art

It’s rare that you’ll find us seeking out big cities just so that we can visit a particular museum. Rare does not mean never. As we are in Basque, there is Bilbao to think about. Bilbao is home to the (now 15 year old) Bilbao Guggenheim Museum of Modern Art.

Now, there’s a whole story about the Guggenheim brothers and their rise to wealth (and it’s not an especially pretty story), and there’s another one about how it is that the Guggenheim offspring turned to philanthropy, and then there is a great story about how a prominent architect (Gehry) won the bid to design Bilbao’s museum – but they’re long stories and I promised I’d cut down on long stories here, so we’ll put them aside for now. I’ll just say this – if you like the Guggenheim Museum in New York, and the Peggy Guggenheim Museum in Venice, you will be stunned at the magnitude and originality of the space created for the Guggenheim collection in Bilbao.

On the approach, it just looks a little weird. Almost thrown together. Titanium plates, glass, limestone block, all shuffled, like a deck of cards or a clumsy tower of kid blocks, just as it spills to the table.

Maybe you’ll be charmed by Puppy (pronounced ‘poopy’) – Koon’s flower pup that stands just as you come close to the entrance. I kind of have an “eh” reaction to Puppy, but he does offer color, so there’s that.

The Museum stands at the side of an old Bilbao bridge and I could write another chapter about the integration of the (somewhat severe) bridge into the design and making it a wonderful integral part of the entirety -- and we're talking about the old industrial part of Bilbao that grew along the once busy river, so there's that challenge too...

... but I'll pass on that and say only that the best view of the building will be from the bridge. And so on the evening of our arrival in Bilbao, we walk across the bridge and look down on what now surely must look to you like a magnificent ship. It takes your breath away! (As does standing on a busy artery, high over the waters, if you're inclined toward vertigo.)

Once across the river, we walk along its bank, then cross back on the nearby pedestrian bridge – also something to admire.

Even after you cross it.

It’s evening, We’re hungry. Pintxos first, okay Ed? He goes along and we sit down at a known place thinking that surely a known place will be easy to navigate and we have okay tapas (sorry, pintxos) – a good octopus salad, a yummy egg spinach and ham tortilla and, well, a sort of flat tasting artichoke, but fine, all fine, can’t be immediately brilliant at this, it takes skills to order tapas here, yes, I admit it, it’s complicated.

And now we look for a dinner spot. I ripped a page out a book with several names of modest places. None of them are open anymore. And so for future reference: we promise ourselves never again to use printed guides for food searches.

Wandering up one street and down the next is sometimes a nice way to pick dining spots – but this time we do not strike gold. More like an “also ran.” It is a café, an old one and we order just appetizers – mushrooms with nuts and ham, fried mussels and fried green peppers. I know, lots of “fried.” 

And they are just fine but here’s the thing – we’ve been having a heck of a tough time eating inexpensively and well since leaving San Sebastian. Let me qualify this – none of it has been bad, but nor has it been memorable (for example, I just nudged Ed and asked him if he remembered what the third dish was in Bilbao and neither of us could recall it. You could say that this is what happens when you travel with the beginnings of dementia, but I don’t think we’re there yet).

The next morning, we are at the entrance to the Museum before it even opens.

 

You can’t come late to a popular place. You want to have a minute at least to enter it in the quietness that lets you see it, even if only ever so briefly, without distraction.

And we do have that.

Art people complain that too many visitors gawk at the building and don’t take in the art. I can’t imagine how this could happen. The art is perfectly distributed between three floors, all opening onto the grand atrium. (here it is, looking up.)

It is the easiest museum to navigate and it has such imposing art (consider this first room of canvases of Lenin and Stalin, with prominent penises in each, or consider the second one -- the snake: a huge and I mean huge, so huge that you can NEVER remove it from the museum – art sculpture)...

There is a rule (I think) that allows you to photograph the architecture but now so much the individual canvases and no one knows how to distinguish between the two. I certainly don’t know. There aren't signs, just an occasional person to tell you no, not that, but yes to the other.

I wont spend forever on the art here, even though Ed and I do spend forever on the art there, inside Gehry’s building – which is unusual for us. Okay, just a tiny bit more: consider a small room with warm light bulbs and a thousand photos of people. Or another room, where a teacher has kids do a dance in front of the mirrors permanently there.

Or the special exhibition of David Hockney, who painted countless canvases of Yorkshire landscapes and then, after, moved on to produce incredible ‘paintings’ with his iPad. You can see the latter here:

I mean, how do you not marvel at it all? MoMA in New York has a lot of the ‘famous’ art. The pieces in Bilbao are (for me at least) less known, but oh my, are they impressive.

Okay, okay, I need to stop. It was, I have to say, one of the very best museum experiences we’ve had in many, many years.

Here we are: look closely and you’ll see us reflected. In many panes.

And now we are outside the museum again and the air is pleasant, the light is bright...

And after? There is no after. Our trip really does almost end there. We go back to our cool hotel and I upload pictures (the WiFi is so slow!) and we munch on free snacks...

... and then we walk back to the train station – reeling back our travels here, back, back, so that we let go of the new spaces, one at a time...

...and we take the train back to Barcelona. (Not a short ride. Seven hours.)

We pull into Barcelona at 10:30 at night. We have a handful of hours to accomplish the following: walk to the Hotel Villa Emilia, reclaim my suitcase with the rosés, find supper, pack up and cushion those damn wines, rest, shower, grab a 5 am cab to the airport (no bus runs that early here).

Where to eat? When we were here earlier in June, we poked around the neighborhood to find a place close by that would serve a good supper very very late. A block away there is the casual, the wonderful, the (finally!) well priced "Little Snail."

The proprietor is a good soul who asked to be photographed and placed on the Internet (I will be famous!) so here he is:

The satisfaction comes with the food. Simple, sure, but memorable. Fantastic paella, followed by shrimp with an abundance of garlic...

 ...ending with an apple tart. (night menu, all inclusive price: 12.90)

So it’s a perfect ending. One always hopes for a perfect ending. You can’t expect everything coming together for you every day, but isn’t it true that the end of it all, it should put you in a good mood? Day is done, gone the sun... It was such a good trip!

And the (full?) moon shines brightly over the Calle Calabria in Barcelona. Home, for just a few hours, passing through, to get to the real home.

[From Detroit: Happy Fourth of July!]

...for the love of waves

Cuanto hora... no, cuanto tiempo – I wonder which it is. Ed’s puzzling over how to ask about the length of the bus ride from Bermeo to Bakio. He’s feeling the weight of having to come up with the perfect words and the perfect pronunciation for people who appear to only hear his misteps. Me, I think it’s quite possible to navigate a country completely without language, especially if you know how to use your hands. But I appreciate his efforts. Words help.

And of course, once again, it’s an imperfect conversation. The bus driver tells him  -- 20 minutes.

Emboldened, Ed perseveres. Como se dice – tiempo o hora? (He wants the driver to tell him, for future reference, the proper way to ask about the length of time it takes to get somewhere.)

Eh?

Cuanto tiempo, o hora – come se dice?

20 minutes -- this from the bus driver again.

No, no, como..

I kick him to let it go. That perfect dance of shared words is just not going to happen. Not now, not with this driver.

We’re riding a bus after leaving our bags at the delightful Hotel Mundaka. Here, meet our most wonderful hosts, looking at the computer after Ed (behind my back) lead them to Ocean.

The idea of swimming across the estuary in Mundaka remains that – an idea. One look at the waters – the very gentle waves, the now returning tide and we decide to put it off for another day, another visit.

We stroll through Mundaka, catching a last look at the port, the fish dumped fresh this morning here...

...the fish still swimming between boats and dock...

And now we’re riding that lovely little blue train for the four minute trip to Bermeo, where we in turn wait a handful of minutes for the (20 minute!) bus to Bakio.

We wait at the park that abuts the bus stop. I don’t know if this is obvious to people who live here, but there is an interesting pattern that is replicated time and again: the grandmother is taking care of the grandchild. The grandmother has friends. The grandmother appeases grandchild with sweets so that she can talk to friend (or, because grandmothers do that sort of thing). If the grandmother ignores such candy requests, the grandchild takes advantage of her distracted conversation with friend and reaches into her bag in search of something interesting. Like sweets. Here, from a five minute observation:

Okay, now we’re on the bus, climbing the cliffs and hills that separate Bermeo from the very quiet little town of Bakio.

Bakio has a beach. And it is a lovely, wide beach of golden sand, with a pounding surf, so that even in these days of still ocean waters, there are waves.

Enough for some small surfing...

...and some joyous wave jumping by this Ocean author...

...and equally joyous plunging and body surfing by Ed. [Ed plays in ocean waters like no other. He lunges, dives, rolls, crashes and because he is big, it looks as if he is challenging the waves to whip him with their froth and sand, except (thankfully) he always emerges unscathed, as if he won, as if the ocean was something that he, the mere mortal, could handle and if not, so be it. Life is that way.]

It’s partly cloudy, the water is cool but not cold, the temps hover in the upper seventies. Life is good. (Also for all the grandmothers out there, with their bonnet babies. And for those who just love the roll of the sea.)

We had contemplated walking back to Bermeo (there is a trail), but it’s late and we could get lost, and I want us now to start the roll back, slowly, toward home.

And so it’s another (20 minute!) bus ride and another small blue train ride and we pick up our bags, wave goodbye to the sweet sweet homelike hotel...

(Oh! The stage is dismantled! Quiet reigns on the village square.)

And now we’re at the train station waiting for the little blue train again (and I try to take a photo of Ed, whose hair has grown wild, well suited for this month, now coming to an end)...





...then riding it for the hour or so to Bilbao.

The walk from our little blue train station to the hotel in Bilbao is long and the city is spilling out crowds as it certainly must do on cool and lovely summer evenings.

A petite ice cream cone helps.

We continue. Across the river, past fountains, away from the crowds.


 








And now we are at the very modern, beautiful and artsy Hotel Miro  (so different from the friendly Mundaka, even as both are splendid for what they attempt to do)...

... and we are in Bilbao and at the Miro really for one reason – it is to spend time at the place that is just across the street from us. There, I can see most of it from our window:

But that’s the next day’s story. Most likely written en route to Madison.

and so, all good things...

How did you know the word for jellyfish? Ed asks.

I don’t know how I know. Maybe it’s the same in Polish or French.

We had encountered a man swimming near the shore of the estuary and we asked him if it’s possible to swim from here to the other (beautifully sandy) shore.

No! Medusas! La corriente!

So maybe there are jellyfish because of the current or maybe there are dangerous currents and jellyfish, in any case, I lose interest in attempting the great swim across the wide body of water.

Besides, it’s still rather cool. They say yet again that it will rain all day Sunday, but so far, the only great rains we’ve experienced during our entire trip were back on our first day in Sorede. Ed looks up and points to blue breaks between clouds. It wont rain, he says confidently. (He has some kind of a rapport with the weather gods, because most often he is correct in his predictions, even though this time, I think he is mistaken. Weather.com is absolutely certain. Rain. All day.)

At breakfast we hear the familiar flute. What now? Marco tells us – just a little Basque music again.

I ask, rather incredulously – the celebration continues?

Rather timidly he answers – yes, but not too much.

I go out on the square and see a dozen or so costumed people chasing mostly young ones and hitting them with a foam stick.

No kidding. The kids seem unfazed. I suppose you get used to puppets chasing you with sticks if that’s what happens year in and year out on the village square.

And the band plays on...

So I have to ask and I really want Marco to look me in the eye for this one. After three nights of music, the kind that they can surely hear in Bormeo and maybe even Bilbao, let alone in the rooms of our little hotel just off the square, are they done celebrating, or will there be more?

Just one more night. But it’s gentler. You’ll see. And it will end earlier. Really. Though after, there will be fireworks.

If you are the type that loves an immersion in local custom, I surely have timed this visit exceptionally well for that. If you are the type that loves quiet, well, there always the hill walks.

And we do one again. 

setting out

Not really into the hills, but along the undulating countryside at this side of the estuary.  Torturing ourselves (or mostly Ed) with vistas onto the body of water that we cannot cross.

Now, I know these posts have been on the long side. Like a Ginsu knife commercial, I tell Ed. You think it’s a one minute read and hours (it seems) later you kick yourself for having wasted time looking at photos of Mundaka, of all places. (Ed has been playing Ginsu commercials on youtube – the analogy seems apt.) But the time of terribly long posts is rapidly spinning to a close. Indeed, after this upload, I’m going to have to concentrate not on Ocean, but on getting us back to Bilbao, Barcelona, Paris, Detroit and finally Madison – all in the space of two days. We’re back at the farmhouse late Wednesday – and so posting will have to be of the kind that’s on the run. With possible gaps and intermissions.

I’ll be with few words today, too. The Sunday walk was beautiful – the clouds kicked Weather.com in the butt, retreating inland with a laugh. The hike took many, many hours (we went as far as the third train stop to the north of us -- San Kristobal), but we did have two pauses – one to stare at boats bobbing by the shore...

.... and the second – at a table with a view toward the mountains and hills. At that second pause we had what is so typical here, that I can’t believe we hadn’t had it thus far – a tortilla with patatas – a sort of omelet with potatoes. You see it at every pintxos bar.

So, a photo hike, with few words:

Q: how many sheep in this picture?

A: Three!

for the goats among you

another goat

old Basque farmhouse

...has this in the entryway

view during snack break

the wave movement near Mundaka is breathtakingly beautiful (tiny dot in bottom right corner is a man wading in the shallow parts)

evening on Mundaka beach

In the many hours of our walk, Ed and I drive each other to tears in our attempts to get the iPhone translator to recognize his pronunciations.

Go ahead, say it! It never works! I say it, it works. He says it. It does not.

Quit with the ‘ey’ sound, I tell him. It’s ‘eh’!  We explode with laughter as he tries again and again, hating it that I get it each time, while he fails. (Any European will have an easier time with pronunciations; I claim no great skill over and beyond what my birth place has handed to me.)

ready to throw the iPhone into the fields

In the evening, we have trouble with dinner. We have a 10 o’clock reservation at the Casino (good value!) but when we come there, it’s clear that on the Sunday after San Pedro’s, they want to go home early. So we leave without eating.

And there’s a reason why suddenly no one cares about food, about music on the square (the playing did end early...very early). It’s the night of the final game of the Euro 2012 (soccer championships). Spain against Italy. On every screen at every bar in town.

Finally, at the small place we ate the second night (Fonda), we find an agreeable atmosphere. We eat, Spain wins. There. Could we have a better ending?

the great red tomatoes of Spain

And so the feast of San Pedro finally comes to an end, we leave tomorrow and Mundaka returns to the more prosaic routines, except I don’t know what those are because the four days we were here were anything but prosaic or commonplace.

Ah, but the fireworks: aren’t there fireworks? Indeed. Two men are out on the pier and they are fiddling with something on the ground. Getting ready for the fireworks that will close down the (four day!) celebrations of San Pedro. There are a couple of loud bangs, then silence. The people around the harbor, fresh off the victory in soccer, clamor for more. Here’s more: one of the men lights something on the ground and then runs off. We have less than a minute of magic in the sky and then it’s over.

Bang, bang, bang!  ... done.

On Monday we may get up for a swim across the estuary. You can only attempt this at low tide and low tide comes early in the morning. Or not. Maybe we’ll cavort along the Atlantic before retreating to Bilbao. Most certainly we’ll be in Bilbao for the night. Unless the medusa gets us!