Benjamin and the beach at Hossegar. |
Hossegor is a beach town in south-western
France, just north of
Biarritz. With teaming waves, some see it as one
of the best surfing spots anywhere. Unlike Nice, there’s lovely lush sand. Instead of rocks. It would be surprising weekend
on a space that felt like a transplant from California.
Months ago, Caroline booked us a room
at Motel des Landes, Benesse-Maremne,
for a beach weekend in Hossegor from
Sat Aug/2/2014 - Mon Aug/4/2014.
The drive down from Bordeaux was like any beach
trip weekend drive, full of traffic. But everyone seemed in good spirits.
Some listened to music; others horsed
around. We saw one car full of makeshift art, which looked like it
was going to the Burning
Man Festival. I asked them
Where they were
going. “To the Boom Festival,” they explained.
We got to Hossegor and grabbed a quick snack, at
a burger spot called Jacks, which looked every
bit like a Southern California shake shack, with
a Gallic flair, including beer, cool paintings, and
surf magazines full of photos of big wave
surfers.
Goofy charactors at Jack's surf shack in Hossegor. |
During lunch, Bill Talen, aka Reverend Billy and I had a phone
conversation while the food was on the way.
He described a crazy street action they'd
organized the previous weekend. The story struck with me, even if i was far away from it, as he explained on facebook:
SAVE OUR LIBRARY FROM... A NUCLEAR WINTER?
We thought we were singing outside of a
warehouse in New Jersey, on the outskirts of Princeton University, where the
trustees of the New
York Public Library (investment bankers,
slumlords and socialites) had secretly shipped over 2,000,000 books from the
42nd Street Library.
And the books ARE there, but something
monstrous is there with them...
So we thought New Yorkers should know where their books went, and how these rich people want to turn one of the world's great libraries into some kind of
So we thought New Yorkers should know where their books went, and how these rich people want to turn one of the world's great libraries into some kind of
gigantic starbucks with computers and bad
coffee for everyone... So we rented a van and took a thousand of our personal
books in suitcases and made this little
stonehenge circle of books on the lawn outside
the warehouse and we began to sing. Security officials came out to talk to us
immediately and Savitri did a great
job stalling them with all kinds of
talk.
About 6 minutes into her conversation she suddenly gasped and screamed, "Get the books! Let's go! Back to the van!" In record time we werer fleeing in our rents-van.
About 6 minutes into her conversation she suddenly gasped and screamed, "Get the books! Let's go! Back to the van!" In record time we werer fleeing in our rents-van.
Why? It turns out that this storage facility
with our stolen books in it is a part of a larger building which is a federal
laboratory where they are developing the H-Bomb.
This is the Princeton Plasma Physic
Laboratory. We are on the James Forrestal Campus - he was Sec. of the Navy or
something... There are fusion chambers in this place
maintained at 20,000 degrees Fahrenheit.
We are on high security Pentagon property and federal marshals are on the way.
The story of "Our Books And the H-Bomb" will continue next week.
Getting off the phone, we enjoyed lunch and
made our way to the water.
The beach felt like Huntington Beach, with
French graffiti and a few trees which reminded
Me of Carmel California.
We spent the rest of the day hanging out playing and swimming.
Waves before they broke on the beach, sometimes, jumping up ten feet with the waves. Heading toward the beach, sometimes diving up, sometimes below them, sometimes through them or them
through me, in the case of a couple which pulled
me with the them, sending me hurling like laundry in the
drying, my neck cricking and cracking onto the
beach.
My neck aching, as I crawled off the
beach. Maybe it was time to be a little bit more careful.
Steve, one of my oldest friends hosted us, with
Annette and their kids. Fresh from Brooklyn,
they’re just the most recent of any number of US
friends to go to make a life for themselves in Europe,
where the life seems more amenable, longer
vacations, easier access to culture and food, etc.
