Pais Vasco Part III - Pairs of Pintxos

Forget Spain’s claim to fame with its soulful acoustic guitar, earthy sherry, and trendy beret. Pintxos - and the bar-hopping culture it is centered around - may well be the greatest innovation in all of Spanish history. It is near impossible to find a definitive origin for the idea of serving delicious snacks with your tasty artisanal beverage. Some say that King Alfonso X’s doctor recommended he eat small bites of food with a glass of wine to treat his illnesses, and he thereafter made it a requirement in the bars. Maybe it was the simple logic that a snack would curb the rate of irresponsible drunkards in the street? Others say slices of ham, cheese or bread were merely used to cover drinks from bugs and dust (hence “tapa” in all other parts of Spain - “tapar” means “to top”). Whatever the origins of this delightful tradition, it is something I have come to love about spanish culture - order a beer, get a snack.

Not all regions in Spain carry this tradition anymore, and if you have come to this country with the purpose of partaking in the “bonus” food with the very cheap drinks, understand where the best places are to do this. In Madrid and Toledo, this will happen in most bars, and at some restaurants before you even order. These tapas will vary in quality or level of inspiration - ranging from warm homemade empanadillas  or rich choritzo slices with fried potato, to cold squares of mushy tortilla on a slice of bread or stale, flavorless potato chips . I've been told that Barcelona does not even offer such treats (though we shall soon find out!). There are many reasons to go to Spain, be it for learning a language, falling in love, seeing more of the world beyond your front door, or embracing a new culture. If your Spanish immersion centers on this ingenious foodie-in-a-culinary-paradise practice, then go to Basque Country. 

Basque country - and specifically Donostia-San Sebastian - is where the beautifully delicious practice of “pintxo-hopping” originated as a local lunchtime tradition, and it has now grown (somewhat unfortunately) into a  famous  tourist attraction. While the rest of the country calls the small snacks you get with a beer “tapas,” here in Basque country, they are “pintxos” (pronounced “peen-chos”). The word pintxo means spear, representing the time-honored habit of securing the treat - be it bacala (salted cod), gambas (shrimp), croquettas (heavenly morsels of fried béchamel, often filled with ham, cod, or mushrooms) or spicy tortilla (omelette) - onto a slice of bread with a toothpick - a “spear.” It was perhaps this versatile vessel that allowed bartenders to get creative - and competitive - with their offerings in the north. While not true in Madrid or Toledo, you can rest assured that, whatever you try to eat in Basque country, if it comes with a magical spear, it will ignite your taste buds, starting with its artistic design and ending with its strong, fresh flavors.

I should mention one caveat to this wonderful practice - nothing good in life is free, and neither are these snacks in Bilbao and San Sebastian. Unlike Madrid and Toledo, where the snack is, just that, a snack, here it is a way of life - socially and culturally. Therefore, you are not simply given a pintxo with your beer, wine or cider order, but you are expected to order one specifically. However, food in this country is so unbelievably cheap, price at this point is hardly a factor. Depending on their elaborateness, they will range from about €1.50 to €3.50 per one. So dig in!

So, I am a bit of a control freak, and unless I have purposefully put myself there, the center of attention is not where I like to be. Knowing we were about to embark on an unfamiliar culinary adventure, with my green eyes, and our pale skin and accents being enough to make us stand out, I tried to do some research on proper pintxo etiquette. Through trial and error and the advice of friends along the way, here is what we discovered while Pintxo hopping in both Bilbao and Donostia-San Sebastian:

1. Litter Liberally 

I hate littering, with a passion. There never seems to be a point in it, and while most view it as the product of laziness or sloppiness, for me it goes to a whole new level. It is insulting to the place you are littering in, destructive to your abandoned garbage’s new resting place, and just plain disgusting. It is a large factor in my dampened view of the city I currently call home, its streets littered with garbage - and dookie - in ridiculously close proximity to the plethora of ingenious garbage can contraptions… But anyways, if you are eating pintxos in Basque Country, you will be throwing your napkins on the ground. It is not only your sole option, as there is no table space for them, it is absolutely expected of you. So unleash the immoral side of yourself, throw that napkin on the ground, and try to act less weird about it than I did. 

