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After the canals of Bayonne and the quiet beaches (well, it was raining) of Anglet, the glam and glitz of Biarritz confused my notion of what a Basque city should be. Stepping off of the bus in Biarritz I found myself staggering uphill to panoramas of the city's grandeur, and flying back down past restaurants proclaiming "moules-frites !" But there is a boldness to a city that dares to paint pink every façade of a four-story mansion. With shops selling the most exquisite variations of chocolate and diamonds (sometimes sold separately but considered equally precious), grandes dames walking with their pocket-sized pooches cradled in their arms, and high-rollers watching the waves from the Casino, Biarritz's old-fashioned elegance understandably deems it the Monte Carlo of the west. But beyond the palatial hotels and driveways filled with expensive cars, in the side streets and neighborhoods, I found the hidden splendor of Biarritz. A quiet revolt lived within the smaller grocery shops, hotels, and houses. As I walked by one house, I heard strange noises coming from the yard. Five or six sheep, with blue dots on their rumps, were grazing on a city lawn. I hurried past because an old man spoke against my stares, in a language I didn't know: "Ardi. Ardi." Later on, buying some fruit, the girl who weighed my peaches and cherries she spoke to her grandmother in sounds completely unfamiliar to my ears - Basque, a language that has puzzled linguists for centuries.

Later that day, in the course of a dispute between the owner of my hotel and her son, Gorka (not a Nepali soldier, as I discovered, but Basque for "George"), I asked what "ardi" meant. "Ce sont des moutons" - sheep, of course. Now my ear was starting to understand Basque but my eyes still didn't know why Gorka was wearing sports gear as a waiter. To the alarm of most of the customers, and most certainly a disturbance to proper digestion, it was explained through a mixture of Basque and French screams that he was late for practice.

It turns out that Gorka is a world-famous Jai-Alai (pronounced "high-ligh") player - I was Being served by a Basque star! Perhaps I was staring at the Pele of Pelote Basque. As I started to ask about the sport, people who had at first seemed to be ordinary customers began to bring their drinks, magazines, and food to my table - as it turned out, they were actually members of Gorka's proud Basque family. And so began a two hour discussion of the identity of the Basque, the struggle for independence, the joys of its cultural games like Pelote Basque, and the language of unknown origin but familiar connection. Gorka missed his practice but I had been invited to Saturday's game. The wine kept pouring into glasses and the laughter kept spilling out as Gorka performed instant replays of Championship matches while his grandfather argued with him about speaking too much French and too little Basque There was so much more that I wanted to know. But then a bus load of French tourists entered the lobby of the hotel. Through the glass divider we watched them crowd into the tiny hallway.

Quickly, the mother left the circle and greeted her new customers. Slowly our circle dissipated as each family member returned to running the kitchen, taking the baggage, and fulfilling other of the hotel/restaurant duties. And I was left to my coffee and whispered memories of a culture within a culture, of a fierce pride from a people the world forgets, and of a family that made me theirs through the desire to explain their place in the world.