HELLO AND GOODBYE

After finally getting to the Cathedral to get my sello from the hands of a smiling YOUNG nun, I headed back to my "neighbourhood" to "my" bar, where I'd had numerous coffees and breakfast, and where the proprietor and his wife were starting to recognize me. I would be leaving the Basque country tomorrow, and so I thought I'd better try some txakoli, the resinous white wine grown on Basque hillsides. It was sour and acrid, not to my taste at all, but the day got sweeter, as I caught a glimpse of "my" peregrinos heading down the street. I rushed out, signifying to the owner that I'd be right back, and wasn't running out on my debt. (In Spain you never pay for your drinks until you are ready to leave). I told them about the hotel and they went off to see if there was any space. I went back and finished my drink.

Ana and Margi were able to get a room, but there was only one. Gisbert and the Vikings were out of luck, but had lots of leads on other places. Gisbert asked if he could bunk down in my double, but I told him I didn't think that my husband would likely be impressed. I know he was offended, being an honorable person, but proper is proper. He had been sleeping on the floor in various lady's rooms all week, but there was always more than one lady! So he followed Liv and Anna Maria off on the search for a room.

We agreed to meet up at the local sidreria for a farewell meal. Ana and Margi were finished their camino, and Gisbert and the two ladies were going to be on a different schedule than me from now on. Later, Margi, Ana and I went for a constitutional along the river walk, where we saw a run/march in support of the Basque language and watched rowers train on the river. The cool air and the warm golden sun falling on our faces was so pleasant, it was hard to leave, but it was getting late. Time to eat!



The streets of the old town were full of the runners and other merry makers. The bars were spilling people into the street, banners were flying and there was an air of general happiness and good will.



As we walked toward the restaurant, I spotted my friend, Miguel de Murcia, sitting at a table. Big bear hugs ensued. I learned that Miguel had messed up his ankle on the day after Gernika, and like me, had been chilling in Bilbao waiting to be better. We didn't meet again on the Camino, but later, in looking at Gisbert's online photos, I saw him again, hale and hearty, and was glad to see he'd made it back onto the road.

In the sidreria, there was much hilarity, as we learned the proper way to tap a keg of sidra. As long as you order the table de hote, you can have as much sidra as you like, provided you amble over the sticky floor to pull your own. You don't fill your glass, so you need to make several trips. A clever way of self-limiting your consumption.



The meal was HUGE! Three courses, each of which would be enough. I had morcilla, blood sausage, in a tomato sauce, an omelette with asparagus, and some fish. And after that, we had postre, dessert, which was pastel aux Basques,an apple-y cake. And then it was time for bed. I left early the next morning, replete with addresses, and sad to know that this part of the journey was over.

IN BILBAO

As the bus came down through some of the more humble neighbourhoods of Bilbao, full of the soul-less brick highrises and grime that make up the outskirts of Spanish cities, I felt a bit let down. I’d heard it was gritty, but this was depressing, and nothing like the lovely view of red roofs and green pastures I’d seen as the plane set down in Bilbao just over a week ago. But as we got closer to the town centre, my dismay turned to delight. The winding river Nervion was lined on both sides by pedestrian walkways with footbridges, the whole thing like a wonderful park for the people. To top it off, the bus passed the Guggenheim Museum, its titanium panels gleaming gold, though there was little sun. This was one of the main reasons for stopping in Bilbao. I am so impressed with the architectural courage of Spain.

Once I was off the bus, in a riverside square near the Casco Viejo, the old town, I was even more impressed. The place felt vigorous; full of life. I set out to find the hotel I wanted so that I could drop my stuff and get into tourist mode.

Hotel Bilbao Jardines is a two star hotel set on a side street in the old town surrounded by cafes, bars, and shops. It was hopping. The only room I could get was a double, but it was worth the extra price to be in a nice clean bed in a modern hotel. I dropped an email to Ana to let them know where I was, and then went out to look at the old town. The place was full of high end shops and endless cafe/bars, each with its unique ambience. I wanted to visit them all. But I would leave that for tomorrow. For now, I constrained my sightseeing to a single church, St. Nicholas Bari, which beckoned with open doors. There was lots of blackened wood panelling and intense Baroque paintings and reredos. It was an example of the Spain we Anglos grow up “knowing about”, the Spain of the Armada and the Inquisition. Unfortunately, my pictures were less than satisfactory.