2. Clean your plate, or else...

When I first read up on pintxo traditions and etiquette, I read that pintxos are to be eaten in three bites or less. I am not sure if that is true, given the fact that no one seemed to be paying attention to how much you savored each morsel, and some just seemed utterly impossible to consume at that demanding rate. However - we quickly discovered that if you do not eat it all, the servers will not hesitate to tell you the deal. Jonny may have forever banned us from the main plaza in the historic center of Bilbao for leaving a half-bite of the cheese rind - and the scraps of his bread - on the plate.

3. Be mindful of your drink-to-pintxo ratio

I was warned multiple times by my native friend about this one. Wine is cheap in Spain (a decent bottle can be as little as €3.00!), and we have built up quite a tolerance here such that my liver eagerly awaits the detox it will have once we go home. This in conjunction with the fact that neither of us are binge drinkers of any sort meant that this was not something we had to worry too much about. However, it is something you should keep in the back of your mind. The culture here is to go to one place, get one drink, eat one, maybe two pintxos, and repeat. It is easy to get very drunk - and painfully sick - very quickly. Though, according to my Spanish friend, the range of delicious foods and colorful wines consumed can make for some rather spectacularly colored projectiles as your body cries for mercy.

4. Standing room only, almost

You likely won’t have any another option than to stand while you eat, and you will need to throw an occasional elbow if you stand only 5 feet tall - just barely able to see over the towers of food lining the bars. Standing is how it is done here, and how you should carry out your pintxo experience. It exposes you to the people, the food they are going for, and the entertaining bartenders. Sitting only closes you off from the experiences. And if your feet are starting to hurt, just have another cider!

5. Hot pintxos are worth the wait - the long wait

Most bars offered not only the fancy creations served cold right off of the bar top, but they also provided a varying list of warm pintxos, listed on chalkboards in and outside of the bar. I often went for these, but I learned quickly that I would have to be a patient pintxo-hopper. My favorite stop in Bilbao had me waiting 15 minutes, and when I ordered the “Brochetta” in Donostia-San Sebastian, we waited a half hour for it. Both waits were well worth it, however, and you can always peruse and try some cold delights while you wait!

6. Count your pintxos

I read somewhere that the bars count how many toothpicks you have at the end of your culinary visit, but I also read this is a myth. In practice, no one seemed to be counting our garbage or really even keeping track at all for that matter. When it came time to move on, most often, we had to tell them what we ate and drank - sometimes by the general number, and sometimes by the specific foods. We were honest, and they trusted us because that is how it works here. However, after a couple of drinks, it does become a little difficult to remember the  totals, and at times we were forced to work together to reminisce wantingly on the food we had gorged ourselves with. But, then again, if you take the following piece of advice to heart, you won’t have to count too high. 

7. Eat about two pintxos per establishment

For the most part, we stuck to the general rule of one, maybe two tapas at one bar before moving on. This was especially so in Donostia - San Sebastian. Every place has something a little different from the last one - a different crowd, different flavors, different mood- and all of them were great in their own way. So the best thing to do - and the expected practice - is to hop from place to place.

However, I think this rule calls for more flexibility than the previous ones. When we went to Donostia - San Sebastian, after surveying the food at a couple of the places recommended to us, we just got too overwhelmed to keep fighting our way through the crowds, and we slinked off to a calmer - but still busy - street. And that is where we found Ordiziz, a small old-timey looking bar filled with an older, local-looking crowd. It was love at first bite, accompanied by a comical old bartender in a plaid shirt, and what appeared to be his son. 

We passed the rest of our pintxo tour time here, having second drinks as we indulged in spicy choritzo cooked in cider, creamy croquettas, and flaky mysterious puff-balls filled with some of the most amazing stew I have ever had in my life. Which brings me to my final rule:

8. Do not fear the mystery puff balls

It’s often hard to convince me to be adventurous when it comes to food. Growing up on a very limited income, the look of frustration on my parents’ faces when I did not eat what I ordered at a restaurant could not hold a candle to the guilt I was already feeling about squandering that money away on an empty stomach. It has definitely left a lasting impression on me and without thinking, I will always choose the cheapest guarantee. I never gamble.

But then Basque Country happened, and pintxos presented the perfect opportunity for me to explore what I might be missing. If it turned out I didn't like something, it was only a few bites and a couple euros anyways. And if I really could not finish it, Jonny would just eat it like the compact garbage disposal he is. It was a good system, and it led me to eating squid tentacles, anchovies, and most importantly, mystery puff balls of deliciousness. I remember eyeing these doughy amorphous puffs at nearly every bar we stopped at, but there was no description listed near them and I fail at understanding food descriptions in Spanish. People were not lining up to inhale these as they were the croquettas and iberian ham either, but Jonny encouraged me to take a chance. The result - a heavenly and nostalgic indulgence I never wanted to end. It was something like a beef-stew, but it tasted like a creamy shepard’s pie with a savory sauce and tender vegetables - and I hope to find it again before I leave. I would have missed out on the best food I had in Basque Country if I was not drunkenly susceptible to my husband’s refusal to let me be afraid to just try new things. Moral of the story - try it all, even if you are afraid live “gambas” might come crawling out of its ambiguous, puffy shell.

Now that you know how to eat, it is best to have a general idea of where to eat - to get you started at the very least. 

Bilbao

Bilbao is not where people typically travel to for pintxos. However, if you end up here instead of Donostia-San Sebastian, you will not be missing out too terribly. The scene is more or less the same (perhaps better because it is less crowded and gimmicky?) and in the end, the food in Bilbao was cheaper than Donostia-San Sebastian. My best advice for where to go, is to simply follow the crowd and your nose. You will not be disappointed.

If that leaves you unsatisfied, I recommend a place called Berton, on Calle de Jardínes, in casco viejo. The bartender was supremely talented at managing what looked to be at least 25 orders, and the food was almost too beautiful to eat. Jonny dove right into the cold pintxos - an amazing “setas” concoction (they marinate the mushrooms in this herbed oil and then seared them to perfection - and speared them onto some bread - we never could have enough of them), and an artistically arranged quince-tomato-brie snack that he inhaled - while I waited patiently for my tender, savory beef sirloin medallions (medallón de solomillo - oof what a mouth-full to say). 

Note, there were two bars called Berton in close proximity to each other, and we only went to the one I listed here (it has a two-foot tall sign in the shape of a steak (Chuletón) hanging from its entrance, advertising what we witnessed to be a delicious plate of rare steak served on a sizzling platter - with bread) so I cannot speak to the quality of the other one. If it is good, credit me for dragging you there inadvertently. If it is bad, I already warned you, I did not try it.   

Donostia! (San Sebastian)

Donostia-San Sebastian is where the country hangs its hat on pintxos, and when I told my friend we would be going there, he graciously gave me a detailed list of where I had to go and what I needed to try while I was there:

Txepetxa (Pescadería, 5) was recommended for its famous Anchovies - hailed as the best in Donostia-San Sebastian. Indeed one peak at its menu makes it clear this is a fish they have focused their life’s work on. Instead of being harvested from a can and melted into bubbling pizza cheese, these anchovies were fresh and held a reigning position atop hard, artisan cheese, or colorful fruits. The most popular anchovy pintxo recommended to us was the toast with cream of crab, but several people were said to love them with the papaya. In our attempts to find this place, we ended up at a different bar, and after trying the anchovies there, I let Jonny partake on another anchovy adventure alone - and he chose the papaya version. I chose some greenish colored cod...mush with a light potato gratin on top. Both were fishy - but both were very good. This stop is definitely the place to go for Anchovies, and that fact is clearly no secret - celebrities photographed with the owners lined every inch of the walls, which were only minimally visible at best through the boisterous, fish-eating crowds. 

Zeruko (Pescadería, 10) was place we did not make it to because we got confused by the crazy Euskadi all over the place, and because the addresses became jumbled with its close proximity to the Plaza (worth looking into itself if you have the time). It is a shame, because the food recommended there sounded phenomenal. They were described as “fusion” pintxos, with the most popular choice being a rich steak (“la hoguera”). I was told you absolutely should ask for the grilled mushrooms (hongos a la plancha) here and you will not be disappointed (which, by the way, were amazing every place we went).

I was told there was a foie gras with apple jelly (“jalea de manzana”) at La Cuchara de San Telmo - but we could not find it and admittedly did not try to hard. If the idea of foie didn’t already gross me out too much, I would be repulsed by the way it is mass-produced. Otherwise it was also suggested that we try the pig cheeks there (“tapas de carrilleras”).

Patio de Ramuntxo (Peña y Goñi 10 bajo) looked overwhelmingly inundated with touristy pintxo-hoppers, and probably because they have heard about the beef taco with piquillo sauce (“taco de buey”) situated amongst a wide variety of consistently good pintxos. If you want to stop and break the “no more than 2” rule, this is the place you are recommended to do it at. There was no way we could break through the crowd here, already exhausted from our fight in the next recommended location, Gandarias.

Gandarias (31 de Agosto) had a very large bar with a restaurant at the end, and it was packed. Every inch of the bar was lined with people standing around and enjoying their treats, and two or three rows of people behind them trying to flag one of the six bartenders working the place. It was here that we learned two more pintxo rules: (1) brocheta and bruschetta have nothing to do with each other; and (2) always return to the bartender you ordered your food from to pay at the end. I did not list these in my pintxo etiquette advice because they are largely in relation to this bar alone. 

First, without checking for a translation, I eagerly ordered here the recommended brocheta, expecting a delicious slice of toasted bread, drizzled in oil and swimming in sweet, marinated tomatoes. It was the place I was looking forward to from the moment “the best bruschetta” was suggested to my mind. I was so distracted by my hunger, eagerness and the crowds, that I overlooked the bartender’s hesitant look and his question: “de Chipirón?” Sure, I thought - whatever he said, I wanted my tomatoes. After a 30 minute wait, smushed up against a pillar as waves of people came and went, I learned my lesson as two skewers of fried squid with a squid-ink glaze beneath it were handed to me (along with some awesomely delicious mushrooms). On review, brocheta essentially means a kebob. Despite the confusion, they were good- not at all chewy, with a subtle buttery flavor. The ink had only a mild taste to lend a savory flavor to the squid, without overpowering its light taste. The recommended brocheta is the shrimp brocheta (“gambas”), but the squid was amazing enough in itself. 

The second lesson came when we tried to pay. The crowds had grown thicker, and our only inlet to the cashiers and bartenders was at the opposite end of the bar. The “new” bartender did not understand that we wanted to pay - not order another round - and began pouring us drinks and ringing in our orders. After our clarification that we were done, wanted to pay, we were reprimanded for our apparent stupidity. Oh well - it had never been a problem at the other, bustling though not inundated, establishments.  

Finally, for those who prefer to drink a little more during their intoxicating afternoon, and if whiskey is the poison of choice, we were told that the place to go is El Museo del Whisky (Almadea del Boulevard, 5), which allegedly houses a collection of Whiskey that will leave you speechless, and an extensive list of gins as well. We were good on our cider. 

We started to become overwhelmed by the number of people flocking with us to these not-so-well-kept secrets. So we decided to end our strict adherence to what was suggested and wander along until we found one that had people in it - but not three hundred. We stumbled (too much sidra) into a “whole-in-the-wall” establishment, filled with a generally older looking crowd of what appeared to be locals, and not so much tourists. It was my favorite place, and this is where we broke the no more than two pintxos rule in order to keep casually trying the many mouth-watering snacks.

