Tierra de Tortugas

Summer 2016: Barcelona

“I can resist anything but temptation.” – Oscar Wilde

And who can resist a short side trip to nearby Barcelona? Certainly not us. Plus it’s a first time visit for my sister Elyse, and it would be cruel to deny her this special city.

We catch a cheap bus ride from Perpignan (Perpignyá in Catalan). We’re waiting where everybody says the bus stops. The bus blows past us and stops somewhere else. We hustle to get there, and the driver almost leaves without us. I stand behind the bus to stop him from leaving. What a jerk.

No matter. The bus pulls through the scenic eastern end of the Pyrenees, near where the mountains meet the Mediterranean, and soon we’re at Barcelona’s huge Sants Station.

The great hall runs with rivers and streams of summer travelers from across the world. We grab a taxi out front and quickly find ourselves at another good apartment that Carolyn managed to find online.  

(TRAVEL TIP: We’re traveling with my sister Elyse, so Carolyn Googles for lodging for three people. We get listings for nice apartments, instead of just hotels.)

 

We’re located on the same block as Antoni Gaudí’s Casa Batlló. In fact, we can see the distant backside of the Casa; and we get a close-up of a gorgeous glass conservatory, while enjoying breakfast on our balcony. 

The apartment is just steps away from the north-westerly, restaurant-filled, section of La Rambla, one of the great urban walks of the world. The sun is setting, and it’s another fine night for outdoor dining, a wonderful custom in countries that line the Mediterranean.

The first part of our trip, in early summer, took us across the rainy and chilly north coast of Spain and through the damp and cool country of southern France. But now we’re in warm Barcelona by the Med. And we’re liking it a lot.

After dinner we’ll stroll past a huge Desigual store (Headquarters in Barcelona!), and many other delights as the city’s night life emerges. 

  

Ah Barcelona! 

The very name of this great city rolls lustily off the tongue like a fine Catalan wine; like a serious love affair that will remain forever a hopeless addiction. We’re glad to be back.

———————————————————————————

A visit to Casa Batlló is of the first order. And it’s only one of the many crazy-wonderful confections created by Gaudí in Barcelona, a city well known for them. We get there early to avoid those long tour bus lines; even so, getting around the many narrow spaces inside takes some jockeying.

Each of Gaudí’s creations makes clear that the man obsessively designed every surface, shape, and doorknob. 

He was careful with every detail, and filled the central light shaft with blue tiles to create a tranquil mood – placing darker tiles at the top and descending into lighter shades so they all appear equal when seen from the bottom. It’s really something you have to experience. 

There’s a lower terrace and an upper terrace. And the reward for climbing all those stairs to the top? A fine view from the lavishly decorated top terrace looking over the rooftops of the city. 

 

One heart-breaker is an ugly residential high-rise now blocking a peep-hole view the master created looking toward his great Sagrada Familia. Only construction cranes and the tops of a few towers remain visible from Casa Batlló.

(As with all of Gaudí’s work, the photo-ops are endless. Make sure your camera is fully charged and you have a chip with lots of room on it.)

(For even more of Gaudí’s work see our blog from Comillas, in Spain’s Cantabria.)

 ––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

Another day finds us at Gaudí’s Sagrada Familia, still a ‘work in progress’ after more than a hundred years. We had no luck getting tickets for that afternoon, and stood on the sidewalk just quietly studying the façade. 

  

But we had quite an adventure anyway. 

We were suddenly confronted by a young lady in t-shirt and jeans who said she was with the Barcelona Police. Uh-oh. But she pointed to two nicely dressed women just behind us and said they were Bulgarian pickpockets who were under surveillance and were seen fiddling with my sister Elyse’s purse. She quickly flashed a badge hanging on her belt under the t-shirt, but we didn’t get a good look at it. Coulda been out of a cereal box for all I saw. 

A couple of slacker-looking guys showed up to help her with the bust. All were under-cover cops, I guess. 

So who to believe? Were we being scammed by those two women now under arrest over on the street corner, or by this lady and the guys hanging around us? Or are they all working together?

My sister said the thieves didn’t seem to get anything, but the Police Lady said that didn’t matter. Under the laws of Barcelona, the attempt alone was sufficient to bring charges. And it had all been witnessed by the cops. The Bulgarian perps didn’t even bother to protest the whole thing, but just hung out waiting to be hauled off. It looked like this was common practice for them, and they’d get bailed out soon enough.

A squad car arrived. Paperwork was filled out. My sister got her own copy of the report, and the whole thing finally felt legitimate. I got shots of the ‘perps’ hanging out by a street electrical box, but didn’t think the under-covers would appreciate me taking their pictures.