I had only walked 16 km, but the route was so hilly that it had taken me six full hours. I was beat. Time to head back to the hotel.

In lieu of supper, I ate up all the food in my pack. I wstched n episode of Misterios de Laura, a humorous mystery series whose protagonist is a middle aged divorcee, who just happens to work for her ex-husband. I didn't actually understand a word of it, but with TV being a visual medium, I did get the drift. I fell asleep to the sound of percussion out on the street, evidence that I was where the action was, even though I was too whacked to take part in it.

The following day, I probably walked as many miles in the city as I had the previous day. I made the Guggenheim my first priority. I took the river walk to get there, which allowed me to sneak up on it. Today it was silver, and from some angles seemed to merge with the clear blue, cloud-littered sky. The sinuous organic forms of the building required virtuosity of fitting windows and metalwork. The exterior alone could keep you gawking for hours. The exhibits were for the most part depressing. So much pessimism and anomie being expressed on such a huge scale. On the third floor I visited an exhibit on Classicism between the wars. The thesis was that regimes of all political stripes, traumatize by the horrors of the first world war sought refuge in forms and themes of the past. After viewing the first two floors, I too felt traumatized, and gladly embraced the more accessible forms of art!







I did enjoy Jeff Koons' Puppy, bedecked in orange and purple pansies, at the rear of the museum.



After a break for cafe con leche and a croissnt, I was ready to tackle the Museo de Bellas Artes de Bilbao. I guess I'm just an old fashioned girl, for I enjoyed these treasures so much more! I especially fell in love of a portrait by Goya of his friend Zapater, who was the Spanish equivalent of a philosophe. The painting was so vital and immediate, the sitter's face so animated, with a quiet humour and keenness about his eyes, that I not only wished that I could know him, and speak to him, I almost felt as if I could!



From the museum, I walked into the downtown core, which seemed very cosmopolitan, and wealthy, in contrast to the slums I'd seen on the bus. The streets were wide and the plazas full of beautiful flowers. The buildings were tall and ornate, grandiose even.



It was St. George's Day, and Book Day, a wonderful celebration that started in Barcelona, to celebrate books and love. The streets were full of tables full of books, and there were lots of signs advertising special prices. The tradition is that women buy a book for the man they love, and men buy a rose for the woman they love. UNESCO has picked up on the idea, creating the International Day of the Book. I think its a charming festival, and a great idea, but on the whole, I think I would rather receive a book than a rose.

Divagación culinaria numero tres

The Egg and Potato Winter:

Once upon a time, a few decades ago, we were very poor newlyweds. My husband was having probably the second or third midlife crisis--he was under thirty at the time! He had quit a cushy government job and we were struggling, picking up whatever work we could get, working construction on a nuclear plant; night shifts at the steel plant, bartending and on, and living in a little shack with a chemical toilet and a woodstove which threw so much heat that we had to have the doors and windows open in the depths of a Northern Ontario winter. This is not to say we weren't happy. But we were very, very poor. I remember the memorable phone call from VISA, or my husband's half of it anyway, wherein he explained to the woman on the other end of the phone that she would just have to get in line with the other creditors. We used to joke that we were so poor that we were nearly "pure".

That winter we subsisted on two things, three if you count ketchup. Eggs, which at that time were less than a dollar a dozen, and a fifty pound bag of EXCELLENT potatoes, which we obtained for the princely sum of $9.99. Eggs and homefries, homefries and eggs.

I am reminded of that winter when I eat tortilla espanola, a dish wish makes a virtue of necessity. Everyone can get their hands on some eggs and some potatoes, fry them with a little onion in oil, but not everyone can raise a simple potato omelette to culinary treasure. Tortilla is ubiquitous and esteemed in Spain; for breakfast, in a bun for lunch, on a toothpick as tapas, warm or cold. When I am in Spain, it is one of the things I like best. Its always different, and always delicious. Sometimes it has additional ingredients, like peppers or cheese, in which case it gets called tortilla francesa, but I love it best when it is a thick cake crammed with soft slices of potato. Simple, toothy, and satisfyingly filling.

I decided to try my hand at it the other night, working from a traditional Spanish cookbook, written by a Spanish expat, in English. I followed the recipe to the letter, horrified by the amount of oil called for; my potatoes browned slightly as directed, and with the addition of an extra egg because it didn't seem like it would hold together.



I even carried out the tricky bit, flipping the half cooked concoction to brown the top, by inverting the pan over a plate and then sliding it back into a freshly oiled pan. It looked great, and tasted pretty good, though I think more onion and salt were called for. But it wasn't what I remembered!