Buzzingly content from the food - and cider - we stumbled along, ready to see if Donostia San Sebastian had anything else to offer us passersby. 

Pais Vasco Part II - The Guggenheim Museum

If your wanderlust leads you to Bilbao, you will no doubt take that rare opportunity to visit one of the world's best contemporary art museums - The Guggenheim! I was not sure how I would feel about this place at first, or if it was worth the €11.00 to go inside (€6.00 for students - and I do not think they check ages!). Many reviews said it was not. Having taken the chance, I can honestly say, they are wrong - it was worth every euro-cent. It is also worth its own blog post! Come with an open mind - and comfortable shoes. Listen to the audio guides - though not all of them because that would take days you do not have. Most importantly, have fun getting lost in an alternative world of mind-boggling, terrifying, and humorous artwork. 



The Guggenheim Museum Bilbao is one of four famous institutions (one in New York, one in Venice, and one in Berlin) funded by the Solomon R. Guggenheim Foundation to display and educate the general public about modern and contemporary art. In 1991, suffering economic decline in the Bilbao industrial region, the Basque government proposed to the Guggenheim Foundation that it would fund the $ 100 million construction of an institution, establish a $ 50 million acquisition fund, pay a fee of $ 20 million to the Guggenheim Foundation and subsidize the annual museum budget of $ 12 million. In  exchange for this multi-million-dollar expenditure, the Guggenheim Foundation agreed to manage the museum, organize temporary exhibitions, and rotate its permanent collections through the site.

Frank Gehry, a Canadian-American architect renowned for his deconstructivist or neo-baroque style, was selected to design the building. Much like anything he has created, this building matches the art it holds by thinking far outside the box. Gehry’s first sketch of the titanium complex was, in reality a doodled line drawing on a hotel notepad. He made his therapeutic musings a reality through innovative technology: to make the bricks match the curves he sketched and seemingly defy all laws of physics, they were computer generated, and then cut with precision using the computer design. No two bricks were the same, and each fit like a glove. Not only did Gehry continue to defy architectural odds with his Guggenheim creation, he also came in under budget, with construction costs totaling $ 89 million. The museum was inaugurated by King Juan Carlos I in October of 1997. Nearly four million tourists patronized the museum before it was three years old, resulting in €500 million in economic activity for the area, not counting the €100 million in tax revenue it attributed to tourist growth. The Guggenheim Museum is now regarded as one of the most important architectural works in modern times, and rightly so.

Outside the museum, a few structures are worth pause and analysis. When arriving from the city center, your first understanding of what you are about to experience manifests itself with the confrontation of an intimidating, spindly-legged arachnid.

Maman (French for "Mother") is a sculpture composed of bronze, stainless steel, and marble, created by Louise Bourgeois in 1999. Standing over 30 feet tall, the work evoked fear in me as I contemplated the idea of it coming to life. To me, it seemed to be a monster - the exact opposite of what the artist had truly intended. Louise Bourgeois lost her mother - and her best friend - when she was just 21 years old. The spider was an ode to her mother, a strong yet fragile individual, a weaver, and her protector.

We continued our stroll along the perimeter, and things became more abstract. The Tall Tree and the Eye by Anish Kapoor (inaugurated in 2009) was situated on a platform in the shallow pool separating us from the museum. A steel structure of 76 reflective, polished spheres spiraling 15 meters into the air in a chaotic fashion, the structure reminds me of magnetic marbles I used to have as a child.

Ready for a more friendly, less abstract visualization, we rounded the corner of the museum and headed towards its main entrance were Puppy by Jeff Koons awaited our affection. Puppy is a West Highland White Terrier, bathed in a variety of flowers, and standing 43 feet tall. The work was originally commissioned for Arolsen Castle in Germany in 1992. Then, in 1995, it was dismantled and reassembled at the Museum of Contemporary Art in Sydney Harbour, this time with a few upgrades - an irrigation system (which, to us, made the cute creature look like it was slobbering over its guests as water dripped from its chin) and an increase in plants, from 20,000 to 60,000. In 1997, it was purchased by the Guggenheim Foundation to be placed at its Bilbao location, and its most recent vacation was in 2000 at the Rockefeller Center in New York City.

