Healing waters in France

We did it. We entered the world of retirement, more out of mental necessity vs. financial freedom. The corporate world had taken its toll on my husband Benjamin, an artist and creative whose decades as a graphic designer floated further away from his true talents.

"I'm what they call a ‘dinosaur' at the office," he explained.

I reminded Benjamin that he was only 48, but none of that mattered. It wasn't about age. It was about evolving with platforms, software and technology, or in his words, "losing my soul."

And so, he quit, which ironically meant we could start the life we were meant to live. Between my freelance gigs, our side hustle selling antiques and cashing in our rental property, we could wave goodbye to corporate comforts and hug the next half of our lives.

We had some nebulous plans but decided to let details unfold during a long layover-turned-divine detour. At Charles de Gaulle Airport in Paris, we downloaded Omio, a booking platform for trains, buses and flights in Europe. We then found a rental car through Goldcar for $15 a day.

So, we went rogue, forfeiting our flight back to San Diego for five days of reflection, inspiration and relaxation in the southwestern region of Nouvelle-Aquitaine. Other than embracing gastronomy, our getaway goal was to tap into aquatic healing as a cleansing from our old lives. During this "retirement baptism," we would seek out oceans, spas and thermals between Bordeaux and Biarritz. It was intentionally spontaneous, with priorities set on all things anew.

Neither of us knew Bordeaux particularly well, although the wine had become a nightly guest at our table. We headed to Villas Foch, one of Bordeaux's only central hotels to offer spa facilities. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site, the former heritage bank sits on the ruins of Chateau Trompette, a 15th-century fortress. In 2001, the site transformed into an elegant 20-room hotel with bourgeois architecture and modern grandeur. A butler opened the door, and suddenly it was like stepping into a mansion where design, history and comfort played equal parts.

Checkerboard floors led to a red-velvet staircase where a bubble chandelier and limestone walls climbed toward restful sophistication. Fine linens and plush robes set the tone for hydro-massages in a Roman-style swimming pool. Purified and ready to rumble, we headed to the hotel bar, Ferdinand, for an aperitif.

After dark, we walked to Place des Quinconces, one of the largest city squares in Europe. Anchoring the space was Monument aux Girondins, a towering landmark built between 1894 and 1902 to honor political leaders executed during the Reign of Terror. Designed to deter rebellion, the square was still serving its purpose, as locals gathered under the moonlight, from a couple sharing ice cream to teenagers choreographing dance moves. I told my husband I wanted to be French.

The following day, he suggested the best place to start, Cité du Vin, the world's largest interactive museum dedicated to wine. What better way to understand the culture than to taste it, where exhibitions, workshops and multisensory experiences paid tribute to the grape.

Yet it wasn't until our city tour with Bruno Beurrier that we began to comprehend the deeper alliance between Bordeaux and wine.

"It's like water for us," explained Bruno. "It is life."

Pointing toward the sky, he clicked his heels, twirled in his kilt, and marched on. Bruno was eccentric, passionate and living his best life as Bordeaux's top guide. Originally from Gascony, he looked like a "Monty Python" character, sharing history and anecdotes with a 40-year reputation.

Security guards waved him through and restaurateurs gifted him samples, including truffles from Le Chocolat Alain Ducasse. This sweet pause was a bean-to-bar experience under world-renowned chef Alain Ducasse. With over 20 Michelin stars, Ducasse built a culinary empire that took a bite into chocol-ature. Obviously, we left with a few bars, hiding them in the depths of our luggage as if smuggling gold.

It was that good.

Bruno knew it, responding to any praise of local awesomeness with, "No, it's not amazing. It's Bordeaux."

He was right; Bordeaux was a destination with its own denotation, one powerhouse of meaning associated with some 7,000 chateaux and a wine culture so embedded it felt more like a birthright than a product. At Triangle d'Or, Bruno waltzed us into L'Intendant, a cellar with over 1,600 Bordeaux labels. But Bordeaux went beyond the glass.

