Northern Spain

A new friend and I hiked up the small neighborhoods of San Sebastian one afternoon, arriving at the top and looking out at the pinnacle view of the city. Here the coast of Spain turns abruptly north and the Iberian Peninsula meshes into the side of France. Below, surfers in wetsuits made the most out of small waves, and the children of Basque and French and Spanish ran up to the water until it came at them, retreating then to the arms of their parents. Along la Concha, a brisk breeze blew in from the Pyrenees, and a statue of Jesus looked down from the hill.



He was a good guy, that ex-member of the Australian navy: one of those people you immediately like. He and his girlfriend were traveling Australia to England taking the scenic route, and while his girlfriend went off to a fashion museum, him and I did what men do and hiked a big hill to the top. Good couples know how to be together, and also know how to separate, and they both knew they needed some space (how can you not after so many miles) so we all did what we did. My brief stint in Northern Spain was defined not by the place and the view but by the people, and as we all went out for a beer later that night, I thought how great it is to feel that way when I travel alone to all these places. Americans in Seville and people everywhere are obsessed with the idea of being alone. "Don't you get lonely," I sometimes get asked, and I smile because if anything I wish I were alone more often.


A Philippine man named Albert worked in the hostel and cooked fresh hot paella for us all if we bought the ingredients: a barter deal of sorts always worth making. He told us one night about his family -- three kids and a wife -- living in both the Philippines and Dubai. He expects to see them all within the next three years when there is enough saved to bring them to Spain. It's strange for me to talk of plans and dreams in years and not weeks, but the developing world does not have that luxury. That is a first-world irregularity.

Albert and I and the two Australians went out again on my last night, and drank a few more beers and danced around a latin club. I had a silly few hours with a Basque girl, winding up on the beach and then back at her house with scary wall photos that remind you of the house of Carrie's mother in Stephen King's famous novel. A few hour's later I watched the coast to Santander, and then the mountains of Northern Spain. Somewhere on that ride I read a poem that hit me hard against all this chaotic movement.

What
Can be made with just one push: this work of wanting
More than the actual. To watch yourself
Move in and out of all that truth
And beauty - to be in debt is to remain awake.