” Above Bordeaux is the north. ” by Elisa Routa
” Above Bordeaux is the north. ” This is what they always taught me. At least that ‘s what I always heard from my mother, who looks more like a migrant worker from the Maghreb than a little girl who grew up in The Gers. With hair that is as dark as a worn shoe sole, tiny curls, scattered over the entire skull, sometimes wild, sometimes static, my mother could have been born on the other side of the Mediterranean without question. Incognito . Her character has probably soaked for days in a pot of hyperbole, brought to the boil. My mother is also as talkative as a child that you meet for the first time who tries to tell you their life story in a record time. In every detail, not to mention the embarrassing bits. She has a taste for the sun, which has given her the capacity to pass from a pale complexion to a brown Mahogany wood colour in minutes. Anyway, evidently ” above Bordeaux is the north. ” Well equipped with a jacket, after-ski under the seat and woolen gloves that still smell like a Mongolian goat, I wanted to see if it was really that cold above Bordeaux.
We travel along the Arcachon basin until we reach Andernos where we stop at the Beautiful Day Surf Store, hosted by Christopher, whose face fleece is nothing to envy compared to the one used to warm my hands on. Then we ventured on to a part of France which kind of forms a shape of an atrophied non erect penis. We drive to the “Grand Crohot” then to “Truc Vert” we then pass through the village of “L’Herbe” wondering if they had finally decided to legalize Cannabis in this part of the metropolis or if they just have green humor.
We then arrive at the tip of this unusual genitalia. Cap Ferret. Boats have replaced cars in garages, houses on stilts are apparently in fashion as if to encounter the inevitable tsunami. You can not say that the homes are capricious as they are so elegant. They blend in with our mobile home. The water is calm, the boats are resting and dancing a slow dance solo guided by the movement of the basin. We switch off the engine facing the Pyla dune which stands on the opposite shore like an Egyptian pyramid ready to collapse. The wheels are in the sand and our heads are already elsewhere.
I wait for the right moment to get out my green apple raincoat and my furry boots. It will not however be today. I think of my mum. The sun sets over the ocean and will rise over the basin while flooding the van with a surprisingly hot orange light. I open the blue gingham curtains and suddenly see an unexpected sight. I wake up my sidekick who is sleeping more deeply than a baby in a car seat.
To see the sun rise over a vast expanse of water like that is something of incomparable beauty. We put our feet in the cold sand and run, certain that the universe is finally ours. Silence is bliss. I have goosebumps and bright eyes. We make coffee on the stone ledge that borders one of the neighboring houses whilst welcoming in this wonderful day.
In short, the Cap Ferret gave us a welcome that was even warmer than the high pitched cries of people celebrating during North African festivities. I’ll tell that to my mother.
Elisa Routa