It was a city of quiet reinvention. Once blackened by centuries of soot, its facades had been painstakingly restored, revealing grand boulevards, monumental squares and 18th-century riverfront mansions. Within its layers was culture at the Grand Theatre de Bordeaux, indulgence at streetside cafes, and the hum of commerce along Rue Sainte-Catherine - the longest pedestrian thoroughfare in Europe.

"Tell me," Bruno asked, pointing toward a tram. "What's missing?"

Like all his riddles, we had no time to answer.

"Cables," he shouted. "No cables or wires anywhere! A testament to progress bowing to beauty."

With the skyline open wide, the city's history wasn't blocked by wire grids or preserved behind glass; it was lived in, walked through and tasted. It was in the architecture of the 17th-century Basilique Notre-Dame de Bordeaux, and in the triumphal arch of Porte Cailhau. It was in the reflecting pools of Miroir d'eau, and in the bells of Saint-Andre Cathedral.

"Maybe we should retire in Bordeaux," Benjamin joked.

I told him I would miss surfing, and so, onward, we went toward the coast.

Waves were pumping in Biarritz, a glamorous seaside town on the southwestern Basque coast. Roughly 2.5 hours from Bordeaux, it gained attention when European royalty began visiting in the 1800s. Americans paddled out in the 1950s, turning Biarritz into a surf destination. For a front row seat, we chose Hotel du Palais Biarritz, originally built in 1855 as a summer villa for Empress Eugenie, wife of Napoleon III.

From a royal getaway to a casino hotel, it was a fire in 1903 that had it rising from the ashes as a "Palace," the highest tier of luxury hotels. From kings and politicians to celebrities and well, us, those who entered the Belle Epoque palace had been known to fall deeply in love with Biarritz, where waves peel like tangerines, history lingers and, for a fleeting moment, you feel like royalty yourself.

"You have a moth hole in your sweater," my husband pointed out.

Pinching off a grape from the fruit platter, I told him that moth holes were trending, and that regardless of my style, my confidence was very Jayne Mansfield. She too had been a guest, frequenting the hotel along with Ava Gardner, Winston Churchill, and Victor Hugo, who hoped "Biarritz would never become fashionable."

My sweater was certainly helping.

Despite Hugo's wish, things turned out differently for the seaside town. Even after empires fell, the guest list at Hotel du Palais Biarritz evolved into artists, writers and Hollywood's golden set; the kind of place where Ernest Hemingway could write, Coco Chanel could reinvent style and Frank Sinatra could order a nightcap.

Although crowns and ballgowns had been replaced by wet suits and linen, the allure still remained, especially after a renovation in 2021 under Hyatt's Unbound Collection. Without diminishing its heritage, the seafront landmark blended empire style with modern luxury, restoring original artwork, refined tapestries and period furnishings. We capitalized on upgrades including La Rotonde restaurant by Chef Christophe Scheller, and Imperial Spa by Guerlain. It was like Baskin-Robbins of the spa world, sampling everything with a day pass including the indoor pool, jetted tub, hammam and "tea bar."

"My ice cube is monogramed," I told my husband.

It seemed we had landed in the most luxurious hotel of our lives.

Benjamin raised his glass. "And that's how you kick off retirement," he said.

" - and die with zero," I added, looking at our bill.

Onward we went toward affordable reality in Biarritz; surfing at La Grande Plage, hiking to the port town of Saint-Jean-de-Luz, sampling cheese at Les Halles market, and watching the sunset from the lighthouse.

Until then, we had certainly relaxed but found little direction on what our future might hold.

Enter Dax. Twenty miles from the coast, the spa town on the Adour River was on our list for its thermal baths. While sipping on wine in Place de la Fontaine Chaude, we noticed a woman shucking oysters. Nursing a bottle of white, she pried open each shell, slurped it down, and closed her eyes to face the sun.

Benjamin insisted I practice my French and ask her where she bought the dozen on ice. And just like that, the stranger led us to Les Halles De Dax, a lively market where food merchants set up shop amid communal tables. The place was packed, with locals passing platters of foie gras, cheeses, pastries and other Landes products.

