waves of music

We are at the Casino Restaurant in Mundaka, eating a three course meal in the early afternoon. It’s 2 o’clock and the dining room is busy. Lots of men eating fish.

Hungry, we went looking for what’s here in this small town on the coast of the Atlantic. The Casino meal had the best deal – 11 Euros for three courses, including copious amounts of wine (and including taxes and service).

For a main course, I have grilled anchovies liberally doused with olive oil.

Is the food good? It is like what my grandma would have made had she been in the habit of grilling anchovies (which she wasn’t): fresh and honest.

I watch others come to eat. Not kids. The kids are outside at the carnival. Their parents. Kids come in asking for things, in the way that kids do everywhere and the parents oblige to make them go away (girls here love big hair ribbons).

I notice a table set for maybe two dozen. And just as we’re ending our lunch, a large group barrels into the room, boisterously and noisily claiming the space. More bottles of wine, salads, grilled whatever, so I ask – is this a family reunion? There are no children, but the people at the large table are of mixed ages.

No, they’re teachers.

And I am reminded of the line that’s now sadly remembered by so many – I want to have (when I'm back home, at work related lunches) what they’re having! (Because I can’t remember being that joyous and animated at work-based events. We’re all so dignified and serious it hurts.)

We are in Mundaka in the worst of times: at a grand level -- the terrible economy, the depleted fisheries here, on a smaller scale, affecting just the next four days -- the weather and the waves – they are all plummeting here in this village by the sea. (Why mention waves? In Mundaka, surfing is, if not everything, then a hell of a lot of things. In the summer, it draws crowds. When there are waves.)

So why, on this calm, gray June day is everyone at the large table so animated and happy?

We left San Sebastian early. The cheaper bus to Bilbao leaves at about 9 and we’re big on seeking out “cheaper” anything. The walk to the bus is long, but we like it.

And we get there early enough that we have time to find a café for a sweet treat and a coffee for me. We’re pleased that our old friend from across the Pension has a branch here, near the bus stop.

The bus ride is to Bilbao – an hour and ten minutes for the 100 kilometers that separates this big city from San Sebastian. Bilbao is indeed large. At nearly a million, it is the largest of the Basque cities. We’re not staying here (at least not now), but we need to connect to the little train that takes us back to the coast. So we walk through Bilbao along the shortest route possible from bus to train (30 minutes) and I only take a few photos and they’re not of Bilbao’s best face, but not of an uninteresting face either – it’s what we see on our fast walk through it. So, prekindergartners.

Windows.

A sign by a bar inviting you in, during these tough times in Spain.

And the small train station with our small blue train waiting for us.

We get off at the next to last stop. In Mundaka (population: not quite 2000).

We’re here for the waves that aren’t here. (Calm waters are rare in Mundaka. There is an estuary with a huge sandbar which causes hollow waves – the kind that attract champion surfers from around the world. Right now: no waves and, therefore, no surfers.) 

We are staying at a wonderful little place –the very central Hotel Mundaka. It has only a one star rating (as low as you can go), but the owners are fantastic, the rooms are clean as can be, the atmosphere is relaxed. And at 69 Euro per night ($85), including a wonderful breakfast, taxes and services – it’s cheaper than pretty much anything we could get in Sheboygan.

Marco is the guy behind the desk. So are you the owner? Ed asks.

Marco who is extremely good natured, laughs. It’s my wife’s. And mine as long as I’m married to her!

So...where are the waves?

Well, I can tell you – not here. He points to a posted forecast for the next five days or so. Scattered showers, low waves. Less than a foot. (Ten foot waves are common and considered dangerous. Half that size is thought to be optimal for surfing here.)

But if the surf’s flat, the atmosphere is charged! We missed Sorede’s San Joan festivities, but we placed ourselves in Mundaka at the time of the most important festival here: that of San Pedro.

So we hover around town. (Actually, first, we doze off on a bench by the sea... Not used to big lunches, not used to lots of wine with big lunches, we are in need of a nap!)

And we do little things. A short walk, a poke into a store for cookies.

And we do lots of spirited watching. Of the visiting carnival that set up the rides by the village church. (Boys appear to be drawn to certain things, girls make different choices...)

Forget the gray skies, it’s a brilliant time to be in Mundaka!

