At the Beach

 

The sand at Maranda Plage in tourist season is usually towel covered with sun-creamed glistening bodies. 

Today when we arrived, we were almost alone. One older man walked toward us. We spoke in French and English. He told us about all the wonders of the area that he described as "pearls" mingling history with personal experience. 

My favorite story, which he told, was from the 60s when he and his friends toured the U.S. In Harlem they went to a restaurant. Two huge black men met them at the door and told him their restaurant would not serve whites.

Thinking maybe it was American racism, they tried saying, "We're hungry. We're French."

"Normandy," the men said and bear hugged them then fed them generously.

A beautiful sharing moment.  

We met two other women with dogs and also talked in Franglais while the dogs played.

Sherlock did zoomie after zoomie, loving his freedom, fetched his orange ball and as always made sure his feet did not touch one of the gentle waves. He considered a left-over crumpling sand castle a place to announce to any other dog that he'd been there.

The sea was the color of winter ice, the waves almost whispering. When we turned our backs to the sea, the wild grass was fenced in. In summer every piece of wood is covered with snails and thistles. No thistles now, and there was only one bouquet of snails clinging to a post.

On Canigou there was only a dusting of snow, barely visible. While we were enjoying the deserted beach some 15 cars had parked in the parking lot, but not a person was visible. We never figured out where the people had gone.

Driven by bus someplace else?

One of the group of the people who go swimming at dawn daily?

We never found the answer, maybe because we didn't look, but headed back to our village for petit dej of muffins and a baguette before starting our writing day.