Next I checked out a video on the topic, (it was this one):



and I could see where I'd gone wrong. Even more oil and less browning of the potatoes were required. In a couple of weeks I'll try again. I don't know why it is so important to me to try to bring these experiences home with me; nostalgia is a mysterious and powerful force. Although I never want to be that poor again, homefries and fried eggs with ketchup brings back that feeling of youth and adventure, and that ALWAYS tastes good.

WALKING PAIN FREE

We breakfasted together at the hotel, and there was a general concensus that the Peace Museum should be next on the agenda. I had no interest in going there having spent the best part of two days in contemplation of the events memorialized there, , and I wanted to get back on the road. We agreed that I'd start and the others would catch up after they'd seen their fill. I set off alone, and as it turned out, I would stay that way for the day. I didn't mind at all. I left Bilbao through the sculpture park I'd seen the previous day, and was soon in the countryside; climbing through pine forests and cattle pastures.






I'd applied the anti-inflammatory patch, a big gob of it, to my right knee before setting out, and by the time I was a half hour out of town, I suddenly realized that I was in no discomfort at all....I mean, NONE! I was fairly flying along the path. I got the idea of leaving little bouquets of wildflowers for the rest of the crew along the wooden montons which marked the path, to show them that I was thinking of them. Every time I saw a particularly nice patch of flowers, or stopped for a water break or to take a picture, I'd make one for them.



After an hour or two of walking through woods and fields, I came onto a series of secondary roads with charming little farms. There were lots of ups and downs but on this day, it didn't matter. I was having a wonderful time.

As I walked by some newer houses set among apple trees in bloom, I came upon one which was evidently undergoing major construction. I had paused to consider the guidebook because two roads diverged at this point. Soon I heard someone calling to me. The lady of the house asked if I would like some tea. I was just about out of water at this point so I was thankful and accepted. I waited at the end of the walk, but again, she came out and invited me in. Putting aside everything I'd ever heard about walking under ladders, I stepped through the scaffolding over the front door and entered. The place had just about been gutted, so it didn't matter that my boots were filthy. The owners sat me down in the kitchen where the lady was making a hot lunch for the workers, Pan fried sardines, eggs, potatoes...yum. We conversed in Spanish about various things, and I gulped down the scalding tea. They were fairly conversant with Canada, something which no longer surprised me, and were eager for me to understand that it was actually the Basques who discovered my country. I was glad to be able to tell them that we were indeed cognizant of the contribution of the Basques to the development of the Newfoundland fishery and that there was a major display in our national museum about Basque whaling.

I set off again after about half an hour, having been put on the right road, and with a thermos of tea still uncomfortably hot to handle. I didn't learn their names, but at the base of the hill there was a communal mailbox. I photographed it, thinking I might be able to use Google Earth to pair up the name with the address, and send them a thank you note. No such luck.

The path crossed under the Bi-4137, and onto gravel paths. It descended into a lovely ferny river valley, but it had its share of abandoned caravans and empty parked cars which, coupled with the quiet of the afternoon, gave it that dangerous vibe I'd felt before. No harm has ever come to me in such a place at such a time, but it puts me on my guard. Not enough to stop me from stopping and taking photos or making bouquets though. The path climbed along the edge of a range of hills and gave me lovely views of the surrounding country heavily treed for the most part, but with the odd white farmhouse and hamlet perched, shining, high atop another range nearby.

On the other side, I came into another valley, this one a bit suburbanized, with some very grand houses being built in the traditional style, and a group of curious horses, who specialized in racing about their pasture with thundering hooves, and then pulling up short at the fence to say hello. The low ground in the foot of the valley was dotted with wild flowers including yellow flags. It was charming.

By the time I got close to the village of Goikoletxea, (Go-Each-Oh-Le-Chay-Ah) not only was my knee nearly numb with painkiller, I was starting to feel very tight in the chest. That's when the penny dropped. It suddenly occurred to me that this might be same medication that had been banned in North America a few years before because of its tendency to induce heart attacks. I decided to stop in the village, get that patch off ASAP, and wait for the rest of the crew.

It was deepest afternoon, and everything was still. I went first to the church, which was in itself a medieval wonder(although I didn't get inside), where stood the ancient stone table where the Lords of Biskaia meted out justice. Such a disappointment. I think I was expecting it to be like Aslan's slab, but it was tiny, and unadorned, standing in the porch of the church. I really need to stop letting my imagination go unfettered in these matters. Its one of the downsides of over-researching.



