111/ People Watching at La Brocante d'Ahetze
Style snaps from a Pays Basque flea market.
A couple of days ago, we arrived in Pays Basque in southwestern France where we’ll be staying for a fortnight. The boys are in camp, while hubby and I are using this time to settle into our usual work routines.
The village we’re staying in is surrounded by rolling green hills dotted with traditional, white-washed Basque homes capped by gently sloped, terracotta roofs and matching wood volets. You wouldn’t know that we’re equidistant to the bustling seaside towns of Biarritz and St. Jean de Luz, both a 15-minute drive in either direction. With just 2,000 inhabitants, the village is low-key, peaceful and quiet. My husband immediately took to the area, probably because the landscape reminds him of where he grew up — on a farm in rural New Brunswick. Having visited his birthplace — literally, The Big Red Barn — I can see it too.
We arrived while a village party was in progress in the public square. Flanked by the local church, school and bar-restaurant (there’s only one in town), kids were kicking around a football and playing Basque pelota (a local variation of racquetball) against the wall, while adults were partaking in drinks and the giant pot of mussels, hot dogs and french fries on offer. As entertainment, Bost Axola, an all-girl polyphonic musical group, delighted the crowd with traditional Basque folk songs and Basque translations of old-timer favourites by Simon & Garfunkel and Leonard Cohen.
I chatted up a man sitting next to me at the base of the stairs to the church. A Parisian with origins in the region, the man told me he spends 30% of his time here, and the rest in Paris. He admitted to not understanding a single word of what the girls were singing about, and despite the crowd being mostly local — he pointed out his hairdresser and the man who recently did his floors — he estimated that maybe just 20% of the crowd were Basque-speaking. He did note that interest in maintaining the language was increasing in Pays Basque and in regions like Bretagne and Alsace, where local languages are also well-established.
In small towns, I tend to greet everyone I walk past — basically the opposite of my usual practice in the city of actively trying to avoid eye contact. Here, I’ve been greeted back with a friendly smile, if in that typical, reserved French way; no cheerful greetings, personal questions (I didn’t even get that man’s name!), or invitations for a drink at the bar — for a date which they never intended to keep. And maybe this is just in my head, but when I’m in spaces where I’m (one of) the only POC, I wonder what the locals think of people like me and whether I’m welcome.
As I wove my way through the village’s narrow chemins on one of my walks, I encountered flags, slogans and bumper stickers I didn’t recognize. Turning to Google mid-stride, I learned about the Basque separatist movement, which in my Canadian mind, immediately brought up parallels to my own country, and, in particular, my experience staying deep in Separatist Québec for a three-week French immersion course in my early 20s. (No, I wasn’t referring to Alberta!)
Two days in, and those are my impressions. I have yet to try the local restaurant, but I’m sure I’ll pop by in the coming days. For now, the supermarket has a panoply of fresh produce, so grocery shopping is a duty I’m happily taking on.
And, what else? Ah yes, the point of this newsletter: La Brocante d’Ahetze, one of the region’s largest flea markets.
Taking place in the village of Ahetze on the third Sunday of every month, the wares of 150+ vendors weave though the square, school grounds, gymnasiums and parking lots attracting visitors from all over the region, including Spain (which, to be fair, is only a 30-minute drive away).
I love a good flea market, and this one’s worth the visit if you’re in the area. You can expect the usual bric-à-brac, including antique furniture, vintage magazines, costume jewellery, dusty art (many seem to have been brought back from Morocco), and stacks of once-pricey china and silverware that are no longer à la mode.
This rug caught my eye, and the vendor was so smiley and friendly, I didn’t bother haggling for the price. Sold for €20!
As I meandered through, my eyes increasingly wandered away from the wares and onto the people around me. Who are they? Where do they live? What are their lives like? And…oh, what are they wearing?
Eventually, I stopped looking at the merchandise altogether and focused solely on covertly snapping outfit photos. Like in Japan, I wasn’t planning on doing an “street style” photography; but, I couldn’t help it!
The first thing that made an impression on me was the care that some people took in getting dressed for their Sunday morning stroll through the local market. To my eye, few outfits seemed especially “in-season,” “new,” or “trendy,” rather that they were thoughtfully and deliberately put together from well-worn pieces that had been living in wardrobes for a while.
Instances of subtle colour and pattern play caught my eye. Pattern was often introduced through scarves and bags (usually a sensible tote to carry any finds), and they clashed more often than not — like this striped cotton work jacket against a floral bag:
