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| Guggenheim Museum, Bilbao |
In the western Pyrenees, in the land where Spain and France meet the Atlantic, you will find the Basque Country. Although not a country in its own right, the Basque Country is completely different to Spain and France, with its own distinctive culture and language. Arguably, its two most famous locations are the industrial city of Bilbao, home to Frank Gehry's renowned architectural masterpiece, the Guggenheim Museum and the coastal town of San Sebastián. We planned to check out the Guggenheim before heading onto San Sebastian for a few relaxing days of recuperation before our hectic final stops of Paris, Ireland and Paris.
We travelled from Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh to Zaragoza, before heading onto Bilbao. We had a few hours in Zaragoza and, after leaving our luggage in lockers at the station, walked into the town to explore. We had left Bahl-ehn-thee-ahh very early in the morning, not having time for a proper breakfast. It was after lunch when we arrived so we were ravenous and food was our first priority. We found a Mercadonnnna-Mercadona almost immediately, grabbing supplies for a delicious lunch and then a bench on which to enjoy it. We had only been there a few minutes when an old lady approached us. She said something to us in Spanish to which we replied we were Australian and didn’t speak Spanish. How about Basque? No, we’re two of the only Australians not fluent in Basque. Italian? No. She didn’t speak French either, so we had no way of communicating...although this didn’t deter her. She simply took another step closer and kept talking away in Spanish.
Have you seen Drag Me To Hell? She looked like the insane gypsy lady and, as the conversation progressed and she started to finger Kaitlyn’s sandwich and painfully clutched my hand to “admire” my rings, I was starting to think she was going to banish us to hell for eternity like in the movie. I realise it probably doesn’t sound very frightening, one old lady and two fit young girls, but I assure you she was terrifying. She was trying to make us get up and follow her, we think maybe to her home, but we kept resisting. She started to get quite frustrated with us and then told us to stay as she ducked inside a shop. We didn’t even have to exchange words, grabbing our stuff and literally sprinting back towards the station. Oh, Zaragoza, hopefully one day I will be able to come back and see some of your wonderful Mudéjar architecture...so long as Grandma’s not waiting to drag me to hell.
Just before we got on the train to Bilbao, I received an email from the hostel we had booked there. This is what it said:
We have 12 rooms for the day.
divert the pension book Bilbao. Under the same conditions. Sorryfor the inconvenience.
c/ Amistad nº2 4º izda.
Bilbao. tfn.: 944246943
mail:pensionbilbao@telefonica.net
Very close to us.
Its reserve is confirmed.
You can understand why we were confused. “Divert the pension book Bilbao”? I replied, nicely, asking them if they could explain this a bit better. We never heard back. When we arrived in Bilbao it was late and dark. We had chosen the hostel we had because of its close proximity to the train station. Finding the new place on a map and seeing it was further, we decided to take a cab there. It wasn’t too far away, but with all our things and at the late hour, a taxi was the safer, more sensible option. When we arrived, the man there was clearly not expecting us. He didn’t speak any English, but he phoned the location of the original booking and, thankfully, someone there did. I spoke to them on the phone. Apparently, they didn’t mean to send us that email, our reservation still at the original hostel. As it was a Saturday night, we had obviously fluked getting a taxi the first time around and had no such luck the second. We trudged all the way back to where we started, arriving at the first hostel which was right next door to the train station.
We spent the morning in the city, wandering around and checking out the Guggenheim, before catching the bus to San Sebastian.
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| Puppy by Jeff Koons |
Surfers flock to San Sebastian to enjoy the waves and the laid-back resort-like way of life – a blasé, carefree lifestyle evident in our hostel which, in its foyer, replaced the typical welcome sign with the poetic “Happy F@#%ing”. Although not surfers, we too were in San Sebastián to relax and have fun, instead using the beach and beachfront promenade for a wanky photoshoot, something we hadn’t done since Vienna.