Koons receives a decent amount of criticism for his art, which seems to carry a more simplistic, commercialized view of the world around it. He has made clear in interviews that he has no interest in hiding some deeper meaning in his works - that what you see and feel is what you get. I guess when people are used to spiders representing mothers and metal orbs representing - well, I am not sure I ever managed to understand that one - they become critical of superficial understandings and shallow pleasures such as joy or nostalgia. Refined art critics say the work juxtaposes the elite with mass culture by blending the concepts of topiary and dog breeding with that of chia pets and Hallmark greeting cards. The only juxtaposition for me was terribly wanting a puppy, and not yet having one.

Koons work is not limited to plants. He did a series of balloon animals (more fun-loving puppies!) made out of vibrantly-colored steel that sold at an auction for record-breaking amounts. His Tulips, created between 1995 and 2004 and also displayed at the Guggenheim, carried the same feel as his balloon animals, taking on a ballon-like shape, and using the same vibrant colors.

The wonder does not end when one enters the museums cornucopia of stone, titanium of glass, but rather it grows. Whether one loves contemporary art or absolutely despises it, it is worth it just to stand in the building’s Atrium (Gehry called it a flower, I call it a vertical labyrinth of mystery), and look up! Sorry, from here-on no photos were allowed inside the museum :(

And when your neck gets sore, you should absolutely continue on to the 120,000 square feet of exhibition space, starting with the largest of the nineteen gallery spaces, filled with the museum’s only permanent exhibit, Richard Serra’s “The Matter of Time” (2005). I am not a person who typically enjoys contemporary art. However, I decided to approach the Guggenheim with an open mind (and the free audio guide that comes with the visit), and I was rewarded greatly for it. Until I found myself lost in a maze of weathered steel twisting and turning without an apparent end, I could not see what would be magnificent about Serra’s work, what could make it worthy of international fame. I am without a doubt a believer now.

Apart from “The Matter of Time” a large number of galleries were dedicated to the dynamic works of Niki De Saint Phalle. As I walked from room to room I felt increasingly as if I was become lost in a grotesque representation of wonderland. Her art varied greatly from space to space, some festive mosaic structures honoring Rosa Parks in a quizzical caricature way, some with grotesque plasters of deformed women representing the mother she despised, some aiming guns at crucifixes to show her rejection of her Catholic upbringing, and a memorable dartboard holding up an ex-boyfriend’s shirt as what she called a form of voodoo art. Suppressed rage has made her famous.

On and on, for four hours and three floors, the exhibits continued to both impress and bewilder us, until we were starving and sore, and ready to begin our pintxo-hopping evening...

Pais Vasco Part I - A Window into the Country Within a Country

When we set out to organize our brief spring holiday, our thoughts went north - to Edinburgh Scotland. We wanted to experience a beauty different from the sandstone mountains, Arabic architecture and medieval fortresses that had graced our adventures thus far. We originally settled on Scotland when Google teased us with insanely cheap flights for the time we would be traveling, only to have it ripped from our fantasies hours later with the realization the price was $400 or so off the mark… and for a moment, we were angry, depressed, and in sheer panic that this Easter, we would be trapped in Madrid. We looked for flights to Amsterdam, to Germany, to Paris, to Switzerland. All of these were double their usual cost because of the holiday. Then we realized, there was a whole region in Spain we had yet to set foot on, a place we knew very little about, a place Jonny had been begging to see since before we even left for Spain - Basque Country!

Basque Country - What is this place anyways?