 

 We got back to Sagrada Familia earlier the next day (before the tour buses) and scored our tickets. Carolyn and I had been there before but were happy for a return visit. It’s an astounding thing to see. 

After just a few minutes spent studying the immense and rule-shattering exterior, or the lavish frozen-icicle interior, it’s difficult to believe Gaudí began his ultra-modernist project more than a hundred years ago (but I repeat myself). 

Gaudí drew his inspiration from nature, fostering more than a few dope-inspired back-to-nature projects in the 1960s (including some by friends of mine!). He saw no straight lines in the natural world and felt little inclination to include them in his work. Many of his drawings and models were destroyed during the Spanish Civil War, and the design that’s currently under construction is largely based on conjecture, leading to fierce debates as to its veracity. But it’s still an impressive sight to experience, especially as the afternoon light plays from brilliant stained glass windows across the interior walls.  

 –––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––––

And then there’s Gaudí’s Park Güell, in case you haven’t had enough already. It’s only a short bus ride away (Bus 24 or 32) in the Gràcia district, overlooking the city. Here is the home where the Architect lived, amid gardens and strange organic forms of his own creation. 

The park is a great place for a walk among the playful sculptings, with vistas of the city and the Sagrada Familia far below. Part of the movie Vicky Christina Barcelona was filmed here and you can descend the same steps where hunky Javier Bardem encountered Scarlet Johansen in one scene. (trailer here)

Gaudí was clearly a passionate visionary whose work still speaks to our latent modernist side. And he was lucky to have wealthy patrons who shared his fantastical visions and could finance his dreams. 

———————————————————————

 

With all the emphasis on Gaudí in Barcelona, one might wonder if there’s anything else to see or do around here. Not to worry; there’s lots of other worthy stuff to behold. This would be a city to visit even if Gaudí had never been here. 

There’s La Rambla, for instance. The main part of La Rambla is a kind of linear plaza stretching from the broad Plaça Catalunya to the soaring statue of Columbus standing by the harbor. Vendors of all kinds line both sides of La Rambla. 

The city’s famous Mercat de la Boqueria, filled with the best food you could want, is just off to one side. From the freshest veggies to entire Iberian hams, from Catalan chocolate to gourmet ice cream delivered with carnival flair, the place is a treat to visit.

And the beautiful Plaça Reial lies hidden not far away on the other side. From there you can lose yourself wonderfully in a warren of ancient streets. Don’t worry; you can somehow find your way home later. Just relax and enjoy being lost.

 The Barri Gotic is not far away, home to narrow artist-filled streets and the Museu Picasso. If you’re a serious student of the Master, this is a good stop. Picasso did a series of studies of Velazquez’ famous Las Meninas (which is in the Prado, in Madrid), and his modernist versions are displayed here. His relentless distorted cubistic reinterpretations of the young Princesa – some of which may border on artistic child abuse – show Picasso at full concentration. In a nearby room is a suite of paintings of doves on a balcony overlooking the Med. He did those to de-focus and relax during that period, between renewed assaults on the little Princesa. 

 

Sorry, no pictures were allowed inside. (Image of Las Meninas above, from Wikipedia.)

 

We emerged from the Museu in need of a drink, and found a good flamenco performance in a cool dark tavern just across the street. A little girl in a red dress in front of us could hardly contain herself and danced to every tune. Outside, her feet barely touched the ground as her parents walked her home.

On our way to dinner we detoured past the fabulous Palau de la Musica, a favored venue for many excellent jazz shows, classical guitar events, and other productions. The elaborate exterior and interior alone is a performance in itself.

We were on our way to dinner at Els Quatre Gats, where Picasso and his buddies (Miró and those guys) hung out during their Barcelona years. The original place folded long ago, but this re-iteration at the same location is a decent hangout, and the food and music are good. Plus, they still use the menu design Picasso did for the original place.

 

Barcelona has so many other worthy art museums (Macba, Fundació Joan Miró, Fundació Antoni Tapies, Fundació Suñol, etc), and fantastic architectural jewels, that it’s easy to get museumed out. We needed to relax and just experience the museum that is Barcelona itself, the ‘museum of the streets.’

 

We happen across a tango couple, with a nearby hat ready for euro collecting. Later I notice something interesting in the background (remember Antonioni’s movie, Blowup?). Is that one of the Bulgarian perps standing to the right of the male dancer? She quickly disappeared from my other photos. 

 

And as each day passes into evening there’s an endless variety of cafes with tables out beneath the sky. It’s hard to beat a warm Mediterranean night, fine food, a cheerful accordion player, and a bottle of good Spanish wine.

And yet again we can’t do everything that Barcelona has to offer (see more of Barcelona in our blogs from 2011 and 2013 ); better to plan for a return visit some other day.  

After several days in Barça, it was time to go. We have a date with the Middle Ages in a village on the banks of the mighty Rhône, where Carolyn plans to relax, read, and draw in her journal.

We’ll tell you all about that in the next blog. — PRW

 

Summer 2016: Lourdes, Toulouse, Albi, Perpignan, Céret

On our last morning in Pau the clouds have finally lifted from the Pyrenees to expose magnificent, snow-streaked peaks. The sight is more than worth a pause along the corniche before we make our way down Pau’s beautiful old funiculaire to the Gare by the river to catch our SNCF bus. We’re on our way to the large city of Toulouse with a side trip to charming Albi, on the banks of the tranquil river Tarn.

We travel once again down quiet country roads as heavy clouds slowly continue to unwrap their embrace from the north-facing slopes of the Pyrenees. It’s mid-June, there’s plenty of snow still nestled in the bowls up there, and it’s easy to understand why there are so many ski areas in this part of France, although it’s not as famous as the Alps.  

 

LOURDES

And there’s another nice surprise along the way: our bus passes through mountain-wrapped Lourdes, one of the major pilgrimage sites among Catholics. We even have a few Mexican friends who were named Lourdes in honor of this place. Although at least one guidebook describes it as a ‘Catholic version of Disneyland,’ it’s still charming, with those high snowcapped peaks in the background. If you’re going to a pilgrimage site, why not pick a pretty one?!

 

TOULOUSE

Our bus pulls into Toulouse’s centrally-located Gare Matabiau. The street in front of the station is on the banks of the famed Canal du Midi, commissioned by Louis XIV in 1666 to connect the Atlantic at the Garonne Estuary to the Mediterranean at Sète. That project alone changed trade practices through much of Europe by eliminating many long and dangerous passages around the Iberian Peninsula. 

Someday we’ll take a boat cruise on this famous canal, or bicycle its tow paths under the tall trees that line its banks. But it’s not in our plans for this trip. We need to make up a bit of time in our schedule, so Toulouse will be only a short stop for us.

The city deserves more time than we have. But we’ll content ourselves with wandering a few of the streets of Toulouse, enjoying the robust red brick architecture found in this area, and some of their fine food.

As the night begins to wane, we find a bar and down a few glasses of Armagnac while one of the opening rounds (Portugal vs Iceland) of this summer’s UEFA fútbol tournament plays on the big screen. (With an occasional head sticking in the way.)

 

In the morning we’re off for a day trip to nearby historic Albi, birthplace of Henri Toulouse-Lautrec and home to a well-regarded museum featuring his life and work. The hidden corners and villages of France are filled with delights like this. My sister Elyse is traveling with Carolyn and me, and it continues to be a joy to discover these surprises together.

 

ALBI

We’re not sure if the national train strike has been resolved, but the local trains, at least, are running. The trains of Europe are generally the finest and most comfortable way to travel the continent, and we’re soon in Albi. 

As we walk from the station, the towering mass of the Cathédrale Ste-Cécile stands as a red brick beacon soaring above the treetops. 

The Cathédrale’s strong lines and minimalist beauty owe much to its dual role as a fortress over decades of religious wars. This imposing 800 year old structure, with its unscalable walls, is still one of the world’s largest brick buildings and is now on the UNESCO World Heritage list.

 

A look inside reveals there’s nothing minimalist about the interior; every surface was covered long ago with designs by a team of enthusiastic Italian painters. What appear to be ornate columns and cornices are mostly paint, and cleverly done. With plenty of statues and carvings thrown in to the mix.

Wandering deeper into the gloomiest recesses of the Cathédrale complex, we find dramatic side-lit passages and the occasional skull of a saint peering forth from its final golden resting place.

 

Yet Albi’s main attraction, for us, is the fine museum devoted to its most famous son, Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec. The museum’s vast and impressive collection (alas, no inside pictures allowed) is only surpassed by the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. 

Henri was crippled by several congenital conditions and died young, at the age of 37. In his short life he sought the company of fellow outsiders and outcasts from society – those denizens of the bars, bawdy houses, and brothels of Paris. His creative work for the Moulin Rouge and other night-spots elevated poster art to a high level and assured his fame. And his sensitive portraits of prostitutes are unequalled in revealing their sad humanity. Among the star attractions here is Au Salon de la rue des Moulins, along with other noted works you’ve only seen in books.

