'ville rose' is that it is also reknowned for being a gay town, hence the double entendre in its stereotype.) A night there and a dinner near its beautiful centre, which lit up at night made me feel like I had a case of the 'caught in a romantic movie' syndrome, its light casting some beautiful images against 'les batiments rose'.

Again, leaving came too soon and our trip back to Paris was plagued with queues (and I mean, queues (!!), half of NZ was making the trip back up central France. Luckily we were kept entertained with a bus full of teenage boys who had nothing better to do than moon us (I'm hoping this term is lost on some...) and I managed to inappropriately take a picture (or three..)

Our return to Paris was met with a setting sun, the Eiffel Tower looming large against the dusty rose tinted skyline.