I went to the small park near the village cross or cruceiro
and sat at one of the picnic tables amongst the long uncut grasses. I undid the patch. Whether or not it was a placebo effect I don't know, but I started to feel better immediately. I aired my feet and socks; sorted out my pack; ate the rest of my food, and wrote in my diary. And still there was no sign of my peregrinos, or any other peregrinos either. I think we may have been the only ones on that stretch that day. The bus rolled up, and I got the schedule from the driver. Although I had wanted to see Larrabetzu, the next village, supposedly unchanged from medieval times, I mostly wanted to stop walking. There was no albergue in Lezama, the next town, either, I didn't want to walk on the major N-637, and I didn't want to climb down Monte Avril into Bilbao. In fact there were all kinds of reasons for getting on that bus. But not until I'd found my friends again.

Eventually, after I'd waited for about an hour and a half, the five of them arrived together. And just about the same time, the bar opened. Perfect timing. We sat outside and drank our beer or coca-cola, and chatted about the day. I was delighted that they had immediately recognized that it was I who was leaving the bouquets, and for them. Gisbert had even been taking pictures of them all.

The bar was sparsely provisioned; all they seemed to have were beer, coke and lemons. We soon found out why, when a large cube van, with sides emblazoned with photographs of the arctic, drew up, and the proprietress of the bar went out to get her groceries. Here we were, less than 20 km from a huge metropolis, and groceries came in a truck....amazing.

The five o'clock bus drew up, and I got on. The trip to Bilbao took no time at all, and none of it would have been a good walk. Larrabetzu; at least the corner of it which I saw, looked solidly nineteenth century, so I didn't feel bad about missing that. Lezama looked modern and boring, and the descent through the impoverished outskirts of Bilbao make my knees (and soul) hurt just looking at it. I made the right choice.

When I met up with my companeros later, I learned that I was right on all counts. The road into Bilbao, though not the one I took, was so steep that there is a) an elevator, and b) they took a bus too. I missed a nice day of walking with them, but I got an extra day in Bilbao to play tourist, once again!

TWO DAYS OF DOWNTIME

Playing the Tourist

I'd arrived in town mid-afternoon, and wandered around for bit getting my bearings. I checked into the local youth hostel which was bright and clean. The young lady on the desk was sorry to tell me that I couldn't stay there for both nights, since the place was totally booked by a colegio for the next one. I wasn't concerned, but she was. She offered me the use of her house, as she would be going away to visit her parents. "Its by the sea!". I told her I couldn't possibly do that, but I thanked her for her generosity and told her about the many Spanish people who had been kind to me that day. She looked at me slyly and replied. "You mean the many Basque people who have been kind to you". Point taken!

When I arrived, the place was empty, but I was soon joined by a large and jolly young man, Miguel, from Murcia. He had walked the stretch from Cenaruzza that day and assured me that I was better off on the bus. He talked of rocks and slippery footing. It made me feel a bit better.

We chatted in the salon of the hostel for a while and then Miguel went off to pursue some lunch and meet up with some friends. Eventually, even though I was trying to stay off my feet, I did the same. At a farmacia, I got some horse sized pills, containing a full gram of painkiller, an icy gel pack, and a neoprene knee brace. Best. Purchase. Ever. My right knee was a balloon, and both knees had bruises on the outside surfaces, a testament to the bone crunching steepness of the hills I'd been coming down for the past five days.



Thus armed, I could now get my mind around being a tourist. I bought some bread and other sundries, and walked around looking at the shops. I was particularly taken with the beautiful displays of produce and beans and nuts, the local white glazed earthenware pottery, and a store dedicated to the sale of umpteen kinds of bacalao, salt cod, from all the oceans of the world. I stopped into a tapas bar in the strip near the park where I could look up at the church. Having heard of its beauty, I really wanted to go in, but it was closed. I decided to try the next day.



I got into conversation with the owner of a souvenir shop on the similarity of the lauburu, an ancient Basque symbol, and the symbols painted on the canoes of the voyageurs, the French fur traders of Canada. We looked for some examples on the internet. He was most interested and said he would call his sister in Montreal to find out more. I bought a fridge magnet with the lauburu superimposed on the Basque flag, which looks remarkably like a Union Jack dressed up in Christmas colours.


