Take a deep breath, and close your eyes. Now imagine you are on a beach – the kind with the perfect sand, fine and golden and warm, that seeps between your toes and leaves flecks of mica sticking to your ankles. The waves don’t quite crash, but fall in flecks of turquoise and white foam all along the crescent margin of the bay, from the distant docks to the north to the rocky coastline of the south, far and away to your left. The rocks are black in the shadow of the mountain – small as mountains go, but impressive in its drama, a sheer cliff and steep green slope, capped with trees, walls, and what might be a tower. Rising above the docks far to your right is the old city, all yellow sandstone and red roofs, delicate balconies trailing vines; it looks tiny now, but you know that as you walk the narrow streets (which are so small it is clear they were never intended for cars, and sometimes don’t fit them at all) the buildings are three and four or even five stories each, so that the detailed moldings around the roofs are impossible to admire without straining your neck. Those streets are always shadowed, but bright still in the sunlight, a church or ancient wall visible down every one. High above the old city on the crest of the Urgull mountain you can only sometimes see the white walls and ramparts of the castle, half-hidden in the treetops, stark against the azure sky; the Benediction is visible always, however, Christ’s massive visage and extended palms a sight seen all over the city. The sun is hot on your cheeks and shoulders, and the air smells like salt, and flowers, and newly cut grass, and dusty heated sand; spring just starting to anticipate summer. Behind you, hidden behind the arched terrace that supports the seaside boulevard, the newer portion of the city rears up its head, glass-bedecked and strewn with hotels, lovely shops, and somewhere back in there, a 14th century cathedral. It’s hard not to feel content – stomach full of the baguette and chorizo you just devoured, and the crisp apples picked up at the farmer’s market this morning, with the delighted screeching of children and the worried cries of gulls mingling with the sounds of the surf. Your fellow beach-goers know how to enjoy the moment - swimming right out into the waves, straight toward the boats tethered about the emerald-and-inky-hued island that looms mid bay, or else flat on their backs, baring too much tanned skin to the sun. One man manages to light, smoke and extinguish a cigarette without moving from his position prone on the sand or even opening his eyes, talking rapidly in the Basque on his phone all the while. Impressive, that. Life, you feel, is good.
This, my friends, is San Sebastian.
A tiny little town on the north coast of Spain, almost to the French border and a thriving center of Basque language and culture, San Sebastian is quite literally the closest I have ever been to heaven. When Anne and I got off the bus, dazed, sleep-deprived to the extreme and rather lost, we were still struck by the loveliness of the town (it is a testament to the beauty of the place that it managed to penetrate the fog of cranky grogginess in which we were operating, the product of literally no sleep, and a seven hour bus ride. Awful combination, let me tell you). The buildings just got more older, prettier, more interesting as we moved toward the water and the town center, 'la Parte Vieja' and our hostel, trying to ignore the way our bags pulled heavily at our shoulders and cursing our Barcelonian sunburns. We experienced the occasional inconvenience of the Spanish siesta when we showed up at the tourism office at 2:40 pm and, after some very perplexed peering though the windows during which period we wondered if we were still lost, we discovered the little sign indicated that the office was closed from 1~3:30 pm. We sat on a bench on the edge of the tree- and flower-lined street, scrunched our brows and tried to imagine such a thing occurring in the states, and failed, but were then so distracted by the tulips dancing in the ocean breeze and the tender yellow sycamore leaves that we forgot to be frustrated and simply basked in the sunlight. Eventually the Spaniards returned from their siesta, we found our way to our tiny, adorable hostel, and exhaled in relief. The hostel was a single flat, four bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, and the room Anne and I had to ourselves was particularly nice, with brightly curtained windows and, instead of a locker, and ancient wooden chest. The key we were given to lock it literally resembled the key found by contrary Miss Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden - unnotched, thick round metal stem with a single, simple tab at the end. Thank goodness we felt the hostel itself was safe, because the "security" provided by this key made us stifle delighted laughter behind our hands; if anyone had twiddled a hairpin in the vague direction of the lock, it probably would have opened. Thankfully no one did.
The helpful hostel worker (who, upon discovering that I spoke some Spanish and needed practice, cheerfully ignored everything I said in English) gave us a map, circled important sites, places to eat, and things to do, and shooed us out into the sunlight. All weariness forgotten, we wandered about the Parte Vieja for a while, jaws agape at how gorgeous it was, before finding our way to the docks and then the bay. I don't know how to express quite how beautiful the bay was, and can only beg you to look at the pictures that are going up on facebook because no matter how hard I try I don't think I will be able to convey how perfect this place was. The bay is shaped like a large C, with a small mountain at each end and a broad white beach along the curve of it, and between the hills in the mouth of the bay rests a small, rocky island, with a lighthouse just visible at its peak. The water was perfectly aquamarine blue, and with the sun upon it, sparkled. The narrow streets of the old town and the wide sunny avenues of the newer area stretch away from the promenade along the waterfront, and despite the fact that there are plenty of tourist sites and a functioning city center, the place also just feels relaxed, sleepy. We felt like we could truly exhale. We wandered all afternoon before at last getting DIVINE gelato, which turned out to be our dinner since we decided to crash at our hostel before looking for food, but fell asleep literally as soon as we got in.
