Letters To Lars

It was the summer of nineteen-ninety-nine.

The year we’d been stunned by ‘The Matrix’, left shocked by the Columbine High School massacre, and the Y2K problem threatened to take us back to the Stone Age.

I was eighteen years old, and I’d recently finished my student exchange program in London. My host family had invited me to join them on their camping vacation in the south of France, and my parents had readily agreed.

I didn’t speak any French, but apparently the camping site was quite popular for vacation goers from all over Europe. My host brother, George, was nice enough, but perhaps I could make a new friend.

Alice and John, my quirky yet kind host parents, owned a ‘caravan’. It could sleep two people and had a small kitchenette as well as a cramped bathroom. George and I would be sleeping in a tent.

The trip was long, and we couldn’t do it all in one go. We took the ‘Chunnel’, the underwater tunnel that connected Dover with Calais, then travelled down via Rouen, stayed overnight in Tours, passed through Bordeaux and arrived at our destination just outside of Biarritz in the afternoon.

The campsite was large, clean, well organized and close to the beach. There were cabins for rent, plots for trailers and smaller spots for only tents.

We had reserved a relatively quiet area away from the hustle and bustle of the main entrance but still close enough to the facilities, the shop and the café.

After helping Alice and John settle in and setting up the tent with George, we went for dinner in town and did some grocery shopping for the next few days.

The trip had been quite the adventure, and we were all exhausted by ten o’clock. Once inside my sleeping bag, it didn’t take very long for me to drift off.

My dreams had been filled with the beautiful guys I’d seen playing volleyball on the beach.

I woke up really early the next day and decided to get coffee and fresh croissants for everyone from the café.

Careful not to wake George, I zipped open the tent and crawled out into the crisp morning air. It had become a bit stuffy inside, especially with my host brother’s constant subtle farting.

I grabbed my wallet from my backpack as well as my Nokia with its prepaid local SIM card. Alice and John encouraged us to explore, make friends, and enjoy our vacation but expected us to always be reachable.

The request was more than fair, especially considering their responsibility over a kid whose parents lived on the other side of the world.

I made my way along the rows of tents, trailers and RVs and found the café at the end of the road. The smell of coffee and fresh pastries wafted towards me, luring me in like a siren.

“Bonjour!” the girl behind the counter said jovially.

I didn’t want to reply with the little French I knew, in case it would encourage her to continue.

“Good morning,” I said, smiling brightly.

“Ah, American! What bring you to Biarritz?” she said in accented English.

She figured me out from a simple ‘good morning’?

“I’m here with my British host family,” I replied. “I've never been in France before; it’s really beautiful.”

“Of course,” she said, clearly pleased with the compliment about her country.

“What do you like?” she asked, holding a pair of pastry tongs.

“Can I get four coffees to-go and four chocolate croissants?” I said, maintaining the smile.

“They are not croissants,” she said, deliberately correcting my pronunciation. “They are pain au chocolat!”

“Sorry,” I said, deliberately not taking offense. “I’ll remember that.”

I was probably going to visit the café a lot, so I wanted to stay friendly with the staff.

“The French are very specific about their baked goods,” a voice whispered behind me in near-perfect English.

I turned around and almost gasped.

A guy, significantly taller than me, with blond hair, grey eyes, and a muscular torso in a tight blue polo shirt was smiling at me. He was simply stunning, and it took me a moment before I could say anything.

“It doesn’t help that I’m a clueless American,” I said, often using self-deprecating humor.

The guy laughed a warm laugh and patted my shoulder. I’d heard that Europeans could be handsy, so I didn’t make an issue of it.

“Anything more?” the girl behind the counter asked, preparing my order in a paper to-go bag.

I shook my head and handed her cash, very much aware that the gorgeous guy was still standing behind me.

“I haven’t seen you before,” he said. “Did you arrive today?”

He wanted to carry on talking to me? Why?

"Yesterday,” I replied, trying to cut off the conversation.

He was making me kinda nervous; it seemed like those grey eyes were able to see straight through me.

The girl handed me my bag and said, “Au revoir.”

I turned around, flashed him a quick smile, and rushed out. He probably thought I was a weirdo, but it was definitely better than him knowing the truth…

I liked guys, and he was very easy to like.

My breakfast gesture was much appreciated, and our first full day of vacation was off to a good start.

We packed our stuff and headed to the beach all together. My host parents had plans for the afternoon, but strangely, we weren’t invited.

George and I swam and threw a frisbee back and forth. He quickly got bored, however, like he had somewhere else to be. The moment his parents left, he immediately told me what was going on.

“Mom and dad have a bit of a gambling issue,” George said. “They save up and come here every year to visit the casino whilst I entertain myself alone.”

“Do they gamble the whole day?” I asked in surprise.

“No, they put limits to avoid burning through their money too fast,” he said. “After lunch, they play until six, so they’re back in time for family dinner.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I found my own entertainment,” he said. “Last year, I got involved with a local, and I really want to go see her.”

“Good for you!” I said, honestly happy for him. “Do your parents know you have a girlfriend?”

My parents would be utterly thrilled if I had a girlfriend, although I’d never shown interest in the opposite sex.

“Well, that’s the tricky part…” he said, nervously scratching the back of his head. “She’s not so much a girl but rather a woman in her early thirties.”

“Oh,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

“Can I ask a massive favor?” George said, looking at me with pleading eyes. “Can you cover for me?”

“Sure,” I said. “But let’s make sure we’re both always telling them the same story.”

“Deal!” he said, spitting into his hand and holding it out for me to shake.

I reluctantly returned the gesture.

“Will you be OK if I go now?”

“I guess,” I said.

I still had an unfinished book back in the tent, and I could always go explore the camping ground. George grabbed his stuff and flew. The lucky bastard was surely off to get laid.

As I walked back to the campsite, I spotted the guy from the café playing beach volleyball. He was wearing a pair of short white and red swimming trunks, and his upper body was glistening with sweat.

For a moment, it seemed like he was moving in ‘bullet time’ from The Matrix. His hair swept aside before he jumped in the direction of the ball. His arm went up and smashed it over the net, scoring a perfect ace.

When he landed on his feet, his gaze caught mine. I was just standing there openly staring at him, so I had no other choice but to flee.