I found the local locutorio,where I could send some emails. As usual, it was full of immigrants; Arabs, Africans, and South Americans, most of whom were calling home. Nearby was the post office where I could send off some of my excess baggage to Santiago. I was never sure I would get it back again, so I had to think carefully about what I was willing to consign to oblivion. I went to the local turismo and found a hotel for the second night, then back to the locutorio to let Ana and the gang know where to find me when they got into town.

Back at the hostel, I did some laundry, and hung it out on the rooftop terrace to dry. It was hard to stay still, but I made the best of it by reading every pamphlet in the salon and reading my diary to date and reading my guidebook. You'll have guessed by now that I was more than a little bored. The other peregrinos were from Paris, France, and kept to themselves. Add loneliness to the boredom. I spent some time watching a little wirehaired dog on the balcony of the apartment building opposite. The tiny space was all he had while his owner was at work. He bore it well, but it was a shame. I felt we had a lot in common.

After yet more bread and cheese and a shower, I went to bed.

In the morning, my knee was feeling well enough to do some more exploration. I trucked my bag over to the Hostal and set out to see whatever else Gernika had to offer. I visited the Museo Herria Euskal, and saw the Tree of Gernika, (actually, a succession of them).



The ancient one is now just a stump, memorialized in a Grecian cage; the tree which stood through the bombardment, a sapling of the earlier tree, succumbed to a fungus in the 1940's. The current tree is lovely, tall, straight and brimming with life. A powerful statement of the vitality and organic origin of the Basque culture. I touched it to feel a part of that. I also noted at least two other younger trees on the lawn, heirs and spares. I later learned that there is a tradition of gathering acorns from the tree and presenting them as gifts to foreign dignitaries. Thus, the tree is symbolically (and potentially) immortalized, and the spirit of liberty, so integral to the Basques, is spread throughout the world. I found it moving.

In the lovely sculpture park behind the Assembly House, I met a Spanish man a few years older than me. We chatted for a bit and he asked me where I was from. When I told him Canada, he asked me where, and when I mentioned Sault Ste. Marie, he was off; he'd been to the paper plant there, and had lived in Hearst and Manitouwadge as a pulp and paper worker. He'd even been to Kapuskasing! Honestly, I think Basques are the Newfies of Europe (them and the Galicians). They've been EVERYWHERE, man!
He thought dinner and a movie might be a good idea, but I brandished my wedding ring and told him stories about my husband and three children. I knew that ring would come in handy one day!


Andra Mari was still closed. At the turismo, they told me that except for Mass, it was only open during the summer. Oh well, another time perhaps.

As I was coming out of the turismo, I met the shopowner again, who was very excited. His sister had confirmed what I'd said, and he was planning to do some more research on possible connections. I felt that I'd made a real connection, too.



I wandered around the town, continuing to be amazed that it didn't feel particularly new, or particularly scarred. It was hard to imagine that most of it had been rebuilt over the horror and rubble of its day of destruction. Life goes on. Every now and again, I'd come across some indicator of the carnage--a ceramic full-sized replica of Picasso's masterpiece, tucked away at the head of a secondary road; a large playground, in a country of things being squeezed together, a nineteenth century townhouse, made particularly splendid by its mid-twentieth century companions, plain and sturdy. But for the most part, Gernika was just going along and minding its own business, just like it was on April 26, 1937.

I had overdone the walking a bit, so I headed to my hotel for a shower an a rest. I see from looking at my diary that I was already starting to have a provisional approach to the hills of the Camino del Norte. Back in the room, I had a long, dream-filled nap, waking in the late afternoon. I flipped on the TV and watched regional programming, which is relatively easy to understand compared with other types of shows. There's usually a cooking segment, and some visit to a local wonder of some kind, that I can comprehend. In the corridor, I heard jolly voices, and recognizing them as those of Ana and Gisbert, I popped my head round to find my three companions and the Viking women checking in. It was good to be among friends!

We had another communal supper upstairs in the hotel's breakfast room. It lasted late into the night, with much storytelling. They confirmed that the going had been rough and wet and the accommodation had been less than desirable. The younger Viking sister told an amazing story about being on the Camino Frances (I think these women were on their fifth or sixth camino) and meeting, within an hour or so, her best friend from grade school, and woman she used to know during her hippie phase in Norway. We agreed to meet again in the morning for breakfast before setting out again the following day.

Full of wine and food and restored by seeing my new friends again, I slept like a baby.