Zaragoza lies behind us as the Alsa bus gradually climbs into the meseta, the high plateau of north central Spain. A strong and chill wind from the north, from the Pyrenees, buffets the coach as it makes its way to Madrid, yet another four hours ride away.
The landscape here is surprising. It’s a blend of arid cowboy country reminiscent of the southwestern US and yet undeniably old country in the design of the dwellings and other structures dotted along the way.
Marybeth and I munch the ham -Jamon- rolls and oranges we got from a mercado earlier and gaze out of the windows. Into view comes another expansive wind farm, the kind that employs the massive, slow-turning German turbines. It’s the “bigger – fewer” way to do it.
We’re midway in an extended wander through northern Spain, which started with our arrival as foot passengers on an overnight ferry from the UK. The Basque country of that coast captivated us right away, and our time in Santander, Bilbao, and San Sebastien was a delight, if not relaxed by most people’s standards.
Upon disembarking from the Brittany Ferry we had headed southwest -my compass is always at the ready for times like these- in the direction of the bus station, and soon we’re there getting tickets for the next bus to Bilbao. The ways of the autobus estacion are not difficult to manage, even with only a rudimentary grasp of Spanish. Of course, my little scribble book for confirming destinations and fares is ever at hand.
Bilbao engages us with its friendly populace and a feel of old Europe with its riverside promenade, parks, and relaxed atmosphere. The Guggenheim Bilbao adds an ultra-modern splash to the city, the art museum’s soaring metal exterior evoking emotion as well as images. We visit another Bilbao landmark, Belle Artes Museo and are enamored with the Sorolla paintings. It’s driven home to me that yes, the Spaniards love their art, and everywhere we visit we find art museums and galleries.
On to San Sebastien, where Queen Isabel II insisted on taking her entire court during the summers of her reign, to escape the stifling heat of Madrid. The classy seaside city, with the beautiful beach of Playa la Concha stretching in a languid crescent between two rocky headlands, still retains its regal feel from the nineteenth century, albeit maybe a little rough around the edges these days. La Crisis -Spain’s recent economic downturn – has affected everything, and it’s a hot topic that the locals share with visitors. We’re lodged in a tiny room in the city’s Viejo Parte, the old town coursed by cobbled alleyways.
San Sebastien is also known by its Basque name, Donostia, and this reminds me that the people in this region are vastly proud of their Basque heritage, and wouldn’t mind being a separate entity. Around here the Euskera-Basque flag waves along with the Spanish one and the Euskera language is alive and well.
The trails crisscrossing Monte Urgull beg exploration; under deep blue skies we spend hours on the inviting paths which undulate among ruins and rocky outcrops. We have a traditional pintxos tapas picnic dinner perched on high fortress walls overlooking San Sebastien harbor, the sun setting over Monte Igeldo in the distance.
Another bus trip and Zaragoza charms us with its Roman ruins and magnificent cathedral, where in 1669 the Virgin Mary was witnessed descending from the impossibly high ceiling standing upon a pillar of stone. Pilgrims have been coming to kiss the spot ever since.
Spectacular are Zaragoza’s ruins of a 6,000-seat Roman Theatre, built in the first century BCE and lain forgotten until its rediscovery by a plumber digging in a basement 30 years ago. Since then the ruin has been excavated and stabilized, and it is accompanied by a world-class museum. A few blocks away the remnants of an opulent Roman bath are housed in another informative museum.
Upon arriving in Madrid we make our way into the jostling crowds in the heart of the city on the streets linking Plaza Mayor and Plaza de Sol. It’s Saturday and the mood is festive among the tourists and Madrillenos alike. We make our way to the center of the art museum universe, Museo del Prado, and wander overwhelmed among the works by Spanish masters Goya, Velasquez, and Sorolla, among a great deal more. Later, in our room, four flights above the streets in the Los Amigos Hostel, we’re reminded of Earnest Hemingway’s comment: “Nobody goes to bed in Madrid until they have killed the night.”
My battery-powered shaver gave up the ghost a few days ago; Marybeth notes that I’m even scruffier than usual. We’ve run out of clean clothes, that is we’ve tired of washing our few garments in the sink every night, and we want to speak English to people besides each other. It’s time to go home.
But there’s no doubt that years from now we’ll remember our wanderings in Basque country, the smiling people we met, the amazing food we ate, the spectacular sights we saw. And oh yeah, how it was our thirtieth wedding anniversary.
Thanks, Marybeth.
– Johnny Robinson