 

On a corner near the Musée stands the city’s ornate Marché Couvert (covered market), designed by Thierry Bourdois and André Michelin, and opened in 1905. If you come in hungry, there is an ample supply of fine cheeses, sausages, and wine to cure the problem.

 

And once again, this being France, there are numerous winding medieval streets and ramparts to entice us further. We follow a narrow road down to the banks of the River Tarn, with its impressive waterworks and mill. We wander in a pastoral setting along a beautiful river with glades that any kid would love to explore.

Yet Albi is not just a musty medieval city; its fun and cosmopolitan side is only a block or two away from the museums. And it’s very much in the big-time when it comes to visiting talent. We were there in mid-June with no plans (or the ability!) to return for the Joan Baez show. But it was very tempting. 

 

 

PERPIGNAN

And so, after yet another satisfying wander through a small town in southern France, it’s time to move onward, to the warm Mediterranean coast. Our next stop will be Perpignan (Perpignyá in Catalán) and the nearby charming village of Céret, nestled in the eastern foothills of the Pyrenees. 

The national train strike seems to have resolved itself, and we’re soon riding comfortably through miles of fertile countryside. We pass through Carcassonne, with its famous turreted battlements spiking the skyline, but have no time to stop. We change trains at Narbonne’s wonderful old station and soon find ourselves in Perpignan, home to our friend Philippe, now living and baking bread near us (with Michelle) in Bahia de Kino, MX. (Yes! We have a real French bakery in Kino!)

 

We check into the Hôtel de la Loge in the medieval center of town (Yes, more medieval stuff!) and enjoy a quiet night. In the morning we start out to find the famous Palais des Rois de Majorque (Palace of the Kings of Mallorca).  As with any fortress, the route leads uphill. We start out semi-early (for us), but find a demonstration by school teachers just a block away outside the Hôtel de Ville (City Hall). It makes for some interesting moments as we slither our way around a corner and continue our quest.

Throughout history, large geopolitical events and agreements have divided ancient kingdoms and peoples and have often created problems for the future. A commonly cited example would be the Big-Power agreement that created the odd and unworkable country of Iraq and other Middle Eastern nation-agglomerations. with no regard to prior history and ethnicities. We’re still dealing with that.

Similarly, in 1659 the kings of Spain and France signed the Treaty of the Pyrenees, establishing their national borders along the spine of the mountains. This action split the Basque and Catalan peoples, whose civilizations had long been centered in the mountains. They remain divided today, with frequent separatist movements surfacing in Spain, although rarely in France. Both the Basque and Catalan languages and culture remain alive today, on both sides of the border.

 

Philippe told us we had to see this old big fortress begun in 1276 by Les Rois de Majorque (the Kings of Majorca) who used to rule these lands plus the Balearic Islands out in the Med – now a part of Spain. Philippe was right. It’s an impressive pile of brick and stone, with an entry of twists, turns and steps to thwart attackers. At the top we’re rewarded with a fine view over the subjects, uh, city, below.

 

These days the soldiers are gone and much of the place is devoted to the arts – they’re currently featuring a fine display of wine-related poster art. How many wonderful ways can you say “Wine is great! Try some!” That always gets my attention!

 

All that walking and climbing made us hungry. And the posters made us thirsty. It’s lucky we found a delicious cure in time to avoid health complications. 

And I took this picture because – well just look at the pants on that guy checking out the bling in the window!

 

 

CÉRET

The beautiful little town of Céret is just a local bus ride away. We go to the station for tickets, and there’s another fine surprise. A local girl troupe is putting on a dance performance for travelers. That would be us. So we make time to enjoy their efforts.

Once again we’re on tree-lined roads through the beautiful French countryside. We never get enough of that.

And we’re soon in charming Céret, for a wander through their fetching streets (with marble gutters, no less!) and a visit to their noteworthy art gallery.

Céret became an art haven around 1911 when various Cubist and Fauvist artists fled here to escape the high prices of Paris. The Musée d’Art Moderne began in 1950 when Pierre Brune and Frank Burty Haviland invited their artistic friends to donate works that recognized Céret’s importance to their careers. The takers included Picasso, Matisse, Braque, Chaïm Soutine, Modigliani, Chagall, Miró, Dalí, and others who gave canvases to the effort. 

It’s a museum worth visiting for many reasons, but especially for its fine collection of Picasso’s ceramic works. 