Despite the laid-back, carefree nature of the town and its activities, San San Sebastian wasn’t able to alleviate Kaitlyn of her tantrum syndrome. The first blow-up was less of a tantrum and more of a heated discussion with a New Zealand guy who worked at the hostel. Prior to dinner, the two of us had gone to the pub for a drink. The man there suggested we try the local cider and presented us with two large glasses each holding a very small amount of liquid. At first we thought he was taking the piss, but we soon realised that this was our beverage. It was bizarre but, it was what it was. Afterwards, we went back to the hostel to make dinner. A group of the guys who worked there were also in the kitchen preparing food and drinking – drinking cider. We told them about our experience, and the New Zealander explained it to us. Spanish cider, sidra, is typically poured in very small quantities into a wide glass from a considerable height in order to produce air bubbles in the drink. This apparently gives it a sparkling quality similar to that of champagne but, as it only lasts a short time, one must essentially “shot” the liquid in one go. Having had it explained to us, it made sense....to me, at least. ‘That’s f@#%ing ridiculous. If I wanted a shot, I would have ordered a f@#%ing shot.’
Kiwi was your typical laid-back surfer so he was non-plussed by her response, offering her some of his cider. ‘You really should try it, it’s great, ay. Here, I’ll give you some.’
‘I don’t want any. I want actual cider in an actual glass. An actual f@#%ing drink.’
‘You should try some while you’re here though. Experience a bit of the culture, ay.’ Now, I will concede that, while he did, in fact, say “ay” a lot, he didn’t say it quite as much as Kaitlyn let on.
‘I am experiencing some of the f@#%ing culture, ay. I just wanted a f@#%ing drink of f@#%ng cider that I could drink from for more than one f@#%ing second. Some f@#%ing Bulmers, ay. I don’t need you to tell me how to experience the f@#%ing culture. Ay.’
‘I just meant that, while you’re here, you might try some Spanish cider, ay. Because you’re in the country, especially up here in this region, it would be good to try the local drink.’
‘So you’re telling me I’m not being f@#%ing cultural enough ay? You have no idea what I’ve been f@#%ing doing culturally. And so, ay, I want a f@#%ing drink of proper f@#%ing cider, ay. If I wanted a f@#%ing sip of f@#%ing cider, ay, I would have f@#%ing ordered that, ay. AY.’
The rest of us all sat there eating and drinking, watching the exchange. Eventually, they stopped arguing, but Kaitlyn kept making little digs where possible. When one of them asked what we had planned for the night, her response was ‘Going out. Being all cultural and shit, ay.’ Just as we were about to leave, they discussed from whom they were going to buy their marijuana for the evening. ‘Oh! You’re going to go and get stoned are you, ay? How f@#%ing cultural of you. Nothing says “Spanish f@#%ing culture” more than smoking a joint, ay.’
The second incident came after a failed attempt to upload photos to Facebook on one of the hostel’s laptop computers. It wasn’t a complete failure – at least, it wouldn’t have been if she hadn’t given up on it for being too slow. I too was uploading pictures and finding the whole process slower than it typically is. I, however, persevered and eventually found success. Kaitlyn, after giving up on the first computer, tried a different one. Finding this to be just as sluggish, she went nuts. ‘THIS COMPUTER. F@#%ING ASSHOLE C@#%. I’M GOING TO F@#%ING RIP THIS ONE IN HALF.’ She slammed the lid down and stormed out, a complete basquet case. Only a few seconds later she returned, vocally calmer although still physically seething. She reached over me, ‘Excuse me. And I’ll rip this one in half as well because that one doesn’t work so let’s rip that one in half.’ And she slammed that one closed, focusing her attentions on the one I was using, narrowly missing my fingers as she slammed that one closed also. She made her way through the room roughly closing each laptop. ‘There we are, put that back in, close that. Annnnd sorted. Thank-you.’ And with that she left. There was a guy sitting in the room on his own computer. He turned to me and said, ‘Do you know her?’
‘Yep. I’m travelling with her.’ He just looked at me and then back out at her retreating figure. I gave her ten minutes to cool off and then tracked her down in our room. I found her there, outburst seemingly forgotten, calmly selecting clothing items to be tossed so we arrived in the French capital with plenty of room for new, Parisenne purchases.
Paris – get ready because we’re coming!