In the evening, there is dancing. In three stages. First the little kids, up on stage, one number after another, with the whole village watching, clapping, laughing at the sweetness of it.

(Kids sit on the square, adults stand behind.)

I’ve been to my share of dance recitals and in some ways this one is like all others. In fact, many of the music numbers are straight off our charts. (Think: Grease, for example.)

One huge difference is that boys are not outnumbered by girls in the dancing. And, too, I can’t say that anyone takes it that seriously. Many of the dancers barely remember the choreography. And still, it is tremendous fun.

Ed, who, to my knowledge, has never attended a dance recital in his life, is as drawn into this as I am. Not surprising. All genders, all age groups are in the audience and it's like we're all watching for different things but enjoying the show together.

When there is a break, we find another place to eat – this is to be a light supper and it is a very simple one of artichokes followed by grilled shrimp, with green peppers on the side.

The dancing continues. The older kids are on stage now, imitating American rock stars. It’s very late. The audience, too, is somewhat older now. The little ones are at home, tucked in, though I can't imagine it's easy to sleep anywhere in town. The music is loud!






 ... the stage is in a blaze of color.

And when all the performances are over, the music continues. The kids are gone, the older people, too, have retired. Dancing is now informal, in small groups all across the square. The Macarena. And so on. We only stay for a few minutes, but we hear the music from our room, late, very late into the night.  

weather

Air from Africa, good and strong. A regular old heat wave engulfs Spain. If it hits us, we’ll get close to100 degrees today. And then, I’m told, a powerful thirty degree drop.

Well now, I can’t complain. It’s Wednesday – three weeks behind us and one in front and fact is, with maybe a one day exception early in Sorede, the weather has been perfect. (Remind me of that later this week when I write about chilly temps and wet rains.)

Weather is always a big topic for me. When we travel, it defines our days. I can’t say rains cause trouble, but they mix things up a bit. You spend more time in cafés and bars and less on mountain trails and in the ocean. When I’m at home, I monitor it too. How to dress, how to move around – it’s all weather driven. (Ed, on the other hand, cares almost not at all how it is outside, though if it’s hot, he’ll find a cool spot and stay there.)

As people grumble here about the heat, I retort  – in American, where I live, it’s been like this all month!  (You need to stretch the truth a little when you boast.) And in the winter – such snows we have! (Well, not so much this year, but most every other year. Or so.)

Air conditioning here is modest. In fact, our Pension doesn’t have it at all. (Beware, all you cold loving AC addicts!) This doesn’t bother me at all. You close the shutters and wait for the sun to move away from your window.

We start our day slowly (meaning late) and without any desire to be adventurous. Café across the street (the Otaegui) had good pastries yesterday. Why look elsewhere today.

We set off to explore the city. About time. Our last day here! So, don't think from here, it looks just a tiny bit like Paris?

We ask about the local markets. So now you have to put up with local market photos. And just a few minutes after the first market, we find ourselves at the second (maybe lesser) market. I’m sure you’re not going to mind if I mix the two market photos up. Let’s review them all and move on! (And by the way, if I had to pick out a theme, I’d say – fish, artfully arranged and mushrooms. And always in Spain – the hams.)

At around noon we pick up the shoreline trail that allows you to walk the entire coastal area of San Sebastian (because of the dips and bays, it comes to a perimeter of 7 kilometers). We throw in some hills as well for the views. That’s a hefty chunk of walking to commence in the heat of the mid day. But, we’re hearty types and so we set forth. Initially, with very little shade. The views are good, interesting, pleasant, if a tad repetitive.

Climbing the hill that is positioned right between the two beaches allows you to look out at the full expanse of both and especially at La Concha (which actually has two ribbons of sand, too broad to capture in one photo).


 









...unless you do a panoramic sweep:





... We come pretty close to running down to join the bathers, but, by the time we’ve completed our circuit up toward the Jesus statue (like Rio!)...

... the clouds start rolling in and so the heat is diminished. Bilbao, less than 100 kilometers east, got the 100 degrees. We stay at 80.

So down we walk and actually, we cut out the remainder of the coastal stroll, satisfied that we’ve done our touring bit and now can retreat. With a stop at the best ice cream store in town for a berry laced frozen yogurt.

