Words by Alexia Rose Cicard
Je ne sache pas d’endroit plus charmant et magnifique que Biarritz. Je n’ai qu’une peur, c’est qu’il devienne à la mode” – Victor Hugo
Every summer, Biarritz braces itself. Not for big swells, but for the incoming human wave of Parisians.
So naturally, here I am on my sea-view Airbnb terrace, sipping natural wine and complaining about how Biarritz is “overrun by Parisians” – fully aware, yet conveniently forgetting – that I am one of those Parisians. And like every one of us, I got the brief. I brought the uniform. Every Parisian – especially the one with a two-week mid-August break – keeps a sacred corner of their wardrobe for their vacances au Sud-Ouest.
Generations may shift, wardrobes may change, but the script stays the same.
Oversized linen pants, linen shirt permanently unbuttoned. Or Stüssy shorts, ‘found’ vintage, cropped tanks bought on vinted. Chunky sneakers or “timeless” loafers.
Either way, we’ll end up in espadrilles thinking we’ve gone native. Add a tote bag screaming “Marché local”, a woven bracelet, and the attitude of someone wondering if there are enough coffee shops because, on the well worn path trod before us – maybe this summer pace could be our new permanent address?
Which brings us to the grand reveal, the ultimate flex nobody needed: “I’ve been coming here for years”.
The thing is, every Parisian in Biarritz thinks they’re the exception. The cool one, the respectful one, the one who “gets it”. But when eight TGVs from Montparnasse roll in every day, “the exception” is more than the norm – it’s an invasion. Because Parisians don’t do vacation mode. We just relocate our anxieties – with better light and more rosé.
Deadlines become restaurant bookings. Stress turns into the hunt for hidden hikes, watering holes and beaches. A competition even, who tanned faster, who napped better, who found the most “authentic” market stall, oyster shack, or village complete with goats, cows, and a single restaurant that’s never heard of Apple Pay. Sauveterre de Béarn? Never heard of it.
The surfboard is a prop, the tan a status symbol, the local recommendation a form of currency. We. are. not. relaxing. We’re perfecting the art of performing relaxation.
And you Biarritz locals? You’ve got front-row seats to the show. And like an old married couple, you’ve watched and adapted.
Decades of invasion have turned you into seasonal anthropologists. You can spot a Parisian at 100 meters, know our migration patterns by heart post 14 Juillet; the 11am towel invasion, 2pm booking frustration, 7pm spritz celebration.
So naturally you’ve mastered strategic disappearance. In July, half of you vanish, renting your homes for sums that would make a Parisian landlord blush – then fleeing to safer grounds: the Pyrenees, Portugal, Galicia, or, with perfect irony, an abandoned Paris.
It’s a Darwinian adaptation at its finest. By August, it’s simple: resistance is futile, tourism pays the bills. Love? Maybe not. But divorce? Surely too expensive.
That overpriced matcha latte we’re sipping? Someone’s September trip to Indonesia. That “sunrise yoga class” we’ve booked? October’s mortgage payment. The surfboard we’ll never use? December’s ski trip.
But we both know it’s not just about the money. We brought you those iced lattes you now secretly order off season. Those restaurants with tiny plates you hated but now go to twice a week. Those natural wine bars that define your weekends year round.
But our greatest contribution? We’re the best thing that happened to your complaining.
We are your necessary villain. The excuse for every sigh, the fuel of our national pastime. Because without us, what would feed your eternal French exhaustion? The weather? Please. Les Espagnols don’t count- they’re too polite. We’re perfect – more reliable than your 2nd rate, 2nd league rugby team, more satisfying than a strike. Annual. Predictable. Chronic.
And then September comes. TGVs empty. Biarritz is yours again, peaceful – perfect.
For about two weeks – until someone cracks the inévitable : “C’est un peu mort là, non?”
This is France, and complaining isn’t cultural – it’s constitutional. We need something to hate together more than we need to love.
So we return to this endless dance: you sigh, we invade, you overcharge, we overpay, everyone complains, nobody changes. The cynicism that binds us, the mutual irritation that makes us family. This isn’t dysfunction – it’s love. French-style.
So, same time next year? We won’t miss it.
Ps : You’re still classified as a Station Balnéaire. Love you.
