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.