"Joy, love, passion," number two screamed in her homage to Room with a View, one of our favorite movies of the summer. |
We went to the market for fish and enjoyed a
momentous beach day, reflecting on having so little to worry
about. Enjoying a life reset button
I have not had for decades since my like extended period in Europe a
quarter century ago. So we talked about all
that’s changed since Steve and I met in California in 1992, moved
to New York, fell into jobs, careers,
kids, marriage and the ways things come and go, friends meander
with time, foods on the menu of living disappear
as we make more of the entree.
"The Pyrenees or bust," the girls declared on the beach, pointing toward the mountains. But not before a final day on the beach in the South of France. |
The next morning we packed up and headed out. Steve drove with us, dropping us off. On the way, we were thinking of Benjamin, whose crossing from Paris to Spain to elude the Nazis and closing borders
sent him into despair. The border between Spain and France closed. He ran out of hope, out of energy for the
the fight. Before his flight, he sent a copy of his last manuscript to Gretel Adorno.
After France’s capitulation, he fled Paris in June of 1940, but not before leaving another copy with George
Bataille, who left his copy in the Biblioteque Nationale. Fleeing to Spain, he worried that borders had been
closed . He penned a note to his traveling companions on September 25th, 1940.
“In a hopeless situation I have no other choice but to finish it in a small village in the Pyrenees in a small
village where no one knows me my life comes to an end.”
That night, he ingested cyanide pills, and died just hours before they opened the borders once again.
Sometimes you just have to keep on fighting, even when it seems all possibilities for escape have closed.
Benjamin seemed to be with us throughout so much of our trip, coming from all sorts of directions.
As one point, one of the peer reviewers for a book in the works suggested I go back to some of Benjamin's
struggles as a frame of reference. That seems as though it is already happening.
in between the ugliness of
things, beach weekends and hikes beckon.
So we drove to Bayone, crossed the Pyrenees, and
made our way to Spain, where I’ve tried to go for decades,
but never quite made it. Last time I was
close I decided to travel to Berlin instead, having an adventure in
Northern Europe, the weekend of the August coup
against Gorbachev back in 1991.
I remember those days of traveling through
Europe on trains, of friends I met along the way, of reading the
Death of Artenio Cruz on the train from Rome to Florence, and my mind
opening up to the world of history,
of magic realism, and Cervantez, chasing
windmills.
So we said goodbye to Steve. And we wandered through Irun. Who knows when or where we’ll see him
again, maybe New York, maybe France
or Peru? Maybe Machu Picchu?
Looked at the lazy streets, enjoying just being,
living, winding our way through the streets,
wondering where life might take us or might have
taken us if we’d been born here.
Looked at the streets, so familiar from the
movies, the scenes, taking in an ice cream and a
stroll with our backpacks, light enough
for a walk, greeting pilgrims with backpacks along the way,
and finally back to the train station, where
kids hang out and smoke and write in their journals as they
always have.The trains here could take you
anywhere you could want to go – to China, Stalingrad, to
Prague, anywhere you want to go, noted
Caroline. Its just part of the European trip experience,
hanging out in a train station on the way from
here to somewhere else, waiting
for the 3:55 to Pamploma
and the next day's hike, along the Camino de Santiago.
Carline explained.
In my early 20's I fell in love with the writings of Walter Benjamin. As an homage to the man I was going to adopt two cats and call them respectively "Walter" and "Benjamin". I did get a cat and named it Walter, despite the female gender. I loved that cat who lived with me for 13 years many moves and a few boyfriends. I never did mange to get a second cat and name it Benjmain...until, of course, my Benjamin Shepard came around. Funny how the universe works. It really was something to travel through a region of France/Spain full of beauty and great sadness. RIP Walter Benjamin.
In my early 20's I fell in love with the writings of Walter Benjamin. As an homage to the man I was going to adopt two cats and call them respectively "Walter" and "Benjamin". I did get a cat and named it Walter, despite the female gender. I loved that cat who lived with me for 13 years many moves and a few boyfriends. I never did mange to get a second cat and name it Benjmain...until, of course, my Benjamin Shepard came around. Funny how the universe works. It really was something to travel through a region of France/Spain full of beauty and great sadness. RIP Walter Benjamin.
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