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.
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