Chapter 3

Day 7, San Sebastian. A comfortable room in a quirky flat owned by an eccentric Spanish lady in her late 30s. I will call this sweet little place my home for the next two weeks. The door opens to a roof terrace, the fridge is full of food and beer I bought from Lidl earlier, I have a full packet of Golden Virginia  and unlimited free Internet access. The top of the nearby hill is covered by cloud.

Level of Spanish: I have no more confidence than I did yesterday but some things are starting to stick. I began my course today and after the inicial level test and two hours in an elementary group, I was promptly taken to one side by the director of studies and bumped up to intermediate. Which I am not, but I will enjoy the hard work. 

I can see a routine forming already: lessons in the morning, back to the flat around 1.30, have lunch, sleep through siesta time. Write and study in the evening. Couple of beers on the balcony, walk on the beach, dinner at home, early nights and not much money spent. If I want my breath taken away I can wander up the road to the windy beach and look at the surfers straddling the crashing waves, the sound of which I can also hear as the last thing before I fall asleep at night. If I want to wallow in depression, listen to drunken tourists babbling in English, offload a lot of money and be bored off my tits, I can go to the Parte Vieja. The majority of people claim it’s lovely and beautiful but I came here from Bilbao. Sorry. I miss the hippies. Not one bar drew me in last night and instead I over-indulged on cheap wine and pintxos at a cultural fiesta they had on the Plaza. Me and hundreds of pensioners. Then again, it’s much better not to have the temptation on my doorstep as during these two weeks I will be milking the Spanish language school cow in order to become a little more communicative. This will obviously result to no museums seen or no history learnt but I’m thoroughly enjoying the choice of doing sod all if I feel like it. The time for a panicky job hunt and forced socialising will surely come. 

Bilbao welcomed me into its open arms and held me close. I tore myself away as the receding wave of the hangover started revealing the damage of a 14-hour Basque bender. They call it ‘gaupasa’ for a reason. I had sand in my shoes, toast in my belly and a new book in my bag while I tried to remain calm and Nordic, or just simply live, as the bus snaked its way towards a new town. The mountains resembled gigantic green cats bundled together and curled up to sleep and being gently stroked by massive rags of cotton wool.

The unexpected self-discoveries keep pushing me to the brink of tears on regular basis. I have been given a gentle shove to dust off the things I find in the depths of the cupboards at the back of the attic. I was given a cloth to polish them and encouraged to put them back on my shelves and to learn to look at them again. And then to bin the whole bloody lot and watch the future being reborn.

I’m slowly learning the value of stopping the hasty gallop, to breath for a while.