Frédéric Beigbeder, known for his supposed snobbery, recounts an unexpected interlude: vacation at the Center Parcs des Landes. Between his peaceful life in Guéthary, writing One Man Alone, and his regular returns to Paris for “Conversations at Lapérouse” facing the Tout-Paris, the author shows up where he is least expected. One afternoon, in his boxers on an outdoor couch, he starts to whistle with the titmice and understands that the place has tamed him, in a Snow White fashion. The dandy enjoys this great leap, he who hesitated between a Tibetan monastery and an authentic farm, ultimately opting for the anti-party at his fingertips.
Between the legend of the Parisian nightlife and a self-deprecating hermit in the midst of the pines, Frédéric Beigbeder tells a delightful stretch: that of a writer reputed for his supposed snobbery who discovers, somewhat astounded, the joys of a stay at the Center Parcs des Landes. From his life in Guéthary to his regular back-and-forth to Paris, from his literary show at the restaurant Lapérouse to his confession of an unexpected letting go — even whistling with the titmice — he unfolds a tender and comical poetry of dislocation, where the dandy transforms, for a weekend, into a Snow White of the Landes forests.
Despite carrying the label of the socialite flirting with the Tout-Paris, Frédéric Beigbeder allows himself a narrative and personal pirouette: the admission that a stay at the Center Parcs des Landes has tamed him. No, it wasn’t a project of asceticism in a monastery perched at the end of the world, nor a stubborn immersion in a farm where the sound of cowbells rings at dawn; it was closer, simpler, almost too simple. And it is precisely there that the human comedy lies: a man reputed for collecting salons and cocktails who, amidst the pines, ends up conversing with the birds and accepting, laughing, that simplicity wins by K.O.
The dandy in shorts and the forest in muted tones
The image is delightfully absurd: lying on an outdoor couch, in a very minimal summer outfit, the writer surprises himself by answering the song of the titmice by whistling. A little moment of pastoral absurdity where one realizes that he has unwittingly laid down his arms and postures. The revelation fell like a feather: the forest had beautified him with a mocking mirror, and he reflected as a contemporary Snow White, surrounded by winged choristers. In short, Center Parcs had “won”. And perhaps that is the most beautiful defeat: the one that consists of yielding to the sweetness of the world.
From Guéthary to Paris: the acknowledged stretch
It has been said he is definitely settled on the Basque coast, and that is not false: in Guéthary, he has found a happier port of call, conducive to writing, facing the tides and the spray. It was there that his book One Man Alone (Grasset) was born, under a sky where the clouds know how to harmonize with the phrases. Yet, the man with a divided heart does not deny the capital: two to three times a month, he heads back to Paris, as one rises back onto a stage.
The City of Light offers him a theater that matches his tastes and encounters: his literary show, Conversations at Lapérouse, recorded in the venerable restaurant where the Tout-Paris has paraded and broadcast Saturday on Le Figaro TV, serves as his salon for listening and speaking. There, he swims “like a fish,” they say, and one believes it readily: the murmur of the woodwork, the memory of the benches, and the art of conversation compose his true element.
One Man Alone, several addresses
This title, One Man Alone, sounds like a confession, but reality nuances it: one can be alone in Guéthary facing the Atlantic, and multiple in Paris under the chandeliers. This bi-locality, far from tearing him apart, seems to nourish him. To the west, the smell of iodine, the silence, the blank page. To the east (or let’s say to the north on the map), the salons, the electricity of debates, the city that cannot stand emptiness. Between the two, the man moves, like a metronome that refuses to stop its measure.
Lapérouse, or the art of talking at the table
In Conversations at Lapérouse, he practices a very French ritual: turning the table into a stage and the exchange into a dramaturgy. The show establishes its scenography in a restaurant loaded with histories, and one feels the obviousness: Beigbeder is at home in conversation, in the wink, in the allusion. He has this way of being serious without taking himself seriously, which makes the confession of a retreat even more delicious… in the land of bicycles, cabins, and squirrels.
Snobbery, did you say snobbery?
The reproach sticks to his jacket like a chic sticker: snobbery. But the category wobbles when the person involved, teasing, imagines his worst vacation: a Tibetan monastery, austere to the point of abstaining from noise, or a rugged farm where calves, cows, pigs, and hearty charcuteries add up. One too distant, the other too… rural. The joke is ready, the punchline lies elsewhere: it will be a Center Parcs des Landes, which is neither the desert nor the militant terroir, but a comforting in-between where one makes peace with time.
The impossible monastery, the improbable farm
The monastery has the elegance of fantasy — silence, height, asceticism — but it demands more than a wink; the farm, on the other hand, is not a decor but a job. Between the two, the Landes vacationing has triumphed through pragmatism. You wake up there without a bell, stroll without boots, rest without ceremony. And sometimes, you discover yourself more available to yourself than in any palace.
Center Parcs des Landes: the unexpected parenthesis
What disarms in these Landes of pines and sand is the obviousness of a soft bubble. Afternoons stretch, the light plays with the needles of the trees, and one finds a simplicity almost scripted: paths to take, terraces to bask on, cabins to forget the codes. In this decor, the socialite is no longer a socialite; he becomes a neighbor. No red carpet, but a carpet of shade under the branches.
Lesson in letting go
The scene of the titmice gives it a wobbling moral: one can spend ten years chasing after parties, and be caught by a whistle. “I understood that the place had got me,” one says, not without smiling. Becoming Snow White does not mean renouncing the podiums and platforms; it is admitting that an afternoon in underwear, in peace, is also a literature of oneself. Dandyism finds there a low fidelity version, where the music remains beautiful.
What this confession reveals
In the end, this anecdote holds allegorical value: the writer who dances with Paris and calms down in Guéthary accepts that a stay at the Center Parcs des Landes serves as his revealer. France loves its contrasts: one can celebrate the elegance of a salon at Lapérouse and collect anonymous hours amidst the pines. One can preface Paris by Paris (Assouline) and find oneself, two weeks later, in cabin and terrace mode.
Between Paris by Paris and the Landes forest
The cohabitation of the two worlds is not a contradiction, but a method. Paris sharpens, the forest heals. One promises conversation, the other guarantees listening. And if Beigbeder’s admission seduces, it is because it carries a simple truth: we do not need extremes to find ourselves, just a place where, sometimes, we can whistle with the birds without anyone taking notes.
The mirror, finally
By telling his story with this customary mischief, Frédéric Beigbeder shows that one can reconcile two caricatures: that of the night owl in a white jacket and that of the vacationer in shorts. One can defend a novel like One Man Alone and, the next day, dream of cohabiting with the squirrels. And one can, above all, admit that a Center Parcs des Landes steals a bit of irony to convert it into sweetness. Perhaps this is growing up without renouncing fun: keeping the flair, losing the pose, and keeping, in reserve, a whistle for the titmice.
