Chapter 3

Day 14, San Sebastian.  Level of Spanish: A rollercoaster of a week has made me a little more aware of the mysteries of the language but, as the case tends to be with many other things in life, the more I learn the less I know. The school is not delivering what it promised me and I’m spending most of my free time either asleep or drinking beer on the beach, speaking English. In this town it is a waste of time to go out and try to mix with the locals. People live their lives within their own sections of the layercake, existing together in the polished baker’s window display but carefully avoiding blending in with the levels up and below. The barstaff greet us, and explain their offerings, in English.

Up to my room I can hear the cheerful chatter from the bars lining the streets six floors down. The last half hour of the day that doesn’t seem to be a day at all, it appears that Monday is just a stopgap for people to prepare themselves for the week ahead. The women’s laughter, the children’s yelps and the steady conversation of the men are spun into a gently pulsing backround noise while I wind in the net to inspect the results of the last week’s trawl. Most of it is squirming bycatch I wouldn’t feed to my worst enemy’s cat but there are some accidental gems to be appreciated.

I returned to Bilbao for the weekend to feel at home again. I sat on the streets, listened to the haunting rhythms and drank with the beautiful, dangerous people in the midst of their indefinite sadness and impenetrable barriers and smiled at life I couldn’t even begin to understand. I stumbled upon their sharp edges and suffered some minor scratches. I felt at home, wrapped myself in the mutual Northern stubbornness. The gardener had got lost deep in his own maze and could no longer tell reflection from reality, not seeing the fragments of his own beautiful mind slowly floating to the ground amongst the ash. Out of the four languages, none could patch up the hole it burned on its way down.

I cherish the newly familiar words and the ones to be discovered. 

It is time to start looking forward to another place to be called home.

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.

Day 4. Level of Spanish: shameful. Intentions to attempt speaking to anyone in it today: zero. High level of frustration and anxious wait for the start of the language course and for it to begin bearing fruit. Then again, the gentle application of my favourite poison can usually be trusted to prop up the confidence.

When I return to the cafe on the Plaza, the lady knows what I want to drink and tells me to sit by the window, in my favourite seat. This is a welcome relief after a venture away from the comfort zone of the old town, first time in four days. Haphazardly crossing roads when you’ve grown accustomed to the complete lack of cars is not to be repeated, especially when you are not used to the continental direction from which they will be coming at you. See the Guggenheim and die under a bus you thought was stationary. London will have its filthy tentacles draped around my ankles for a long while, I presume. Last night I lied, inconvincingly.

Across the river full of fish, exactly one hundred tedious steps up in the sky there is a small but extremely comprehensive  music collection and an intriguing, and rather fragrant, unusual little windowsill garden lavished with care, love and obsessive attention to detail. Conversation and monologues in four languages, Chet Baker, grandfather’s sheet music and tangles of deep-rooted impenetrable trauma and sadness. We know which parts of our bodies never need to be medicated and which ones we can rely on to let us down. We know our minds and their minefields. On the pillowcase there is a four-month diary written with eye liner and mascara.

I am growing more and more broody for a dog by the minute. They are everywhere. And they are beautiful. I wonder if it might be possible to hire one. 

In the future, hangover panic attacks are best avoided by not introducing loud flamenco music at the surreal hour of the morning.

Day 3. Level of Spanish: I can break ice and open conversations by asking people where their dog is or whether I can touch their hair. My ordering has become more confident but I still use the wrong toilets if the signage is only written in Basque. One of the most important skills in life is to laugh at one’s own mistakes and once one masters this, a lifetime of non-stop endless entertainment is provided instantly. Another truth, not so well known or generally agreed with, is that life does in fact not throw things at you. You throw things at life. Sometimes it behaves like a well-trained Labrador and fetches, returns, sits and looks at you begging for more. And it has such beautiful brown eyes that you even forgive it when it dribbles on your shoes a bit. Other times, well, you might as well be pitching in the dark for a blind baseball team. 

The same cafe, the same seat, the same lady gave me the same coffee. The homing pigeon in me has already made several bars and cafes my locals, I suppose it is the yearning for familiarity that drives us to seek comfort within chaos. Home away from home that I don’t have yet, or anymore, but once I do, I have the hat ready to lay there.

I love the way the Basques look like they’ve just got out of bed. All of them, all the time. And suddenly it seems completely normal, and even attractive, for 30-something men to be wearing red harem pants and carrying small handbags. Not that I’ve ever had much of a fashion sense but in my previous life in London I would have given them a dirty look and carried on sulking into my Amstel instead of passionately inquiring on the whereabouts of their assumed canine companion. The latter option proved to be the correct choice. Amongst the things I learned from the halting exchange of bad English and even weaker Spanish were that they do sell Golden Virginia here, the beach is not very far, diabetic cats are difficult to look after and that there are late bars in Casco Viejo if you know where to look. Or rather, who to look with. And which Basque word will get you a kiss.

Muxus, apparently.

Happiness is catchy.

Bilbao, day 2. The camera hasn’t been out yet. Level of Spanish: I get fed and watered and understand numbers. The streets smell of tortilla and cannabis. I’m smoking like a bastard. The people are beautiful and proud but seem to have some kind of quiet and serious, even sorrowful air about them. Lots of hot men. I haven’t spoken to anyone but people who’ve sold me something. Not really here yet and just being fluently silent in 3 languages and letting the chatter wash over me and enjoying the lovely sound and rhythm of it. 

Plaza Nueva, the pretty main square of the old town, Cafe Argoitia, a tiny joint within one of the 29 free wi-fi zones that this lovely friendly city provides. Coffee and rollies inside as it is absolutely pissing it down outside! Got under cover just in time after climbing up and down about 754 steps to look at the city from the top of a hill.

I landed yesterday shattered and spaced out, got off the bus too early and dragged all the 40 kilos of my belongings (£100 penalty courtesy of Easyjet, ouch. Why don’t they make grammar books out of lighter paper?) through a long detour to Casco Viejo to my Pension. Arrived with my complexion the colour of beetroot and physical appearance that of a withered carrot. A bleeding blister and no feeling in two fingers. The old host couple seemed to be mildly amused by my pathetic Spanish and showed me to my room which, although being worn out and basic and the bathroom is miles away, has a balcony, a comfy bed and jazz, and is mine all mine until Sunday.  

After getting settled, rinsing off the sweat and dust and sleeping through lunchtime (2-4pm here), I wandered out to conquer my first challenge: finding beer and food. It wasn’t hard. They don’t laugh at stupid tourists here but smile patiently instead.

(another coffee, it’s still raining)

I spent the early evening mapping out (read: aimlessly wondering around) the pedestrian streets of the beautiful Old Town. The conclusion is that I won’t have to leave the area at all as everything I could possibly want is within 600 metres. Without knowing, I chose my accommodation right next to the 7 streets ( Las Siete Calles) with the best pintxo bars, and Iturribide, the street with rock bars and people wearing black, is 5 minutes’ stroll away. Well, I will go and admire the Guggenheim once the pain subsides and my muscles start responding again. Oh the baggage, the baggage…

As opposed to common belief, the Spanish (sorry, Basques) don’t go out late. At least during the week, and at least in the old town. The only people on the streets after 11pm are dog owners taking their excitable mutts for a late evening piss. Tonight I shall follow their cue (not the dogs’ but the locals’) and go out around 8. The good thing is, that way I might manage to get up early enough to shoot in the morning light.

Ok, the sun is back. Time to get the camera out, methinks. Hasta luego.