Biarritz 5 / Fucking Strike

Today I took easier. I had planned to sit in a cafe and reread my novella, which is what I ended up doing. First, though, I had a nice lunch of fresh sea mussels and fries at the same place I had the snails. It was fucking delicious. They were in this butter sauce, and plump and tender, and it was delightful; and the fries were fresh-fried and golden and glistening with oil and salt, and when you dipped them in the butter sauce....mmmmmm...

There was also the cutest dog in the world at the restaurant, and I got to pet it. Yay.

Following that, walking down the street, I spied a table with used paperbacks, and I got some totally ridiculous stuff. I got two horror novels from a series called GORE with really lurid cover illustrations, and a copy of Therese and Isabelle (I'm assuming, by the sexy cover, that the Metzger movie of the same name is based on it) and a present for someone. Wheeeee!

Then I went to the lovely bar across from the Biarritz garden, got a 50 cl carafe of wine, and sat down with my computer for three hours. Unfortunately, I only got through about half of my story, and, what's more, the 50 cl of wine proved to be waaaaay too much. I kind of had to chug it all at the end once my battery died.

Anyway, at this point I went back to the hotel to recharge the computer and get the plug converter, which I always fucking forget when taking my power cord, in case I found another bar later that had an outlet.

Anyway, following that, I went to the restaurant where I had the veal the other day and had...veal again. But with other stuff, 'cause I got the 15 euro dinner! It also came with mind-blowing fresh fried (and fresh-fried) calamari and a warm basque cake for dessert. All in all, delicious. Too bad I forgot my fucking wallet at the hotel and had to leave my backpack as collateral while I ran back to get it.

Following that, I took in a showing of David Cronenberg's Eastern Promesses (or "Promesses of the Storm," as it's known here), which was quite excellent and may be addressed eventually at Faits Precis. I then looked around at the bars to see if any looked like they were lively enough for me to sit and finish correcting my novella, but they all looked like they were dying down (at 11:30!), so I just went back to the hotel. This was probably best, in the end, as it allowed me to get my things in readiness for my departure tomorrow.

And that brings me to my grievance: the fucking strike. It's been almost a week now, and it's still going on. Apparently only about 1/3 of the trains to Paris are running, so I'm really hoping that everything goes according to plan tomorrow and things aren't too fucking difficult. I just want to get home. What a bunch of tools. Everyone is a tool. Die.

And that's it. This has been a delightful and relaxing vacation, and I am sad to see it go. Wish I'd gotten a little more time to do ex-pat things in cafes with wine, but I guess it's better I got to see the city, with which I now feel intimately acquainted. Yay. Perhaps one day I shall come back in spring or summer, when it will really be humming. Woo Biarritz!