Category Archives: Our Foreign Adventures

Big regret with a happy ending

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shoe shine in Haro

shoe shine in Haro

I really regret not bringing sneakers with me. What was I thinking? I was thinking the Germans used to make fun of tourists in sneakers when we lived there, but now everyone wears them while sightseeing, even Germans. And they’re really cute nowadays, not those glow-in-the-dark, white running shoes of twenty years ago. That was all that was available then.

So I didn’t bring my sneakers, but brought two pairs of good walking shoes – one of which gave me blisters the first week because my feet were swollen from the flight over, and the other I really intended to wear with jeans when the weather gets cooler. (In other words, they look hideous with skirts and capris.)

Chuck Trailers

Chuck Trailers

I like to vary the shoes I wear; I don’t wear the same pair two days in a row. When you walk around 12,000 steps a day, it’s much better to rotate the blisters. Different shoes rub in different places. So I’ve been keeping my eyes open for shoe sales. Turns out they’re having summer clearance sales right now, and I found this adorable pair of Chuck Taylor knock-offs for 10€ (around $11)! Of course, I should have just brought my Chuck Taylors from home, but don’t say that to a woman who agonized for over a month over what to pack. So, I call these my Chuck Trailers. Whadya think?

Donostia (San Sebastián)

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La Concha beach in Donostia

La Concha beach in Donostia

people starting to line up on the red carpet for the film festival stars

people starting to line up along the red carpet to see the stars

We drove into the Basque province of Guipúzcoa to see San Sebastián, or Donostia as they call it in the Basque language. It’s really quite the cosmopolitan city; in fact, there’s an international film festival going on there now. It’s a beautiful oceanside city just a hop, skip, and a jump from Biarritz, France.

We did a little shopping, ate a few pintxos (the Basque equivalent of tapas), drank a little txakoli (local white wine), and thoroughly enjoyed just wandering all over the city.

First you choose where to eat.

First you choose where to eat.

Then you ask what's in everything.

Then you ask what’s in everything.

Then you eat!

Then you eat!

Azkuna Zentroa

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Azkuna Zentroa

Azkuna Zentroa (exterior)

Azkuna Zentroa (interior)

Azkuna Zentroa (interior)

This building, built as a bodega or wine warehouse in the 18th century, is unassuming from the outside. Blends right in with the rest of the neighborhood. But the inside is something else altogether! In the early 20th century they gutted the building and built three brick buildings inside it, each so simple in design yet so striking in comparison to their outer shell. And they placed the inner buildings on 43 unique columns constructed of wood, brick, ceramic, stone, and metal. The collection is intended to represent “the infinity of cultures, architectures, wars, and religions man has gone through over history.” Each is beautiful in its own way.

one of 43 columns

one of 43 columns

The three inner buildings house auditoriums, concert halls, art space, restaurants, cafés, and – best of all – a three-floor media center. I used to work in a library that called itself a media center in an effort to sound more grandiose and forward-thinking. We had a few videos and books on tape. But this is a media center in the truest sense of the name. In addition to books, it contains a plethora of films and television, video, and audio recordings to browse through and listen to. The place was packed with people tucked into nooks and crannies and taking advantage of this amazing resource. Can’t blame them. If I lived in Bilbão, this is where I’d be.

Release me

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clarinet

I had one of those moments outside the Guggenheim museum in Bilbão. I was listening to a street musician play the clarinet and thinking about my dad. He played the clarinet in his youth and was quite good. They used to call him “Benny” in high school for one of his favorite clarinet players, Benny Goodman. And he loved Dixieland jazz! I remember once when I was in elementary school and trying to learn how to play the recorder, Dad picked it up and just started jamming Dixieland style. He hadn’t played the clarinet for probably thirty years, and I don’t know that he had ever played a recorder!

So I’m listening to this guy in Bilbão. He’s good enough that he’s mentioned in Fodor’s travel guide. The first song ended, and he started playing Release Me – my dad’s all-time favorite song. I remember him hushing us kids, cranking up the volume and saying, “Listen to the words now. Just listen to the words!”

I don’t think I’ve heard the song since he passed away thirty years ago. Goosebumps broke out on my arms, and my heart started racing. Then, as I listened to the melody float out over the plaza, I began to feel calm. I felt like Dad was there with me, or at least that he would be happy to know what I was up to. He was the one who instilled the love of travel in me and started me on this lifelong path of exploring the world. His sense of adventure and love of life were infectious. Miss you, Dad.

