INervous and sweating profusely from the armpits, I was that transparent substitute you used to get when your fifth grade teacher was sick or pregnant. You can see right through her to the fear and the anxiety and she’s so soft you just want to sink your teeth into her with her silly hopeful lesson plans. But, to my credit, it was the first week and I was teaching in front of a class, which I’ve never attempted to do before. Monday was six straight classes of hellions poking fun of my nervous behavior in the kind of schoolyard slang even their mothers don’t understand. Tuesday was better, though the students were half asleep and didn’t understand a word I said. Wednesday they still didn’t understand but at least they seemed to genuinely want to, which was thus far new by me. By Thursday not only was I getting the hang of it, but I had one hour of class with nearly fluent cuties and the rest of the day free. So I survived the week and went home, took my shoes off, bounced onto my bed and thought “I need a vacation.” And by some act of fate or God or socialist government, that just happens to be when vacation began. I like to wish for things I already have lately.

The French have this vacation called Toussaint, which means All Saints’ Day. Some Catholic schools in the US take a vacation day for this but the French go all out. I’m not talking about Memorial Day or President’s Day, here. Ohhhh no, one week into the job and I’m free for two weeks, and paid for it, too! (I keep mentioning it, I know. It’s just that the concept really blows me away. I get two weeks paid vacation after working for 12 hours? Really? I mean really really? You guys mean it? Because I’m so taking off if you do.)

So three or four days later around noon there we were, Kristin and I, letting time slip away as we laid in our pajamas and watched Spongebob, our stalking feet swinging in the air, telling jokes and making strange noises, the floor around us littered with empty and half-full shopping bags holding the fruits of our vacation labors at the Frenchy shops in Pau. We weren’t bored, exactly, but we weren’t trembling from excitement and adventure, either. So as you can imagine, when Cyril came over from next door and offered to drive us to Spain the next day we had no choice but to agree to go. A native had seen us in our couch potato state. It was time to get out.

And the Bask hills rolled out before us as we sped down the autoroute, two Americans, two French and a Belgian throwing change into toll booths along the way. Street signs were written in French and Bask until they were written in Spanish and Bask and I poked the ever carsleepy Kristin to tell her we were in Spain. We stopped once to buy chocolate, again to admire murky teal waves crashing against an old castle and then once more to bathe in the Atlantic at sunset, chasing each other across the beach and taking pictures of lovers’ silhouettes as they cuddled along the water’s edge. Our last stop was for dinner in Biarritz, a French beach resort town, where we balanced atop rocky walls, listening to the black waves wash over their sides. It was another one of those days where time slowed for a while, letting reality soak in through all of my senses.

Eventually, though, the day ended and we were back to running the streets of Pau, touring the chateau in town, hiking in the Pyrénées, and making feeble attempts to avoid shopping.