Monday 12 September 2011

Le Weekend - Basque to the Future



If it’s the weekend then we must be going somewhere. This time Ann has discovered some obscure boat race in San Sabastian, a mere two hours drive down the coast, just across the Spanish line.  The race has its roots in the fishing business when rowboats were the tool of choice when putting out nets. Eventually egos got in the way and now there are races every year with teams from towns up and down the coast.
Since the race was Sunday and Ann is a strong believer in the old adage about idle hands being the playthings of the devil, we headed off Saturday morning to explore some terrain in Basque country near the town of Bayonne. You know you’re in Basque country when the road signs become completely incomprehensible, through the addition of x’s and q’s and the removal of helpful vowels. One could argue the Basques are slightly spicier than their northern neighbors in both attitude and cuisine. It became clear to us that this may derive from their generous use of locally grown peppers.


We stumbled across a pepper farm conveniently attached to a gift shop on a little back road near Bayonne. Upon entering, the salesperson commenced upon a comprehensive lecture about the rules around hot pepper designations (along with pork, cheese, and curiously, chocolate. Who knew the Spanish gave up on the chocolate business when running the Jews out of town back during the Inquisition? Apparently, the displaced population moved to Bayonne and brought the cocoa importing business with them, making Bayonne the chocolate capital of Europe.  I hope the Belgians, and perhaps the Swiss, have been informed).  We also completed an informative walking tour of the pepper plants while just barely dodging heat stroke. I think the walking tour softens you up for the gift shop. I expect many poor purchasing decisions are made while dangerously dehydrated. 

From there, we had a nice picnic lunch (note how Perri's disposition changes as a meal approaches) and just made the last funicular to the top of a local mountain. It was never made clear to me why a funicular was built 100 years ago to go to the top of this particular mountain, as a couple of restaurants are the only things of interest once you get there. The view is nice but I would think the neighboring peaks provide something competitive.


  
We managed to reach Bayonne before dusk and checked into a quaint hotel. Ann assured me the hotel represented traditional Basque hospitality and not to worry about the name (Best Western). We were in the old part of town, just up the street from the cathedral, which I thought was very nice until the next morning.


 I remember waking to the sound of church bells and trying to guess the time by the number of tolls. Well, I must have really slept in, because by my count it must have been about 800 o’clock. No pun intended, but what the hell?  You can be sure that in future, church proximity will be a significant factor in choosing a hotel locations. On the bright side, we were up, fed, and ready to go by 11 o’clock sharp for our day in San Sabastian.

San Sabastian is a typical beach vacation town, with a protected harbor and a couple of nice beaches: one with big waves and one without. I wasn’t sure what to expect with this boat race but the crowds around the bay suggested it was a big event. Once we finally found parking, I was astounded by the volumes of people, television coverage (including helicopters), and vocal fan support. Each boat was a distinct color  and the fans dressed so their was no doubt about their allegiances.




There was also plenty to eat, and the specialty of the day seemed to be grilled sardines with fresh bread, which I studiously avoided.





My personal high note of the weekend was reached when a sandwich vendor thought I was French. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’ve got some serious problems when I think being mistaken as French is a highlight. Still, it meant I didn’t have to attempt Spanish, which is worse than my French, for a few short minutes.

Once the races finished and we had had our lunch, we decided to wander through the park up to the old battlements. On our way there, I couldn’t help but notice the many street vendors providing cold beer and wine-by-the-bottle with no apparent concern for the age of the customers. It wasn’t until we were well into the park that the harsh repercussions of this policy were realized. Imagine stumbling into high school graduation party where the liquor cabinet had been left open and unattended. Now take that image and multiply by many thousands and you will have in your heads what we had before our eyes as we ascended through this no-longer-quite-so-beautiful park. Needless to say, there was plenty of grist for the ‘drinking is bad’ mill and Perri was entertained by many graphic examples of ‘there is such a thing as too much fun’. I couldn’t take any pictures for ethical reasons and, more importantly, I didn’t want to get beaten up by the many groups of drunken Spanish youths who were wary of our presence.  It seemed there was an unspoken agreement whereby adults allowed binge drinking by their kids provided it was done out of sight. I can't think of a better example of the value of local knowledge. With the exception of small clutches of terrified tourists, Ann and I were the only representatives of the adult demographic in a very large park. Ann later insisted on a picture of me although I could scarcely suppress the nausea and disgust I had experienced shortly before the shot.





The lesson from this experience: Next year, arrive early so Perri can get started with the local kids.





2 comments:

  1. I'm bothered that no one comments on your posts. Here you go: it's awesome. Every time I see the phrase, "trailing spouse," I smile...

    ReplyDelete
  2. Monsieur;
    vous êtes un photo-journaliste!
    tres superb.

    Keep 'em coming!

    ReplyDelete