The next day we set off, first in search of breakfast, then wandered for a while. We walked around the base of Urgull, the hill upon which the castle sits and just marveled. Though I didn't remember it at the time, the bit of the Atlantic at which we were gazing in awe is called the Bay of Biscay (I really like that name) and it crashed in violent splendor upon the rocks at the point. After walking the circumference of the hill, we began our ascent in the green silence up the wooded slopes. The fortress at the top was spectacular, and we peeked through the cannon-sized openings in the battlements, ran our fingers over the rough gold of the sandstone and leaned against the walls that dated back before the Napoleonic occupation of the site. One of the informational signs (which, unusually, was NOT in either Spanish or Basque but also in English) told about a particularly ruinous bit of the castle which once had housed a gunpowder storage chamber, but which was struck by lightning several hundred years ago; the explosion caused extensive damage not only to the castle but to significant parts of the old city as well, apparently...! Somehow this struck us as rather funny, because really, what are the odds of the lightning striking the ONE bit of a building that happens to be packed with gunpowder..? I suppose that's what you get for keeping your ammunition on the top of a mountain...
We retired to the beach, to soak up the sun and lounge and swim (just a little) and to acquire the second layer of sunburn in as many days. Bad choices, perhaps, but it was heavenly.
After a short visit to the old cathedral and a brief siesta, we set out in hunt of tapas, which, when eventually located, turned out to be AMAZING. Mushrooms soaked in some kind of gravy-ish-sauce tooth-pick-pinned to chewy baguette, Spanish tortilla thick with spinach and cheese and potato, shrimp lightly grilled and drizzled in salty olive oil and orange-zest sauce, and fishy bacalao in another tortilla, mouth-parchingly salty and reeking of the sea. It was absolutely delicious. Then, because it was Friday night, we decided to go out dancing and/or drinking, and once again, we discovered the madness that is Spanish night life. Here is the way that went:
This, my friends, is San Sebastian.
A tiny little town on the north coast of Spain, almost to the French border and a thriving center of Basque language and culture, San Sebastian is quite literally the closest I have ever been to heaven. When Anne and I got off the bus, dazed, sleep-deprived to the extreme and rather lost, we were still struck by the loveliness of the town (it is a testament to the beauty of the place that it managed to penetrate the fog of cranky grogginess in which we were operating, the product of literally no sleep, and a seven hour bus ride. Awful combination, let me tell you). The buildings just got more older, prettier, more interesting as we moved toward the water and the town center, 'la Parte Vieja' and our hostel, trying to ignore the way our bags pulled heavily at our shoulders and cursing our Barcelonian sunburns. We experienced the occasional inconvenience of the Spanish siesta when we showed up at the tourism office at 2:40 pm and, after some very perplexed peering though the windows during which period we wondered if we were still lost, we discovered the little sign indicated that the office was closed from 1~3:30 pm. We sat on a bench on the edge of the tree- and flower-lined street, scrunched our brows and tried to imagine such a thing occurring in the states, and failed, but were then so distracted by the tulips dancing in the ocean breeze and the tender yellow sycamore leaves that we forgot to be frustrated and simply basked in the sunlight. Eventually the Spaniards returned from their siesta, we found our way to our tiny, adorable hostel, and exhaled in relief. The hostel was a single flat, four bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom, and the room Anne and I had to ourselves was particularly nice, with brightly curtained windows and, instead of a locker, and ancient wooden chest. The key we were given to lock it literally resembled the key found by contrary Miss Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden - unnotched, thick round metal stem with a single, simple tab at the end. Thank goodness we felt the hostel itself was safe, because the "security" provided by this key made us stifle delighted laughter behind our hands; if anyone had twiddled a hairpin in the vague direction of the lock, it probably would have opened. Thankfully no one did.
The helpful hostel worker (who, upon discovering that I spoke some Spanish and needed practice, cheerfully ignored everything I said in English) gave us a map, circled important sites, places to eat, and things to do, and shooed us out into the sunlight. All weariness forgotten, we wandered about the Parte Vieja for a while, jaws agape at how gorgeous it was, before finding our way to the docks and then the bay. I don't know how to express quite how beautiful the bay was, and can only beg you to look at the pictures that are going up on facebook because no matter how hard I try I don't think I will be able to convey how perfect this place was. The bay is shaped like a large C, with a small mountain at each end and a broad white beach along the curve of it, and between the hills in the mouth of the bay rests a small, rocky island, with a lighthouse just visible at its peak. The water was perfectly aquamarine blue, and with the sun upon it, sparkled. The narrow streets of the old town and the wide sunny avenues of the newer area stretch away from the promenade along the waterfront, and despite the fact that there are plenty of tourist sites and a functioning city center, the place also just feels relaxed, sleepy. We felt like we could truly exhale. We wandered all afternoon before at last getting DIVINE gelato, which turned out to be our dinner since we decided to crash at our hostel before looking for food, but fell asleep literally as soon as we got in.