Bilbão

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the stained glass window that welcomed us at Bilbão-Abando train station

the stained glass window that welcomed us at Bilbão-Abando train station

Here we are in Bilbão, the heart of Basque Country, or El País Vasco in Spanish and Euskadi in the Basque language Euskara.

random brickwork on a derelict building

random brickwork on a derelict building

I don’t know about you, but I used to mentally connect the Basque Country to terrorism. There was so much of it in the news in the 1980s. At that time, I knew the Basque Country was sandwiched between Spain and France in the Pyrenees Mountains, but I thought it was an independent country. What I learned in reading up for this trip is that the Basque Country is comprised of four Spanish Basque provinces and three French Basque provinces that want to become one country of seven Basque provinces. Hence their political equation: 4+3=1. Makes sense; many cohesive ethnicities existed before today’s political boundaries divided them. Borders continue to shift and change accordingly.

The Basque provinces have wanted independence since the time they were incorporated into Spain and France centuries ago. After the Spanish Civil War ended in 1939 and Generalísimo Franco declared himself dictator of Spain, he didn’t want to hear anything about separatist movements from either the Basque Country, Catalonia, or any other provinces. Politically, he came down on them pretty harshly.

After his death in 1975, Spain reverted to a monarchy. The Basques, not knowing what line the new king, Juan Carlos I, would take, made their bid for independence loudly and clearly. That was the tumultuous ‘80s. But Juan Carlos handled the situation well, in my estimation. Although he had been taken under Franco’s wing and educated here in Spain (while his family was in exile in Portugal), he surprised everyone by having his parliament outline a plan for autonomy for all the provinces of Spain.

the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art

the Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art

Bilbão is the capital of the Basque province of Viscaya. It has always been an industrial city – not much to look at until the Guggenheim Foundation came to town. They were searching for a site to build a European art museum and had visited several candidate cities, including Madrid, but weren’t finding what they were looking for. As the story goes, they reluctantly accepted an invitation to visit Bilbão, not expecting much.

Love this crazy architecture!

Love this crazy architecture!

But once here, they discovered the site of a former steel mill on the river, and the notion of a metropolitan conversion from industry to art appealed. The Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim opened in 1997, and other notable architects followed. A brilliant coup on the part of city planners: Soon afterwards, millions of tourists flocked to Bilbão to take it all in.

The local cuisine has flourished along with the growth of the city. In addition to the many Michelin-starred restaurants, pintxos (peent-chos) prevail. A slice of baguette topped with an infinite variety of deliciocities, the creativity of which is left to the many talented chefs. Each bar has its specialties.

Bilbão is the pintxo capital of the world

Bilbão is the pintxo capital of the world

the Zubizuri pedestrian bridge

the Zubizuri pedestrian bridge

The Basques also have an interesting language, Euskara. Quite different from Spanish, it’s a riot of crazy letter combinations. They are extremely fond of x’s and z’s and repetitive syllables. Take the national white wine, txakolitxakoli, for example, and the Zubizuri pedestrian bridge. Sounds like something Dr. Suess would come up with. One of their signature dishes, bacalao al pil pil, is named for the sound of the cod juices and olive oil bubbling in the pan. How fun is that? We ate in the Café Txirimiri. I don’t even begin to know how to say the name, but the food was delicious!

Taking the scenic route

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Sometimes I get so bogged down in the itinerary that I can’t make simple decisions: Should we take the fastest route (autopista) from Llanes to our next destination of Arrigorriaga (try saying that three time quickly – or even once!) just south of Bilbão, or the more scenic route along the coast? “The scenic route,” piped in Marcus. “We have lots of time before we need to check in in Arri-whatever.”

The scenic route it was, and I am so glad we did. What gorgeous little towns we saw along the Atlantic coast! San Vicente de la Barquera (probably the prettiest), Comillas, Santillana del Mar, and Santoña. I wanted to wrap up each one and put it in my pocket!

Sippin’ cider

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the master cider pourer in Llanes

the master cider pourer in Llanes

Marcus and I had never tried fermented cider before. The thought of drinking alcoholic apple juice just didn’t appeal. But here we are entering Basque Country where cider is the national drink. Don’t you think we ought to try it?