Afterwards, the streets of Céret are a fine exhibit in their own right, and a great place to walk off a case of ‘museum legs.’ Or maybe pick up a loaf or two of fine bread to enjoy back in Perpignan.

 

Once back in Perpignan, we enjoy another good dinner and an excellent jazz show we saw advertised on a poster. Piano and accordion, no less! The crowd sang along with all the songs.

It’s our last night in Perpignan, so on our way back to the hotel we’ll wander the beautiful streets once more, with time for a cognac at a quiet little bar. There are so many fine places in the world to enjoy the tranquility of a warm evening on a little side street. We’re lucky to have found this place for a few last minutes before moving onward.  

Tomorrow we’ll be making a side trip (not part of the original itinerary) for a few days in large, exciting, and irresistible Barcelona. We’ve been there a couple of times before, but my sister Elyse hasn’t – and we can’t resist another visit! 

We’ll share all those details in the next Blog! — PRW

Summer 2016: Into France

BIARRITZ, BAYONNE

It was time to leave beautiful San Sebastián and move onward. So we dragged our bags along the parkway by the riverside to the bus station for the short ride to Biarritz, the famous seaside spa that lies just across the French border. (There was a major truck jam-up at the border checkpoint, and they were backed up for miles; but lucky for us, they went to a different lane.)

Just across the border everything began to look a lot more…French. It’s hard to say just exactly what that means, but things just look different here. I’m most comfortable in ‘Hispanic Culture’ – the southwestern US, México, Latin America and Spain – where I can reasonably navigate the language.  

But I also like France – a lot. The wine, food, and art are legendary, and it’s a beautiful country. It’s just a different feeling, and a very good feeling, even though the language remains a challenge. 

************

French Travel Tip: 

Privé does not mean ‘privy.’ It’s not a bathroom.

************

A very pleasant taxi driver gracefully navigates the winding and tree-lined streets. He also navigates our awful French as I ask why the local ’Stop’ signs say ’Stop,’ instead of ‘Arrêt.’ He doesn’t understand the question, as the signs seem normal to him. I speculate that maybe it’s because of all the British tourists, or maybe it’s something mandated by the ‘Euro crowd’ in Brussels. But then he says ‘estoper’ is a French verb. So who knows.

He gets us to our room at the tree-shrouded Hotel St. Charles, where we stow our bags. It’s a charming old converted house, a place with lots of flowers. We’re not on the beach or the main strip, (it’s a short walk away) so the price is rational. The owner is a friendly, wandering Brit named Phillip Dawson who has finally settled in Biarritz. He keeps us supplied with croissants and coffee each morning, and he’s more than helpful with any questions. 

 

In fact, we were thinking that Biarritz would be a great place to ship a box of stuff (purchases, gifts, the sport coat I wear only aboard ship) back to the US. Phillip said it was easier to drive me to the DHL office in Bayonne than explain how to get there. He was right. We took a different route on the way back, so I got a broad view of the area. He took very good care of us. (Note to self: DHL is pricey; next time send smaller boxes by post.)

 

After the bags are stashed, we wander quiet streets near the hotel to get our bearings; and then we head to the beach, where a brisk wind is throwing large waves onto the shore and there’s a ‘red flag’ warning posted. After watching a few hearty young people being sloshed up and down the beach, we head for the bar at the famous Hôtel du Palais (built for Empress Eugénie, wife of Napoleon III) overlooking the scene below. A round of icy martinis on the shady veranda seems like a safer way to handle high wave situations. 

We also get to hang out (sort of) with the rich and famous without paying those high rack rates in the hotel. A very noticeable young man enters and sits alone at a table near by. He’s wearing the uniform: pricey haircut, expensive sport coat, loafers-no-socks. The staff is very attentive. I don’t take a picture. Maybe he’s a movie star. None of us would know that. 

 

Biarritz may be the traditional vacation home to kings and the rich and famous, but this weekend there’s a big Wheels and Waves thing happening. The place is full of Harleys and the like. Plus a sweet new Indian and a few classics.

We’re staying in the quiet St. Charles neighborhood; it feels like a small town set apart, away from the beach glitz, with narrow tree-lined streets and old minis in the driveway – yet it’s blessed with gourmet bakeries, cheese shops, wine shops, and fine restaurants. Each bistro has its own special sauces to delight the tongue, and in each place it appears we’re the only non-French folks for dinner. It’s the kind of neighborhood you’d hope to find in any small French town. One evening we treat ourselves to a fine repast at Le Gourmet Bistro, and then another fine evening at La Peyrassol.

 

 

There’s plenty more to see while out wandering the streets of Biarritz. We follow the broken rocky shoreline indented with beaches and find the vistas that made this place famous. White sails still ply the waves offshore, as they’ve done for hundreds of years. And young boys still leap into the refreshing water of the harbor. Small restaurants still serve fish beside every rocky cove, and ancient churches still tower from the hill nearby.

 

And if it’s fancy cliff-side restaurants you want, those are close at hand. Plus, every known bling-purveyor has a shop in the warren of streets overlooking the shore.  

 

 

There’s an old seafaring tradition that defined Biarritz long before the rich descended. And there are plenty of little coves where some of the least reputable of sailors could have hidden out – at least one local boat club still proudly celebrates that heritage. Makes me wonder if ‘Aaaargghh!’ sounds the same in French.

 

It’s all enough to keep us well occupied for several days until, once again, it’s time to move on for the next leg of this fabulous trip. From here we’ll finally be traveling away from the Atlantic coastline and exploring the hidden heartland of southern France.

 

But there’s a problem. A national train strike over new work rules hasn’t been resolved by the time we need to leave Biarritz. We take a city bus to the Bayonne train station (the main station around here) to sort things out and find that SNCF, the French rail system, has those bases covered – they’ve contracted with local bus companies to carry passengers until the trains run again. We’re greatly relieved and buy our tickets to depart on the following day. Nice not to worry about that problem.

We can now relax a bit. While still in Bayonne, we search out some late-morning coffee and find an interesting alley to explore. While we’re enjoying our java, several artists begin setting up easels near us, a lady sings beautiful songs (in French!), and we find ourselves in the middle of an art happening. We’re rewarded once again for wandering aimlessly instead of catching that next bus back to Biarritz. 

 

PAU

On departure day, we’re quickly out of busy Bayonne and traveling down gorgeous tree-lined country roads through numerous ancient villages on our way to Pau, a very old city nestled at the foot of the Pyrenees. 

The young man driving the bus is careful and good-natured, and the ride itself is like a French travelogue. The northern coast of Spain was a new and insightful experience for us. And this visit to southern France, also new to us, is quickly shaping up to be equally fine.

In a few hours we’ve arrived at the Pau train station, at the foot of a small mountain with the city on top. Water spilling through a very old and charming dam adds music to the air. And just over a bridge, a free funiculaire gets us to the top, where old mansions, winding streets, and a famous Chateau wait to be explored. In the distance, the nearby, but now cloud-wrapped, Pyrenees hint at a fabulous view. We hope for a clear day, and a better view, during our stay.

Our hotel is centrally located a few blocks from the top station of the funiculaire, and we stash our bags.

Now there’s dinner to consider. They’re big on delicious sausages and meats in Pau, and we manage to adapt easily. The generous helpings of choucroute (sauerkraut) and potatoes are appreciated, although we may forgo the andouilettes (pig intestine-stuffed sausage) in the future. And there’s always plenty of good red wine from the countryside to keep the evening flowing.

 

 We’re in Pau because our friend Michelle, back in Kino Bay, Mexico, mentioned she’s from a village nearby. That alone made it worth a stop. We would also find out that the famous Chateau in Pau was home to Henri IV, a very important figure in French history. He issued the Edict of Nantes (1598) that guaranteed the civil and political rights of French Protestants, but also led to a five-year siege of Ultra-Catholic Paris. 

 

The Chateau, as anyone would expect, is an impressive collection of castellations and turrets whose rooms are filled with fine, and very old, tapestries, art, furnishings and other artifacts of the realm. It’s well worth a visit.

 

Another worthy attraction is Pau’s Musée des Beaux Arts which has a good collection ranging from the classics to some of the most modern work you’d want to find

And there are two welcome surprises on the wall: a horse race by Toulouse-Lautrec, and a black and white portrait by Van Gogh. Small and remote museums like this are sometimes where you’ll find those hidden gems that you’ve only seen before in books.

 

 

Pau is a cultured city, and so many of the streets are ‘easel-ready’ that the city has likely attracted artists for generations. We spend several days wandering narrow medieval alleys and byways – old French cities are full of them! – finding frame-able vistas around each corner. But that’s what one expects of France, n’est-il pas?

 

 

 

 

On our last day in Pau, the clouds lift their mantle from the Pyrenees and we’re gifted with a magnificent view of these spectacular mountains. It’s the middle of June, and the peaks are still snow-draped as we again roll our bags to the funiculaire. A few people may still be nordic skiing in the bowls up there, as we used to do on crisp snow in the springtime in northern New Mexico.

