GETTING THERE

Its always a surreal experience moving from your quotidien world to a different one. It takes a long time too. The drive to the airport was embellished with drifting snow, just to emphasize that I was heading for a big change. It was winter in Canada, but halfway through the spring in Spain.

I arrived dutifully early, and checked in with no difficulty. I headed for the bookstore once I’d checked my bag, choosing the only thing which really appealed, a historical novel about the fireworks industry in London.

As we boarded the plane, I looked longingly at the legroom in business class.....someday, someday.....

What can one say about the getting there except that it is far less than half the fun. It is interminable. An airport is an airport is an airport, with the exception of Frankfurt which is the most boring airport EVER. And I spent five hours there waiting for my flight to Bilbao.

I loved the flight from Frankfurt to Bilbao because for much of it I could see Europe below me, the river valleys with their settlements, the odd Alp, and the vast patchwork of agricultural land. Coming down into Bilbao was impressive. The red tile roofs amidst the green hills and the glittering sea were lively and beautiful. From Bilbao, I backtracked by bus and train to Irun on the French border. I had researched those connections very well, and had the route memorized. Of course, on the ground it was much less straightforward, and looked nothing like the picture I had created in my head. It was so much more. There were smells, and colours, and people and traffic to avoid. And there were hills!

Such hills! When I wasn’t worrying that I was somehow in the country illegally since no-one, uniformed or otherwise, wanted to look at or stamp my passport at the airport; I would look up, (way way up), at the misty tops of those green swathed hills, and gulp at the idea of going up there. What had I let myself in for?

After 25 hours of travelling, I arrived in Irun on the Spanish side of the Bidasoa river. France was on the other side. I left the train station going in what I thought was the right direction, which it was, but I could not find the albergue nohow. I asked the locals; I backtracked a bit. No-one could help me, and all my preparation was for naught. Yellow arrows, on the other hand, I could find, so I followed them. Walking to the next town was not really what I had planned to do with the rest of my day, but that was the way things were turning out.