While sitting at a café in the main square of Llanes, the Plaza Cristo Rey, we watched the sidrería (cider house) across the way. [An aside: I just love the way the Spanish language adds -ería on to the end of any noun to yield the name of an establishment that sells the noun. You want pan (bread)? Go to a panería. We buy bread from a bakery. Bread/bakery? You want to buy carne (meat)? Go to a carnería. We buy meat from a butcher. Want sidre (cider)? Go to a sidrería. Okay, that doesn’t translate, but you get the idea.]

So back to the sidrería we were watching…. There was one particular server who took great pride in pouring cider in the traditional Basque way: Hold the bottle above your head and the glass down by your thigh with the opening pointing away from you. Then pour the cider at such an angle that it arcs and hits just inside the rim of the glass. This is called “cracking” the cider and (supposedly) makes it taste better. I’m sure just from the description you can tell this is easier watched than done. If we were going to try cider, it wouldn’t be from the comfort of our own apartment where we would end up mopping the floor. We needed to have an expert pour it, and who better than this marksman across the way.

We sauntered over. In my halting Spanish I told him that we had never tried cider before, and what did he recommend? In retrospect, I think this was probably a mistake as he brought out a bottle without a label and with an unsealed cork haphazardly stuck in the top. I ignored the little voice that told me not to drink anything unsealed, hoping the alcohol would kill any germs.

So this is how it goes: You don’t pour your own cider. The guy comes to your table when he sees that your glass is empty. And he only pours one swallow, each time from a height of probably three feet. The cider is cloudy at first, I suppose from all the cracking going on, and you’re supposed to drink it before the cloudiness settles out. But we made the mistake of sipping it. Ackkkk!

How can I delicately describe the taste? It tasted just like all the men’s rooms (and the walls of some buildings in dark alleyways) we have smelled (without trying) in Spain. We looked at each other wide-eyed. Had I made a mistake by confessing our ignorance about cider, and this was our server’s payback to all the tourists that had tormented him all day? (I’m thinking back to that unsealed bottle.) Or was the fragrance so powerful that this is the parfum that exudes from every post-processed-cider receptacle in Spain? We may never know, but you can betcha that we will never drink cider again!

Cutest little fishing village

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Cudillero, Spain

Cudillero, Spain

Fodors promised Cudillero is the cutest little fishing village in Asturias. We haven’t seen them all, but they just may be right; we were enchanted and so glad that we waited to make our lunch stop here.

the one and only plaza is the heart of the town

the one and only plaza is the heart of the town

The village virtually tumbles down the hillside into the sea. Loved its vibrant town center with its colorful facades! Fun place to hang out.

the lighthouse

the lighthouse and the Atlantic beyond

happy campers

happy travelers

Tilting at windmills

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wind turbines in Asturias

wind turbines in Asturias

As we drove from Santiago, in the northwest of Spain, along the northern (Atlantic) coast to our next destination, the terrain gradually changed from fogged-in mountains to open, rolling green hills and sunny skies. The landscape reminded me of Switzerland, although without the Alps towering above the foothills, with little stone farmhouses and placid, milky-brown cows tucked into valleys between the hills. To our left (north) we could see a line of steel-blue on the horizon – the ocean. Ahead (east), along the ridges of this increasingly mountainous terrain, a phalanx of wind turbines congregated.

I don’t know what it is about wind turbines that thrills me so much. The most dramatic were the ones we saw in Greece. Greece can be such a dry, barren, and impoverished country in parts; the sight of these colossal machines harvesting the wind’s power left us hopeful that the country was on the right path and just might survive its financial woes.

The wind turbines in Portugal – yet another EU country in need of modernization – were also impressive; the sound of the ginormous blades cutting through the wind at “o fim do mundo” (the end of the world), the tempestuous southwest coast of Europe at São Vicente, was exhilarating.

Don Quixote and his sidekick, Pancho Sanza

Don Quixote and his sidekick, Pancho Sanza

But in Spain, these dynamos give an entirely different sensation. I can’t help but think of the beloved Spanish literary character, Don Quixote, and wonder what he would make of them. Much sleeker, taller, and awe-inspiring than the squat little plugs of windmills in his day, would these have been as threatening to him – or more so?

I don’t know about Don Quixote, but when we drove round a bend and suddenly found ourselves in the midst of them, I felt the urge to reach for my lance. Instead, I grabbed my camera and tried in vain to capture their majesty. These gentle giants, rather than responding to the wind, seemed to be moving their magnificent arms of their own volition, waving us through the pass with approval and on to further adventures.