The next day we set off, first in search of breakfast, then wandered for a while. We walked around the base of Urgull, the hill upon which the castle sits and just marveled. Though I didn't remember it at the time, the bit of the Atlantic at which we were gazing in awe is called the Bay of Biscay (I really like that name) and it crashed in violent splendor upon the rocks at the point. After walking the circumference of the hill, we began our ascent in the green silence up the wooded slopes. The fortress at the top was spectacular, and we peeked through the cannon-sized openings in the battlements, ran our fingers over the rough gold of the sandstone and leaned against the walls that dated back before the Napoleonic occupation of the site. One of the informational signs (which, unusually, was NOT in either Spanish or Basque but also in English) told about a particularly ruinous bit of the castle which once had housed a gunpowder storage chamber, but which was struck by lightning several hundred years ago; the explosion caused extensive damage not only to the castle but to significant parts of the old city as well, apparently...! Somehow this struck us as rather funny, because really, what are the odds of the lightning striking the ONE bit of a building that happens to be packed with gunpowder..? I suppose that's what you get for keeping your ammunition on the top of a mountain...
We retired to the beach, to soak up the sun and lounge and swim (just a little) and to acquire the second layer of sunburn in as many days. Bad choices, perhaps, but it was heavenly.
After a short visit to the old cathedral and a brief siesta, we set out in hunt of tapas, which, when eventually located, turned out to be AMAZING. Mushrooms soaked in some kind of gravy-ish-sauce tooth-pick-pinned to chewy baguette, Spanish tortilla thick with spinach and cheese and potato, shrimp lightly grilled and drizzled in salty olive oil and orange-zest sauce, and fishy bacalao in another tortilla, mouth-parchingly salty and reeking of the sea. It was absolutely delicious. Then, because it was Friday night, we decided to go out dancing and/or drinking, and once again, we discovered the madness that is Spanish night life. Here is the way that went:
- 12 am - Get ready to go out, finish our naps, get properly attired, etc.
- 1 am - head out. Stare longingly at the gelato stand (still open). Realize that three times in two days is probably a bit much.
- 1:20 am - arrive at the club, in time for the beginning of the "English Party" supposed to begin at 1:00. Apparently, though, this is equivalent to when they say a Macalester Kagin dance starts at 10:30 - ie, don't show up until midnight unless you like empty dance floors. No one was there; we were quite upset (having already paid cover) and went to a bar to get drinks to console ourselves.
- Met two silly Basque boys in the bar, one of whom spoke some English, while the other spoke none. With a lot of Spanglish and a lot of explaining, we ended up having a really nice chat, and they told us they were headed to the club we had just vacated - apparently by 2:30 there would be people dancing. Sooo, we went back with them, danced with them, and I spent quite a while translating bad pop music on the request of the non-English speaking fellow ("Er, caliente y frio, eres sí cuando es no, eres... in? And... uh.. eres up y abajo, ummm incorrecto, correcto, eres negro cuando es blanco, we... um... besos? Yeah?.... crap. Darn it Katy Perry, sing slower!"). We also had to explain the pronunciation differences between particular curse words and large stretches of sand, and there was a space of a few minutes where one of the boys was simply chanting, "Beach, bitch, beach, bitch, beach, bitch" under his breath, trying to get the pronunciation correctly. Mildly hilarious.
- 4:00 am - I was getting antsy, and was starting to think that a) going to bed might be nice and b) that if we waited much longer I would have to pry the nice Basque boy off with a crowbar, so I hinted to Anne that it was time to take off, and despite the passisonate Spanglish protests to the contrary we left. We were chatting away as we did so, and had not gone a hundred yards before the group of kids behind us asked where we were from. They were all Basque as well, and were learning English, so we chatted with them for a bit. They were also very nice, and when they told us that there was a disco to which they were going, and into which they could get us for free, and when Anne gave me the puppy-dog eyes, we of course ended up going along with them.
- 4:30 am - got the second club, and were impressed with the fact that after a hushed word to the bouncers, we walked in without paying, but somewhat unimpressed with the venue - good music, but not that many people on the dance floor.
- 4:45 am - the club begins to fill up. Apparently this is when people go dancing, in San Sebastian.
- 5:15 am - club now actually crowded. Had a great time dancing with the group of boys.
- 5:45 am - I put my foot down, and tell Anne we need to go, despite the fact that yes, we had been having a good time. Reluctantly, she accompanied me out.
- 6:00 am - walking back, met a group of Erasmus students, who asked where we were from. Chatted briefly.
- 6:10 am - were called to by a group of men; I ignored them; Anne, laughing, called, "Sorry, we only speak English!" over her shoulder but instead of deterring them, one of them ran up to us. He asked where we were from as well, and that conversation lasted a little while, while I kept interjecting, "Okay... okay, ... okay... OKAY, we have to GO!" while the Spaniards laughed.
- 6:25 am - bed at last. Brilliant night.
We left lovely San Sebastian the next morning, munching on pastries and staring gloomily at the canal and the buildings, whistful and disgruntled at having to leave. The seven hour bus ride under grey skies was made even more mournful by the thought of what we were leaving behind: sun and sky and a little Basque paradise.
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