Bewitching ETA terrorists, poor Spanish sidewalk hygiene, the most boring German in the world and glorious Basque tapas. (San Sebastian)

I am rather pleased with myself. Not only did I arrive at the airport at the airport at a reasonable time for my flight to San Sebastián (not three hours before like usual), but more importantly I picked the right line to stand in!  Said line was not my initial choice; my instincts drew me to the one with the family lengthily debating the merits of aisle vs. window.  But I defied destiny and moved lines, not only beating the family but also taking part in the quickest check-in process in Spanish history!  No wonder they won the Olympics.

Passing through Security I was distracted by the poster displaying active ETA members wanted for terrorism. It reminded me that Basque separatism was very much a current issue. The open, guileless faces of the offenders mesmerized me.  I was particularly drawn to a woman who was just a year older than me. I wondered what would compel someone like that into terrorism. What experiences could she have had in her 27 years that drove her to this path? What must it feel like to be a fugitive for the rest of one’s life?  What crimes did she commit? How did they get her picture? A story began to develop. Imagine yourself a foreign tourist, happily skipping along, lost in day dreams about your destination when suddenly your stomach plummets because there on the poster of terrorists is you. Well, not exactly you, but your doppelganger.  The guardia civil, in their “90’s architecture” green, the ones about whom the guidebooks have put the fear of God in you to avoid, suddenly notice you and your happy reverie is shattered as all hell breaks loose. It would be even funnier if this protagonist had done everything – dress, hair, makeup – to try and maker herself pass for Spanish because she was sick of looking like a tourist….

As I wait I consider the beginning of my travels. Not sure what I was thinking when I assumed the 3 am bus to Luton airport would be a nice, quiet, relaxing affair. When the double-decker coach arrived, it was packed. Once I was finally allowed on I ascended to the darkest corners of bus travel hell.  My face thudded against air thick with body heat and glazed in sweat. Through this underworld I scavenged for a seat, finding one behind “Becca” and “Simon” and next to a night owl with a commitment to rave music and reading her book with the light on. So began my comprehensive tour of every bus station, airport and car park between Birmingham Digbeth and Luton.

Slept through the flight, hopped the bus to Plaça de Catalunya and sashayed down las Ramblas (as well as one can sashay carrying two packs) to my hotel.  Upon my arrival I learned that when Spanish say the first floor they really mean the fourth.

When I saw the jail cell parading as my room I sighed and quickly changed into summer attire. Unfortunately, I soon discovered that my brand new sandals, so cute with their minimalist loops of black leather string, barely stayed on.  Half a block of walking and the straps would slide down my sweating feet.  I stopped to hitch them up.  Another block and once again the straps were under my feet.  Undeterred and optimistic, I continued this awkward but nonetheless jaunty style of walking when suddenly – splootch – my beloved Red or Dead sandals were buried in a whomping glop of dog shit. Sigh. Luckily this happened in front of a restaurant whose bathroom sink and flimsy rice paper napkins helped clean up the mess. I returned to my room, dropped my earring and realized that due to the lack any convincing light source it was gone for good.

* * *

At the San Sebastián airport information desk I met a fellow traveller, a professional pianist from Argentina who was on tour of Spain. Together we struggled to find the bus, running arpeggios across the busy highway to reach the stop. Forty minutes later we were in town and I found the Banco Hispanico who miraculously accepted their own travellers cheques without commission. I was staying on Cathedral Square at the home of Señora Charo, a retired lady who let rooms in her amply-sized apartment to travelers. I arrived at the same time as Lambert, the Biking German from Munster, and we agreed to tour the town together.

My first impressions of San Sebastián were mixed.  It had beauty and charm, but was also an über-tourist destination.  I was shocked by the sheer volume of Americans. Lambert and I climbed Monte Urgull to visit the fort and take in the views of possibly the most crowded beaches I have ever seen.  Of course, these drawbacks would have been easily overcome with a witty and engaging companion, but I had aligned with possibly the most boring German on the planet.  I could not decide which was less painful: his very slow English garnished with the occasional Spanish word, or my fantastically deplorable German.  Either way I could barely get him to shut up, the only difference being the speed at which I was bombarded. He was completely obsessed with biking.  I was honoured with a lengthy description of how a local mountain was used for the “Clásica San Sebastián” bike race and how he was looking forward to visiting it the next day. To enhance the experience I was blitzkrieged by a bird.  Nothing spectacular– a light splattering on my right arm.  Lambert didn’t even notice.

As Lambert droned on about brevets, chondromalacia and fartleks, I tidied up my arm and considered my challenging sandals. I needed a way to increase resistance between the loops of the ankle strap and the leather strap across my foot.  What would MacGyver do? Suddenly it came to me. While Lambert was lost in his velocipedic reverie I bit off shreds of a massive blister bandage and, due to their sticky nature, was able to put them into the loops, creating resistance. So well, in fact, that not only did they hold as we descended the mountain, but I was unable to remove them for our walk along the beach so they are now caked in sand. At least they will be ready for the beach tomorrow.

After I ditched Lambert I met Mikel, an electrical engineering student who was boarding with Doña Charo. Mikel took me to five different bars where we sampled the best of the local food and drink.  I had chipirones en su tinta which was the most tender squid I had ever eaten in a purple-black vinegary magical sauce and angula, teenie weenie fish (eels) that looked like grey pasta and cost more by weight than gold. At one bar we met an old man of whose conversation I grasped maybe 5% although that which I did was fairly – as the Spanish say -  “green”. I tried the local cider, white wine, beer… but not too much of anything, of course. Ha.