Last days in Arcachon

I can hear the accordian coming out of the local tabac mid-Sunday morning, echoing down the Allee de la Chapelle.  At first we were strangers but each day we come for the tiny black expresso the greetings are warmer.  Smiles are brighter and more familiar.  Its the people who bring the ambiance, the glow, the aesthetic.  I'd rather ensconce myself in the humble Hotel St Christaud than the soul-less Hotel de Paris - what could I write there except long beige coloured monologues that don't touch the ground.  Here on the south west coast, old seaside town ... in the space of Autumn - (the tourist masses had all departed at the end of summer) I can write endlessly about Eurydice, Orpheus, Shulamith and H.C. of course who has always considered Arcachon magic for writing.  Though I didn't find her here - I don't know where she fits in between the boulangerie and the tabac perhaps, or in the bell tower of the Notre Dame, perched on the sculpture of the tail of the white whale in the bay.  Of course you could write here, especially about l'etoile de la Mer - Notre Dame - I imagine that is where she is ... on the corner of the roof of the Notre Dame.  The old beauty in stone, gazing over the Allee, down to the pier where the old men fish.  We are surrounded by beautiful old women and their dogs here.  We wouldn't know what's happened on the outside.  This place is a little French Shangrila.  Time stands still.