Hendaya: And I'm Back

It's been a while, I admit. And for once, I will not blame the delay on my usual procrastination, or schoolwork (as I've been out of school for a month and a half now) or on travel or weather. Instead, I will point the finger of blame at my computer, whose ethernet jack is irreparably broken and can only access the internet through wifi, which I did not have in Canterbury. Perhaps this was a foolhardy move, however, as the finger of blame is now turning slowly to point back at myself, since I was the one who, in a tiny fit of rage, chucked my laptop onto the floor, thus destroying its jack. But all that is past, no? Onto the good stuff.

After Madrid, we set off for Nice- and this was no small feat, believe you me. "It doesn't look that far on the map" we bleated to each other in shock and dismay when we discovered the train trip would take 26 hours, although looking back, it actually is quite obvious on the map. Luckily, I find train travel pleasant, and more importantly, can fall asleep at the drop of a hat. The hours passed quite easily; when I wasn't napping I was learning how to crochet. Also luckily, we had one stop on the way to break up the bulk of travel- a little French city called Hendaya.

We only had about five hours there, but it turned out to be just the right amount of time. It was a fairly quiet place, and a calm, grey day. We wandered the streets, looking for food (I ended up with what was essentially a croque-monsieur, although sans ham) and sweets (macarons, of course). Down a side street, we saw the bay, which was, as you can see, iron-grey and scattered with boats.

We lingered on a small balcony, taking in the sights and socializing with a small, sleek, slightly dirty cat, dubbed Telemendes. He (or she, I suppose) was vocal, friendly, and needy. It looked disappointed as we left.

Monument to the dead of WWII

My friend and I turned out to be ideal travel buddies, in that we both have the same voyaging "style". We like to wander, to take our time, take nap breaks in public parks, and we both love cemeteries. This one we spotted from the bay, from a distance, and went scouting for an entrance. It was pleasant, although not as impressive as some we would encounter on our trip.

French cemeteries (and, as we later found out, many Western European ones) often have graves adorned with ceramic painted flowers. I suppose it is more practical than our ever-so-decomposable cut flowers.

Time seemed strange during there, both too long and too short. We walked back to the train station and just had time for a slightly underdone bar pizza before boarding, to return to crocheting, napping, and, eventually, Nice.