Basque-ing in San Sebastian.

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I hate to be the one to say it, but after three days in Spain, I’m pining for English weather. I’ve left behind the brilliant sunshine of London for cold, blustery Basque Country. In San Sebastian, clouds off the Atlantic blow across a temperamental sky. It opens up and dumps a prodigious downpour on the streets, and just as we’ve finished scrambling for cover, a ray of sunlight peeks through. The weather’s wreaked havoc on the weekend. A couple from Cardiff have resigned themselves to the fact that it will always rain on the Welsh. In a cafe, the barrista has come out from behind the counter to realize her paragua is gone. She gestures at the empty umbrella stand, intent that I bear witness. Whenever a new customer walks in, she gets animated and enlists their sympathy as well.

A blustery wind is sweeping over Playa de la Concha, San Sebastian’s famous beach. Some determined swimmers tread bravely into the surf; the rest of us pull our jackets close and dream of August’s dog days. The beach chairs are stacked and bundled up, the seaside cafes are empty. Now and then the sky turns a deep shade of gray, and we begin to look for shelter.

If any Spanish city were designed to cope with the rain, though, it would have to be San Sebastian. This is a town that takes the art of the pintxo to an almost pathological extreme. On every block in its Parte Vieja, boisterous Spaniards spill out of tapas bars into the streets. They crowd two or three deep against the counters, deftly working their way through plates of pintxos. You look at these careful arrangements of jamon and atun and camarones and champinones and think those craftsmen must be sick in the head. If you pass at the right time of day you can watch them at work, sculpting with the masterful hand of a Rodin.

By my second day I’m already looking forward to the rain - a convenient excuse to huddle over a bar and stuff my face. I’ve worked my way down at least one street, and there’s still a salivating list of new bars ahead of me. I’m swimming in pintxos. I can really get used to the Spanish way of life. Now and then my rapidly improving grasp of the language degenerates, and I’m reduced to barbarous grunts and growls as I point across the bar.

For the most part, though, I acquit myself well; I’ve earned a few compliments from people who, admittedly, might have had ulterior motives. The language bar has been set pretty low by the other Americans in town. You see them everywhere, ruddy, blond, pronouncing slowly from their phrasebooks with H’s hard enough to break glass. They’re wearing khakis and Rockports and Oakley sunglasses; their sweaters are tied jauntily over their shoulders or around their waists. In the rain, while the chic Spaniards are huddled under designer umbrellas, these imperious Americans are tramping through the puddles in high-tech, waterproof gear - much of which, I’ll admit, I’ve got stowed away in my bag, too.

One wet afternoon I meet four English girls on holiday; they’ve anchored themselves at the corner of a bar, crowding the bocadillos. They borrow my guidebook and strike up a conversation. They’re staying in Biarritz, the French resort town just a short cab ride across the border. Coming to terms with certain cultural realities, they’re finding rowdy San Sebastián to be far more hospitable. There are piles of shopping bags at their feet; at the end of the counter, one of the girls - a pretty brunette - is punching numbers into a calculator. Traveling on the almighty pound is a better bargain than she’d expected. Her feet are cold - she’s wearing flip-flops - and she decides to buy a new pair of shoes.

I’m grateful for their company; four days of threadbare Spanish have worn me out. They’re awfully sweet, too. When they hear my daily budget - wrinkling their faces in surprise and dismay - they offer to buy me a coffee. It’s clear - on this soggy Saturday in San Sebastian, at least - that we have very different travel prerogatives. They’re talking about an elaborate, seven-course feast planned for the next day in Biarritz. One of the girls keeps popping outside, calling friends in London about a certain club on the outskirts of the city. I’m desperately trying to hold my shit together and not write off my budget after less than three weeks. I’m also very conscious of the fact that I haven’t had a single sit-down meal in the five days I’ve been in Spain.

In spite of my best intentions, I worry about the impression I’m making. Really, I hate to come across as a charity case. When talking about plans to crash on strangers’ couches in the weeks ahead, I make the tactical blunder of using the word “freeloader” - a word best avoided in polite company, it should be said. Already, on their slightly darkening brows, I can sense that their hospitality is straining against some unspoken limits. Now and then, they make eye contact with each other in a way that’s just full of significance.