 

But again we’ll be traveling onward, this time farther into southern France, to the city of Toulouse and the small town of Albi, a hidden gem of unexpected beauty. We’ll share some great photos of that experience in the next blog, so stay tuned! —  PRW

 

Summer 2016: San Sebastian

 

San Sebastián is only about an hour’s bus ride from Bilbao. It’s a place our friend Catherine has been telling us about for several years now, and it’s time we took a look for ourselves. We pass through yet more of the mountainous green Basque-land that graces the northeastern coast of the Iberian Peninsula. Then our bus eases into city traffic along the Río Urumea. When it crosses the outrageously ornate Maria Cristina bridge, we realize we’re in for a treat.

 

 

This trip has been a broad ’survey course’ in European history, art, and geography. A great way to connect the dots, as it were, of our grade-school educations. And we’re very lucky to have the health, time flexibility, and just enough resources to pull it off. After retirement, about 14 years ago, we moved to the engaging country of Mexico, where health care is personal and excellent, and our dollars go much further. While traveling abroad we stay in good two- or three-star hotels, and we don’t rent cars. Europe’s excellent trains and buses, and walkable cities, help make all this possible.  

 

Carolyn has found us yet another fine apartment, in San Sebastián on San Frantzisko street. We arrived in the early afternoon, but the agent in charge doesn’t get to the office until 4pm. So we have time to wait, with a pile of baggage at our feet. Lucky for us there’s a restaurant-bar just across the narrow street. We settle in with three Kelers and watch the world walk by.

When the agent arrives, we find the apartment is even better than the photos; it’s much like the excellent one we just had in Bilbao. There’s a full kitchen, plus an ample living and dining room, with two comfortable and separated bedrooms. My sister Elyse is traveling with us and this arrangement gives us all good privacy. 

We enjoy a fine view from our balcony and can look down on the bustle of street life six floors below. The city comes alive slowly in the morning, as delivery trucks enter the pedestrian streets during limited hours, and people gather at small shops for croissants and cafe con leche. And after that the street transforms into its varied moods throughout the day.

—————————————————

Our new apartment even has an electric toilet! 

Anytime you find yourself willing to rest your most tender parts on an electric appliance, it has to be a form of ‘faith-based initiative.’ This thing has a sort of ‘stick shift’ device on one side which is actually a control panel for a hidden cleaning device. It’s a sort of car-wash for the nether regions. The worst thing is when the roller brush attachment comes across to slap off stubborn debris and polish the surface. Actually, I’m joking about that last item, but this appliance does come with settings for ‘rinse’ and ‘blow-dry’ (lots of tasteless jokes there!) with high and low settings. There are also adjustments for water temperature (steam-clean, anyone?), and water jet force, for those really tough jobs.

Let’s just say, I tried it. In the interests of journalism. It works and it only feels a bit odd – not outrageously odd. But I’m unlikely to buy one soon for the home. 

—————————————————

Our first night finds us wandering the streets of this edgy and artistic town looking for a good place to eat. We pass girls with ‘bones’ in their hair and one in a grass skirt, and there are lots of posters announcing coming events. Looks like a hopping scene, if we had more time to stick around. 

 

 We find ourselves at a little place on a back street for some good chow. Somehow the subject of flamenco comes up and the lady in charge mentions there’s no place for that nearby, but puts on music and starts dancing with the cook. They have all the moves and give us a fun impromptu show, a great way to start out in San Sebastián! Afterwards we head back to the apartment, as the clock tower at the church glows against a cloudy-reddish sky.

 

We’re staying just over the river from the main part of town, and the Gros beach is just two or three blocks from our apartment. But someone thought it was a good idea to put a large ugly grey box of a building at the western end of the beach. It dominates the scene in a depressing way, like a paranoid uncle, in stark contrast to the bright and modest buildings lining the other side of the street. 

According to online sources it’s supposed to look like ‘two beached rocks.’ But, unlike the successful and engaging Guggenheim in Bilbao, it’s more of a blight and not an attraction to the city. 

This thing did not go unnoticed by architectural award juries and disappointingly it was given an award in 2001. Architects do that now and then, maybe to validate their own mistakes. It can be a process driven by rigid, unrealistic, and dogmatic design theories that heaps praise on such failures as the notoriously gang-ridden Pruitt-Igoe housing project in St Louis, demolished long ago (a spectacular event featured in the movie, ‘Koyaanisqatsi’). Or consider Cleveland Stadium (the ‘Mistake by the Lake’) demolished in 1996. It’s a political process much like the Oscar Awards, where few of the awardees ever appear on later lists of ‘The 100 Best Movies.’

