An Angry Hum

We got to the airport the next morning, like 5am or something (I wasn’t really paying attention, It was like 5am or something). We were among the first people waiting for security to open so we could catch our flight to Bilbao. From there we were going to find our way to San Sebastian (Donostia) on the northern coast of Spain, in Basque country. We weren’t really sure how that was going to work, because Captain No Plan was in charge.

Getting around Spain, maybe all of Europe, is, by American standards, cheap. Our plane tickets from Seville to Bilbao were €40. If She and I want to fly from the Twin Cities (in the middle of the US by the way) to Denver or Chicago, or even Des Moines, it would cost around $45,000 dollars (I think that might be a little high, but maybe not). Over the two weeks we were in Spain we took trains, planes, buses, and automobiles. None of it was expensive or inconvenient, even with a language issue. When Younger Son’s buddies S and C flew from London to Barcelona it cost less than $100. Cheap and easy. I loved that, though it makes traveling around the US that much more infuriating.

We boarded our plane to San Sebastian (Donostia). It was not a special plane, nor a new plane. It was a bus with wings. And for $40 I was pleased as punch. We arrived in Bilbao a few hours later and assumed the stance and affect of The Lost Tourist. Up to this point I’d overlooked the “(Donostia)” part of “San Sebastian” on everything. I’d shrug it off thinking, “Maybe it’s a suburb. Or maybe Donostia is what the train station is called”. I mean, I come from a place interchangeably called Minneapolis, Saint Paul, Minneapolis/St. Paul, The Twin Cities, so why not San Sebastian (Donostia)?

Nope. Donostia is what the people who live there call it. San Sebastian is the name given their home by Spanish Imperial Overlords. They don’t even really like Spanish. They mostly speak Euskara (my laptop thinks “Euskara” is a typo.)

Imagine if, when the U.S. absorbed Texas, they’d renamed it “South Yankee”, and started speaking Dutch. The shit would’ve hit the fan.

Now, in preparation of this trip I’d downloaded a Spanish/English dictionary. I’d also downloaded all the necessary maps I’d need in Spain in case I ever went “off grid”. I downloaded Spanish, Portuguese, and French to my iTranslate app. I did not however, download Euskara. Obviously. So when She and I approached the kiosk to buy train tickets, we were well and truly screwed. I thought, with a growing line behind me, “Is this thing broken? These are just letters strung together.”

For example:
English – “One bus ticket please.”
Spanish – “Un billete de autobús por favor”
Euskara – “Autobus txartel bat mesedez”

Come on, man.

I stood there for 3 hours, the line getting uncomfortably long, with my credit card in one hand, the other hand’s index finger poised to respond to stimuli, and a little bit of drool forming on my bottom lip. It was really about 15 seconds, but felt like an Age of Man. I bailed. A quick step sideways and a plaintive look at Her, and we were safely out of the current.

I want to stress that She and I travel very well together. We rarely, if ever, get impatient with one another. Her legendary impatience is over-ridden by Her love of adventure. My need to sarcastically make fun of everything is overwhelmed by my childish love of chaos. So we chatted about our next move. I wandered outside to read the front of the bus that had just pulled up and She took to studying how everyone in line interfaced with the ticket computer.

The bus driver hopped off, and seeing the length of the line, took over at the kiosk. Someone would approach the machine, he’d take their card, ask a couple questions and tap, tap, tap, out would come the tickets. Next please.

He saw me staring blankly, obviously unsure of what to do and asked me, in very broken English, “Two? Donostia?”

“Yes please!” I handed him my credit card.

Four times. Four times he tried, with people getting a little impatient behind me. I was concerned. It wasn’t working because in Spain they use a PIN for all credit card purchases. I didn’t have a PIN. The driver asked if I had cash. “Yes.” She said.

“Ok,” he said. “Wait by the bus.” He was friendly and efficient.

Once everyone with a ticket boarded he took his seat at the wheel and waved us in. I paid €20 each, and we were on our way.

San Sebastian. Donostia.

Amazing. Beautiful. Incredible. We loved it. Everything about it. I wish I was there right now. Our small, 40-room hotel was perfect, with perfect views. San Sebastian/Donostia has two natural bays surrounded by low mountains. The little, old center of town was full of great food, drinks, shopping and sight-seeing. It has three beaches and a little marina for the local fisherman. One of my new goals is to go back there in warmer weather. How overcrowded does it get? Do I even care?

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We hiked a little ways up to a castle overlooking the bay and the town. There was a little bar up there, built on a cliff in what I think was an old artillery building. I’d like to have a drink up there on a hot day. We did a little shopping. We ate small plates often, and stopped for a drink a little more often.

I’d read that Spain is a great food country. It’s true. I’d also read that Basque country is the centerpiece of their food culture. Also true. The best food I ate in Spain was there. We stopped at a bar that served tapas (unsurprising, they all do), and found out while there that their chef had a couple Michelin Stars. Another bar had a guy manning the grill who was trained by Ferran Adriá at elBulli. I was in food heaven.

We drank cider and Txakoli. Cider in Basque country is very popular. Their version is very dry, with almost no carbonation. They add bubbles by shooting the cider out of a pressurized line into a glass held at arm’s length (about three or four feet). I never once saw a drop spilled. Txakoli is a very light, fresh white wine. It’s served by lifting the bottle over head and pouring into the glass set on the bar, again to introduce some bubbles. Also unspilled. One glass each, two euros.

As an inveterate people watcher, I often make guesses or predictions about the people I see. You would be a little harsh but a lot right to call it judging.

I’m also usually wrong. She and I were in a restaurant, one I’d wanted to try since we arrived. This restaurant was very popular and we hadn’t yet succeeded in finding room, not even just to stand. So, when we walked by at about 4:30 one afternoon and found it almost empty, we grabbed a small table and ordered a couple drinks. Then a couple more. We’d found a place to park ourselves.

Two men, younger than I walked in and sat next to us. They began conversing in an obviously Mid-western accented English. One was a large man and the other wiry, with a scraggly beard. They were talking about booze and a hockey game. I’m a midwesterner who likes hockey and booze and beards, but I was ruthlessly judging them, mostly as a goof. I thought, “Bachelor party. They’re pre-gaming. The groom is back at the Airbnb taking a quick shower and power-eating B6 tablets. These two goons don’t need B6 because as Groomsmen it’s their job to endure a blistering hangover. The Bride already thinks they’re children, so they’ve got nothing to lose. Typical.”

They said something that prompted Her to ask them where they were from. “Chicago”, they replied. We started talking, a conversation that lasted at least an hour and several rounds. The big one was a medical doctor and researcher, the other in marketing and scientific writing. They worked for a company that was researching uses for hemp-based products. San Sebastian/Donostia is where their laboratories are. I was way off.

It was a great time. They’d been to the area many times, and were a great source of information. After about an hour or so, we remembered that we wanted to be on our hotel’s rooftop for sunset, so I got up and said, “I’ll go pay the tab.”

The Big Doctor said, “Oh, don’t worry about that. We already paid that.”

San Sebastian/Donostia is a romantic place. A place to hold hands and speak in low tones of happy things. A place to laugh and watch and listen. It’s a perfect backdrop for pictures of the people you love. A perfect place to eat and drink and be with friends.

We got very lucky, we almost didn’t go there. Now I can’t wait to go back.