Finding Quiet in Gujan-Mestras: Five Days of Silence

Jon and I have been living in Gujan-Mestras for five days now, and this little town near Arcachon feels worlds away from the noise and bustle of our usual life. It’s incredibly peaceful here—so quiet, in fact, that the smallest sound feels amplified. Every time we move around our second-floor Airbnb with its wrap-around porch, I’m struck by how loud we seem. It’s like our footsteps, our voices, even the clinking of dishes echo ten-fold. I can’t shake the feeling that we’re the noisy Americans, standing out in this sea of silence.

Our Airbnb has become a sanctuary of sorts. The porch offers a perfect view of the quiet streets below, and from our elevated spot, we can watch the town go about its calm, unhurried business. One of the highlights has been watching wild pheasants meander through the nearby "intentional forests." These little moments of nature feel like they were placed there just for us, as if Gujan-Mestras itself is offering us peace on a platter.

But with this peace comes a sense of unease. The quiet here is so deep that it starts to feel unsettling after a while. At first, it’s welcoming—a break from the world we know. But as the days pass, the stillness becomes a presence in itself. The occasional bird chirping or car engine passing by seems unnaturally loud, disrupting the quiet in a way that feels almost startling. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s a strange sensation to get used to.

Of course, Frankie still takes her twice-daily walks, exploring the sleepy streets of Gujan-Mestras. She’s always eager to sniff around and investigate the patches of greenery scattered throughout town. But there’s something almost surreal about these outings. The quiet we’ve become accustomed to is suddenly disrupted by the sight and sound of elderly dog walkers emerging from seemingly nowhere. It’s as if the stillness has birthed them, each with their little dogs in tow, appearing at just the right moment to intercept us.

What’s really jarring is their unwavering determination to introduce their pets. No matter where we are or which direction we’re headed, they zero in on us, smiling and chatting away in French, convinced that Frankie should be just as excited as they are for these impromptu meet-and-greets. There’s something almost eerie about their persistence, as if we’re playing a role in some community ritual we didn’t sign up for.

The thing is, Frankie isn’t thrilled about these forced encounters. She’s much more interested in what’s lurking in the bushes or tracking the scent trail of a squirrel than in making small talk with another dog. As soon as one of these well-meaning walkers starts heading our way, her hackles rise, and she becomes laser-focused on the approaching threat, her body tense and alert. It’s a quick shift from curious explorer to a watchdog on high alert.

After a few tense and awkward attempts at polite introductions, I’ve had to resort to using the phrase “chien lunatique” to warn them off. It’s now part of our routine—warding off these unwanted advances with a friendly but firm warning. Most of the time, it works. The locals, their smiles faltering for just a moment, laugh and steer their dogs back to their side of the street. But the strange, almost mechanical insistence of these encounters lingers, making our walks feel less like a peaceful stroll and more like navigating an odd, recurring dream.

Despite these little interactions, the quiet remains constant, almost oppressive at times. Each sound we make feels like it’s breaking some unspoken rule of silence. And just when we thought we were getting used to it, the peace was shattered last night. It was around 11 p.m., and rain was softly pattering on the roof as we drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, a clamor erupted outside—yard waste bins being picked up and dragged along the street. The noise was so jarring in the stillness that it pulled us right out of our slumber. I couldn’t believe it. In a place where you can hear the rustling of leaves through double-paned windows, who thought it made sense to do trash collection in the rain in the middle of the night?

It’s strange, but that single incident almost made the silence feel louder. There’s something about this place, with its intentional stillness, that’s starting to sink in. It’s a kind of quiet you don’t just hear—you feel it, too. And for now, we’re learning to live with it.