One account says most local residents are now resigned to the thing. It’s currently used for large concerts and the San Sebastián International Film Festival.

________________________ 

Soon we’ve crossed the Zurriola bridge to the charming and interesting ‘Parte Vieja’ of San Sebastián. A window filled with fine pastries gets my attention, and jewelry at a street fair causes Carolyn and Elyse to pause for a few more moments. Then we’re quickly into a warren of narrow streets filled with plenty of additional delights, old churches, and artistic posters. 

 

A musician in a narrow street captures the fancy of young children as his bow dances over the strings and fine classical music echoes from the walls. A few blocks further along a local band wanders the streets playing Basque songs. A brightly-dressed beggar asks for alms. Life goes on. It’s the heart and soul of a beautiful city that has attracted travelers for centuries.

On an old church wall a shell reminds us we’re at another stopover somewhere along the Way of St. James. Our friends Jeff and Marlayna, Casey and Priscilla, and Ted have done big chunks of The Walk and we have done tiny pieces of it – usually only while searching for dinner and good wine. To each their own.

 

We step into an old and imposing church just as a young man tells us an organ concert is about to begin. The performer is from Germany. We take seats and relax as the thunder of mighty pipes on the balcony behind us rumbles off huge stone walls and fills the air. It’s a wonderful 45 minutes of fine classical music.

We emerge into bright sunlight just outside the massive front doors, where people are sitting on the old steps, enjoying pintxos and glasses of iced sangria as the world wanders by. It’s a special day in San Sebastián.

There’s time for a quick lunch under a broad umbrella in the Plaza de la Constitución while children play in the safety of the large car-free space. 

 

The city’s ancient boat harbor is not far away, where we almost expect to see Roman ships tied to the old stone wharves. Instead there are a few fiberglass sloops tacking about, maybe waiting for the next regatta. Sunbathers lie on stones laid centuries ago by working fishermen. Fish drift above a sandy bottom. A carousel (two stories tall!!) and a puppeteer amuse the children.    

And there lies the broad arc of Playa de la Concha, the true home of this city’s famous beach scene. The city wraps around it, embracing the sea at its very doorstep. This joyful and playful beach scene is a tremendous contrast to that grey and lifeless ‘modernist’ thing – the ‘mod-strosity’ – dominating the other beach.

A late night finds us bar-crawling to catch some jazz in a downstairs cavern near the river. We order drinks and the bartender tells us there’s no jazz tonight. Oh well, the drinks are good. Then a guy comes in with a guitar and fiddles with the sound system. Soon he’s putting out some very good Carlos Jobim tunes. Turns out he’s from Brazil and grew up playing this stuff. It’s a very good end to another of several very good nights.

________________________

 

PAMPLONA

San Sebastián is so close to Pamplona, just an hour’s bus ride through green mountain valleys, it seems ridiculous to miss a visit to the town that Hemingway made so famous in his first successful novel, The Sun Also Rises (1926). But we’re really not as entranced by bloodshed as ‘Papa’ was. We’ve timed our visit for June to avoid the actual San Fermines festival, ‘The Running of the Bulls,’ held for eight days in July.

  

The Pamplona bull ring stands at the end of the famous street where a mass of spirited bulls will come charging each day of San Fermines on the uphill run from the corrals to the final event of their lives. Young men, brightly dressed, each adorned with a flaming red sash, will run ahead, daring the bulls, as countless onlookers enjoy the spectacle. 

And just imagine facing down Calle de la Estafeta as tons of prime beef come charging onward over the cobblestones. Also imagine the view being very safely enjoyed from that top balcony on the left. I’d bet they’ve had that prime spot reserved for years now.

Just across the street you can even buy a shirt (‘pre-gored!!’ – so of course, I bought one) and say you took it off a guy laying in the street after the bull had finished with him. For 15 euros it makes a good story.

 

We finished our Hemingway-Pamplona day with a small lunch at the 1880s Café Iruña – made famous by ‘Papa’ Hemingway’s long lunches. It’s a classic old place with good food, although we didn’t go ‘full Ernest’ and finish off several bottles of wine in the process, as the author himself apparently did every day he was here. There’s a limit.

Instead, we paused on our way back to the bus station, to enjoy a bit of fine sculpture depicting the drama (and possible consequences) of running with the bulls. We’d be back at San Sebastián in time for another round of their famous cuisine.

 

And yet again, our loose schedule says it’s time to make our way onward, to encounter more delights. Our next stop: Biarritz, just over the border, in France. — PRW