Appetites appeased, we checked into Le Splendid, an Art Deco landmark built in 1928 by architect André Granet. The historic hotel had Great Gatsby flair, pairing swanky elegance with purifying pools, an experience that felt equal parts therapeutic and theatrical. All curves and glamour, it still carried the ghosts of its former guests - Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles and Lauren Bacall. These days, most visitors come for mud over martinis.

That too is why we came, to cleanse in the minerals that have long been drawing the weary, wounded and curious. Long before spa days came with robes and tea, the Romans built a culture around its springs. Legend has it even Roman Empress Julia Augusta sought treatment, though it was a nameless soldier's dog that sealed the town's reputation.

Left behind, sick and weak, the dog was later found full of life, having rolled in the river mud of the Adour. Naturally, we followed the dog's path. At the heart of town, the Fontaine Chaude bubbles at 140°F, steam billowing as locals pass by like it's no big deal. But it is a big deal, because it's what has made Dax the country's leading thermal destination. Rheumatism, arthritis, back pain - this is where people come to fix what time has stolen. The benefits were real as we hit the circuit: sauna, steam room, aqua sensory, salt therapy, ice bath and a "flottarium" pool.

In Dax, wellness isn't a splurge, it's a system. Many treatments require prescriptions, and patients return like pilgrims chasing relief. We, on the other hand, were passing through, chasing a feeling we couldn't quite name. Somewhere between the oysters, wine, and waters, it started to make sense; not the future entirely, but that maybe healing wasn't about fixing everything and instead about pausing long enough to feel something shift, even if it started with a dog.

Next stop: Salies-de-Bearn, a postcard town of half-timbered homes and winding canals, affectionately dubbed the Venice of Bearn. At its heart lies a spring that produces water 10 times saltier than the sea. This liquid "white gold" has shaped the town's identity for centuries. According to legend, a wild boar was discovered encrusted in salt crystals, leading locals to the source. People arrived with buckets, harvesting what would become essential to curing Bayonne ham and, eventually, themselves.

By the mid-1800s, the spring had gone from a salt source to a thermal sanctuary, reportedly curing everything from infertility to arthritis. Today, two systems exist: one for salt production, the other for healing.

We opted for the latter at Selya Thermals. Entrance was $12, though access came with rules: Speedos and hair caps. Benjamin existed the locker room in both, which he purchased at reception.

"You don't have too much to say about the hole in my sweater now, do you?" I asked.

My top bun protruded from my swimming cap, making me look like a cross between an eraser and an alien.

Benjamin pointed at my head. "Really?"

Comfort set in as we rotated through the sauna, jacuzzi and thermal pool with jets, bubbles and a "swan neck" shower. The whole journey from sea to salt was starting to feel less like travel and more like transformation.

We slept deeply that night, thanks to both Salies-de-Bearn and Domaine Labouroume, a countryside bed-and-breakfast torn from a dream. Opened in 2022, the self-sustaining farmhouse had been brought to life by its owners, Aline and Jérémie. Pulling open a stall, Aline showed us drying potatoes and aging wine, both harvested on-site. Inside, the four rooms were styled with footed tubs, chesterfield sofas and just enough antique charm to make you question your home decor.

"Life goals," I whispered to Benjamin.

Minutes from town, the property offered quiet corners for reading, eating, and reflecting - the last of which we finally made time for.

"I want this life," Benjamin said.

Squeezing his hand, I nodded, knowing that starting now, we were reclaiming ownership of our time. Retirement, we were realizing, wasn't about the inability to work; it was about the ability to be free. A life where reward outweighed risk, even when it wasn't calculated; a life rooted in meaning, not just income.

Ironically, it took four destinations to show us that. In Bordeaux, we learned that joy is harder to bottle than wine, as a feeling of refinement without effort. In Biarritz, that even with a moth-eaten sweater, you're exactly where you're supposed to be. In Salies-de-Bearn, that saltwater springs and slow farm life can heal more than the body. And in Dax, that oysters and a soldier's dog can sway a San Diego couple just enough to pack it all in, buy a 350-year-old manor and move to France.

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This story was originally published June 15, 2026 at 4:33 AM.