Kingdom of Anchovies

The first photo I took the day I arrived in Port Vendres for the first time.

And Slick Seagulls

Port Vendres:– Tuesday, 2O. January:–  When I woke up, as the TGV slowed for Nîmes, the sky had evolved from cold gray flannel to frivolous, tinged with faint blue, sporting a municipal palm tree. Two hours later Perpignan station seemed like a place intending to be better and then the local train appeared as a high–tech streetcar. The station at Port Vendres did not have a matching quay so the first step was deep.

There were no signs pointing the way, but it was downhill and included stairs. There are a lot of stairs in Port Vendres and when I found the hotel, across from the yacht harbor, there were two flights up to the room – with a view, 50 percent extra. The owner asked me not to bang the door.

The first time out and back, the door banged. Nobody noticed. I had dinner in a cool, modern restaurant beneath the hotel. I tried the menu for 15 euros. The salad was enormous, including bits of fish and mussels. The main dish, a fish named bar, was delicious with more fish bits hidden in a ball of saffron rice. The fruit salad as dessert, was huge.

Do say it doesn't rain.

Thinking of having a light lunch on Monday, I chose the café next to the restaurant, and ordered the grilled sardines. Part of a menu including a salad to start, the five sardines were like small trout. I went back on Tuesday, trying to be even lighter, and had tapas of grilled chorizo and fresh anchovies, with a huge salad. In the future, one tapa will do it.

The town is quiet. I slept through the morning rush–hour if there is one. A container ship unloaded on Monday and left, and another came in late Tuesday. Most shops were closed Monday, and some are closed for the season. The real estate agents are open and three of them seemed optimistic and I returned to some Tuesday. Two bedroom apartments for 650 euros are apparently not a myth.

There are a lot of old folks wandering around. It appears that there are various retirement facilities, hostels, residences. I saw a large room full of them playing bingo at the Maison du Culture. I was told that Port Vendres is poor and has too many stairs for most oldsters; they should go to Argelès where it's flat. There is a cinema, but no art galleries and no concert hall, practically no boutiques and none with a name. You can spend money on food and booze and that's about it. There is a bus service along the coast, but it is not wonderful I was told. A ten–minute walk, even up stairs, puts you out of town.

One of life's freebies.

There are some dogs around. Some are owned by folks but others seem to be perros. These are dogs of all sizes, living dogs' carefree lives. All the dogs seem to be busy, minding their own business. None of them seem to have heard about carrying little doodoo baggies. Watch your step!

There's a couple of supermarkets, and a fruit stand that opened Tuesday had pomelos three for a euro. Oranges are varied and cheap. The fish market is open on Saturdays. There are slightly fewer boulangeries than banks. All the restaurants have fish. Some of them have tapas too, and these are about three euros each. No need ever to try pizza.

In this season it is apparently easy to rent a vacation apartment for a couple of weeks. I got a list from the tourist office, beside the restaurant and café downstairs, that lists apartments in a building overlooking the port next to the hotel. Street signs are in French and Catalan. The sailboats' rigging tinkles faintly. The gulls are well–mannered. News shops have all the papers but you can ignore them. There's TV from Spain. It's a small town. It's quiet. The hills look like Spain. I can see the Mediterranean beyond the port, from my balcony. It's a blue line.

A bientôt en France