The weather continues to be at the forefront of consideration (if not discussion... I should think that all the hours spent in conversation here, as in France, have to move things beyond just clouds, mists and blasts of hot air from Africa). If ever there was an evening (is 5 o’clock evening?) for the beach, this is it. We leave all personal belongings (including camera) in the Pension and head out.

As does the rest of San Sebastian.

We’re at our own beach (on the Gros side of the river) – the wilder one where surfers like to hope for waves. Typically, this is less crowded, but today, groups of kids, families, people done with school, with work, done with the dreariness of everyday chores, head for the water.

There are several kid surfing classes in progress and I watch one, of little tykes, beginners, learning the moves, the positions.

Okay, ready to hit the water.

A push...

...and a sense of accomplishment!

The tide is low and there are vast stretches of wet sand, with a sandcastle activity going on.

As you can see, I have my camera again. After a plunge and a frolic in the small but still powerful waves, I dash back to the Pension and retrieve it. Ed spends a longer period of time in the water. Body surfing at last.

As we stroll afterwards, looking at the people around us, Ed comments that he’s never seen so many people, in one spot, having such a good time.

(A whole family rallied around this project  -- of adding male and female body parts to the buried one.)

In the real evening (now we’re close to 9), we head out for tapas (we can’t ignore all these pintxos bars!) and dinner and now you can tell that the hot air has indeed managed to crawl up and lick at the margins of San Sebastian. Thermometers register about 34 (94F) degrees right now. Very unusual for this region.

We’re in the Old Town again. Neither of us really loves this part – Ed says it’s like the East Village some years ago. Lots of people passing through (like us!) in search of drinks and cheap nibbles. But I have in mind a couple of pintxos places and indeed have gone to the trouble of identifying some we mike like so off we go. (And if I did not remember that the fight for separatism continues, there are signs to remind me.)

At the A Fuego Negro bar, the Basque scribbles are as always incomprehensible...

... but the person at the bar speaks enough English to tell me that what I ask for has long since been off the menu but hey, here are a couple of suggestions. And I ask (finally) for Txakolina – a Basque wine that’s light on alcohol but heavy on tradition – poured always from up high.






... Ed drinks cider, or as we call it  -- hard cider (another Basque favorite) and we munch on pieces of salmon with hard blue cheese and apples and olives spiked with something (I thought she said vermouth jelly) and mussels in tomato and cream and it’s all good even as you have to wonder if we needed the extra calories and the expense of it all. But, let the record show that we ate pintxos in San Sebastian.

And if we’re to be deserving of dinner, then we should certainly pause before the next indulgence and stroll off these small plates. We go to the harbor and I watch the clouds do their back and forth and, too, the boats coming in from doing whatever it is that men do out at sea.

It is a fine way to spend one’s last evening in San Sebastian.

Dinner is at a sister restaurant to last night’s place (this one is called La Fabrica) and it’s fine, very good in fact, the best being my mushroom dumplings because when in Basque, you eat mushrooms, no?

But the problem with the main course is that I order another Basque favorite – cod – and it is at this moment that Ed reminded me of last year’s supper somewhere in the far reaches of Quebec where we were served bowlfuls of so much cod (this, after reading about the overfishing of cod by the Quebecois) that I swore I could not, would not ever eat cod again and now here I am, ordering it, too late, too late, here comes the cod... With a delightful apple pastry for dessert.

As we leave the restaurant and walk home, all hell breaks loose and buckets of rain fall down from a swirling sky. Thunder crashes and Ed of course doesn’t mind, but I do. We pause only for a minute because the swirling clouds have taken their rains back to sea, leaving only wet and empty spaces behind.

delay

A morning bus and a train to catch. Posting will have to wait.

I write this as Central Time moves closer to midnight and my own clock here, in San Sabastian moves closer to 7 a.m. I walk with two clocks running in my head all the time and though I don't love the hours of delay between home and place of travel, I remind myself that for the rest of the year I have it easy -- my two girls and I share a time zone. I need only think in terms of one.

Best guess is that all connections will be easy and WiFi in the next place will be a breeze and post will go up in eight hours. Now, let the reality unfold!

In the interim -- a photo from a day when temperatures shot up and humanity went to the cool waters of the Atlantic: