In which an adventure sets o're Bilbao.

The last week of my part in this adventure (erm, nine or so months ago) was split between the campsite on the coast and bouncing around Bilbao. A lull of active days warmed by sun, cooled by wind, slowed by siestas, concluding with an airport or two and a bout of high, rapid travel.

There were only a few days left of actual camping before half of the Road Tripping Party continued on down the road and the other half found Real Person Accommodation in the city before studies commenced at the university. The sun rose early on those last camp days and I rose with it. The GDR-era Gas Cooker supplied hot water for Crack 'O Dawn Tea to be imbibed while adding my footprints to the criss-crossed pattern of seagull steps in the sands and watching the gold grow on the cliffs.

 

This 2D scene reminded me of the mountainously cloudscaped view from our last night of wild camping.



Various models of this pop-out-pop-up camper were seen with startling regularity along our trip, each with more pop-out features than the last. My curiosity about how it all fit together could only be quenched by internet research.

 

To get from campland to the city involved either taking a not-so-dependable bus to the end of the rapid transit line or taking a long, healthy walk through the little town to the station. A chance wandering into a surfboard garagesque workshop selling straw hats introduced us to an interesting German couple who spent their time in coastal places all over the world -- something about shipbuilding, I think, or not. Plentzia itself had a cute little harbor and a cute little street festival going on at the end that attracted lots of cute little boats to its waterway and cute little crustaceans to dance to its carnival tunes.

 

 

 

  A helpful reminder view from the train into the city.

Certainly one of the most colorful corners of the Bilbao was the Old Town, Casco Viejo, a maze of skinny streets hiding shops and pubs and whimsical heroes of all flavors. Architectural quirkiness reigned supreme all over (even outside the Guggenheim), with modernity popping up in most unexpected places, such as vortexed glass facades taking over unassuming streets. Even the stop/walk lights were quirky, with an animated green figure walking faster and faster as time diminished.

 

 

 

I was particularly struck by this scene of a new papa (assumed) gazing at his wee baby on a doorstep -- not saying or doing anything other than softening, softening, while wrinkly little fingers discovered the air.

Many of the city's churches favored electric candles to real ones. You pop your euro in the slot and your prayers get transferred into the main prayer grid with the help of a tacky orange light. I wondered if these were just as effective as the ol' wax & flame job from millennia before.

Solo wandering introduced me to exciting experiences as well, such as exhibits at the Guggenheim (which really is all it's cracked up to be -- I was particularly pleased to see Louise Bourgeois' Maman, one of which had been perched outside the Hamburger Kunsthalle for many months) or cream tartes with stripey marshmallow hats.

 

 

 

Of course, tapas/pintxos were an obvious to-do -- bruschetta-esques munchies, little pizzas, thick potato pancakes with fish & flesh [= snacks] -- all plated nicely around the bar, at every bar, café, locale.

 

Basic city rhythms were also learned, such as total siesta shutdown each afternoon or free bathrooms at supermarkets. Said supermarkets were fun in themselves, with a convenient area to lock up your suitcases or baskets so as to improve your shopping experience and the whitest of all white "Bimbo" bread, in addition to the frozen food buffets and hunks of meat on strings and sticks.

 

In search of some good paella on my last night in town, we dug into the Bilboian gastronomical database by questioning some locals at a bar. Restaurants were spouted out and debated, some rousing a welcome response and others disputed. We eventually decided to go to a place suggested by one of the baristas, who raved quite convincingly about their death by chocolate dessert. The paella was delicious, but it really was the chocolate that demolished me.

 

Eventually I awakened from the sugar crash the next day and was whisked off to the airport via the Bilbobus. Even this sky harbor is known for its dove-loving architect, who shaped its main entrance hall like a bird in flight. Flying conditions were perfect and squished into my window seat, I watched with amazement as we flew back along the coast, looking down upon the route we had driven and trying to identify the beaches from above. The road continued north, but the plane first flew east to Majorca, powering high above the Pyrenees and allowing me the last dose of mountain I'd been craving. The sun was bright and soporific, flinging dark, fluffy shadows onto the waves below. Landing in Palma brought back many memories of another Spanish holiday in my past, only adding to the rampant reminiscing. Another plane to another land took me up over the cloudy sunset crest and settled on the floofy plateau, lit by a nearly full moon, before settling down again in Hamburg. An adventure of grand proportions, ending with the soft kerthunk of my backpack on my wooden floor and a sleepy flop onto my bed, eager to get going on sugar crash round two.

 

I then had one day to recover/get all my duckies in a row before starting my new fulltime job. It wasn't enough, of course, but ah, t'was such an adventure. Such an adventure.

Merci et muchas gracias.