le 64

As we cruised along the stunning, sparkling coastline of the Bay of Biscay, traversing the Spanish border into the Basque cities of Hendaye, Saint-Jean-de-Luz, and Biarritz, I felt the familiar manic excitement of an obsession coming on. With every azur golf we rounded, and every cypress tree extending its branches over the cliffs, my thoughts racing tripped over themselves with varying, blossoming plots, all revolving around one design: to someday make the département des Pyrénées-Atlantiques home.

Our vacation started out in the picturesque city of Donostia-San Sebastian. I wasn't sure how much I'd take to this beach city, notorious in my college days as a party animal's paradise, but Jean-Baptiste insisted that we make a stop-over on our way to the French Basque country before the hordes of tourists descend upon it in August. Armed with a mental list of favorite tapas bars, sights, and coins perdus to share - how could I resist?

And so, despite my apprehension at finding myself in the pit of a frat-boy-fraught tourist-trap, San Sebastian proved itself a charming destination, with many a cultural jewel to discover, in the Old and New towns alike. La Playa de la Concha reminded me simultaneously of the beaches in Rio de Janeiro and my hometown of Carmel, with its blend of nature and industry, postcard-ready prettiness and the unfortunate hotels lining the beach. The laid-back ambiance that only a beach town can capture and emit unmitigated immediately worked its magic on us; we ambled aimlessly in and out of tapas bars and restaurants, filling up on calamars, eperlans, and bacalhau, washed down with house cidre or sangria. Wandering belly-full into churches and plazas dotted with encroaching café chairs, the soporific effect of the smattering of seafood dishes put a glossy veneer on each site we encountered.

The locals were also surprisingly friendly and welcoming, which is quite a feat of the soul, especially when -- I hate to say it -- there were a good deal of obnoxious, Anglo, college-aged visitors whose drunken staggering in and out of bars was astoundingly common. We even had the pleasure of being roused from a deep vacation sleep at 3:30am by a young American couple (we'd crossed paths in the hallway on our way out only hours before) having really, really noisy (and not terribly good, if her erratic yelping was any indication) sex, until dawn. My shouted orders to "Shut the (insert expletive here) up!!" and Jean-Baptiste's banging on the wall were infuriatingly futile. Even the dueña of the pension approached us the next morning, apologizing about "los americanos," "catastrophic" guests that she couldn't wait to see leave. (And we wonder why we're not always welcomed with open arms abroad?)

Descending the Pyrénées foothills into the commune of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, we easily slipped back into another beachfront culture, this time à la française, and perhaps for this reason, a bit more docile. Despite the fact that Saint-Jean-de-Luz lies only 30 kilometers northeast of San Sebastian, its version of Basque culture is clearly and distinctly French. To wit, all of our dishes were accompanied with the local Tursan or Irouléguy, not a glass of adulterated wine-punch on the menu. Gastronomic pride is played up respectfully in the Lapurdi province; Piment d'Espelette makes a stylish appearance among the chipiron and poulet fermier, and the sucré-salé combo of Ossau-Iraty with confiture de cerise as a dessert gives the ubiquitous (but no less delicious) Gâteau Basque a serious run for its money.

The compulsive planning to actually make this region ours fully realized itself somewhere among the tri-city expanse of Biarritz-Anglet-Bayonne. The perfect combination of pure ocean air (its spray reputed to be therapeutic since the early 1800's), a topaz coastline, the evergreen cypress and pine trees dotting the bluffs, and the maritime climate so similar to the one I grew up in - all the elements converged in front of the Ballet Biarritz and I knew that the lack of terra and flora that we compensate with culture in Paris had finally met its contender. On cue, I started plying Jean-Baptiste with questions about the city's reputation, job prospects, and, conscientious manipulator that I am, if he could see himself living a short walk from the ocean that he loves so dearly...