The implicit lesson is that there’s no way, no how, they feel like picking up my tab all night. That it’s not my intention is beside the point; they tactfully say goodbye outside the bar. For the next few hours, wandering the streets, I’m in a heightened state of alert. There’s nothing I want less than to have an awkward exchange with these girls on their way to some fancy dinner.


I meet a pair of Canadians staying in my pension - a father and daughter on a three-week tour around the Pyrenees. Marly’s just finished up her degree in statistics; at 24, she’s straying from her native country for the first time. Monty, her father, tall and gray with a short, thick beard and mischievous eyes, is taking her to Spain and France as a graduation gift. Wyoming-born, and a Vietnam veteran, Monty repatriated to Canada in the ‘70s. He has a worldly air that’s especially apparent when his mouth curls up in a cynical smile. A first-hand witness to the follies of American muscle-flexing abroad, he doesn’t waste much time feeling out my political views, loosening up mightily once I’ve warmed to his polemics.

We wander the Parte Vieja and stop for a drink in the Plaza de la Constitucion. After another day of clouds and sporadic rain, shafts of brilliant sunlight have broken over the city. It’s a mild evening; the streets are crowded, everyone decked out in their Saturday-night finery. We have a few rounds of vino over the clamorous sounds of children playing. Monty’s describing a program that aired on Canadian TV not long ago - a trenchant review of American foreign policy in the post-9/11 years. Marly’s battering me with questions about the political climate in the States. She’s relieved to hear that public opinion has turned so strongly against the president in recent months. But we all concede that the damage has been done; the administration’s carte blanche after the attacks has opened up far too many cans of worms around the world. It is, I’ll admit, a shitty talk to have on a Saturday night in San Sebastian. Monty mentions a few websites worth checking out, though he’s smart enough to know - as he concedes with a sigh - that you can’t help but sound like a crackpot when you begin, “There’s this website…”

When he heads back to the pension me and Marly walk the streets. The parade of flesh on display when Spanish girls hit the town would probably blind a lesser man. We pop in and out of pintxo bars, fisting small glasses of wine. She talks about Canada, and the frustration of living - especially in these tumultuous times -in the shadow of America. Admittedly, I do little to help matters, failing miserably when it comes to Canadian geography and heads of state. We watch packs of girls totter by on tall heels, and guys with the desperate looks of those who know they won’t be getting laid on this fine summer night. I comment on her relationship with her father, admitting that as much as I love my parents, I can’t imagine us hiking through the Pyrenees.

She says she’s lucky, but remains guarded. Monty’s off-handedly mentioned a scheme to sign her up with ETA, the Basque separatist group, and until she’s safely back in Halifax, she’s not entirely sure where their trip will lead.

Splitting my first week in Spain between Bilbao and San Sebastian, I’ve been able to tread - however tentatively - into the turbulent political landscape of Basque Country. The Basque flag has become a familiar sight, flapping from balconies and outside bars that are, no doubt, home to more than a few ETA sympathizers. Signs are strung across the streets of the Parte Vieja, broadcasting a hunger strike that’s reached 40 days. One night, a solemn processional winds its way through the city’s streets. Hundreds of people march with placards bearing the gruff faces of political prisoners. The police keep a strong presence on the Alameda at night, wearing riot gear and toting heavy artillery.

But the soaring pride of the Basques tempers the region’s troubles; I remember Angel, the man I met in Bilbao, thumping his chest as his voice cracked. The native language - an inscrutable tongue that seems closer to Slavic than Spanish - is spoken with a stubborn self-awareness; under Franco it was harshly repressed, and each syllable seems to carry with it a solemn weight. Menus and street signs grudgingly bear Castilian names. The sense of a fierce, communal bond here in Pais Vasco is something most of us might find a bit embarrassing. Back home, you wouldn’t expect to see such unrestrained emotion on the street unless your team was heading to the playoffs.

At a wedding on the steps of the Town Hall, a traditional Basque dance whirls amid a shower of flower petals. That night men and women are walking through the streets, singing songs of homage to their native land. They stop in front of bars and in front of the handsome cathedral; their faces, red and straining with effort, turn to meet each other’s, gathering strength. Old men in wrinkled cardigans and young boys with designer jeans stop as they pass, humming a few bars or joining in the chorus. They raise their faces; their throats tremble; and they sing like the world depends on it.

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