The Basque people are an ethnic group indigenous to the Basque region, whose presence in this area dates back to an estimated 38,000 years ago (talk about feeling like dust in the wind). They were some of the first Europeans to venture forth in the Americas, many settling in Chile. While surrounding regions succumbed to the blending of immigrating heritages, this region held tight to its ancient identities. During the 16th Century, the Basque people became masters at whaling, and masters of the Atlantic in general - until the Spanish King stole and ultimately destroyed their ships while being used in the Spanish Armada against England in 1588. 

From a regional perspective, Basque Country is a territory crossing the Pyrenees Mountains, spanning from a northern section of Spain (Southern Basque Country) and a southwestern section of France (French Basque Country), and it is substantially comprised of a distinct group of people who have their own culture and language. French Basque Country covers three provinces in France: Labourd, Lower Navarre, and Soule. Southern Basque Country is made up of two autonomous communities - The Basque Autonomous Community and Navarra. While Navarra is a single-province autonomous community, the Basque Autonomous Community is comprised of three provinces: Álava, Biscay, and Gipuzkoa. Our adventure settled in Gipuzkoa and Biscay (Bilbao and Donostia - San Sebastian). 

Until the Middle Ages, these regions were comprised of tribes that have been historically distinguished from those of the Iberian south and the French north. They carried out a different heritage, different culture, different ideological system, different religion, and different language. Their unchallenged autonomy could not last forever, however. Their position became increasingly perilous as two expanding empires began to push into the territory and squeeze out its individualism. By the time of the Renaissance, the countries were homogenizing the regions under nationalist ideals and absorbing them as their own. 

Until the early 19th Century, Southern Basque Country managed to retain some power as self-governed districts, operating nearly autonomously with their own taxes, customs, and military conscription. Customs and laws of the distinct regions were ultimately absorbed into Spanish centralist rule following the Third Carlist War, and the regions reacted with an attempt to restore their autonomy. Such restoration was achieved through the Basque Statute and approved by the Second Spanish Republic which was embroiled in the start of the Spanish Civil War. Following the fall of the Republic to the Nationalist Party, the statute was quickly abolished, but portions of the regions were permitted some limited self-government as reward for their support of the Nationalists. The Statute of Autonomy of the Basque Country was signed into law in 1982, following Franco’s death. To this day many Basques fight for recognition of their separateness from the two large empires that grew and squeezed them into general submission over the centuries. The clearest remnants of their distinctive existence are the Basque Language (Euskadi) and the infamous “terrorist” group (ETA).

A Land of Two Languages

As with the Catalan autonomous community in northeastern Spain, and the Valencia autonomous community on the eastern coast, Basque Country has its own unique language - Basque (Euskadi). In some ways, it is a lot like Spanish, but in many ways it is not at all the same. When we read signs, I often felt like I was playing mad gab - with Spanish as my second language. The language has expanded and retracted throughout Spain's tumultuous history. It experienced its most severe decline when, during the times of Franco, in furtherance of his ultra-nationalist ideals, speaking a dialect other than Castilian (the majority dialect spoken in modern Spain) was severely frowned upon, and in many settings, forbidden.  Basque was specifically despised as a limited, rural language, unfit for modern discourse. It regained traction near the end of Franco’s rule, but it is again experiencing decline - with half of the younger population not using it. Either way, if you speak Spanish, you will be fine traveling around in this region, but expect to see a lot of “tx” combinations - really anywhere they can fit them in.

“One man’s terrorist is another’s freedom fighter” Gerald Seymour (1975) - Euskadi ta Askatasuna (ETA) 

In 1959, during Franco’s military dictatorship opposing the distinctiveness of Basque culture, Euskadi ta Askatasuna (ETA) - meaning “Basque homeland and freedom" - was formed as a student resistance movement to fight for Basque independence. Following Franco’s death in 1975, the Basque people gained a substantial amount of independence. Indeed it is the most independent autonomous community in Spain, with its own parliament, taxes, police force, and educational system. However many residents of Basque Country felt this was not enough, instead desiring full independence, and the fringe of this group felt violence was the only way to achieve that. 

Since 1968, the group has been credited with over 830 deaths brought about through car bombs and shootings. The majority of these killings were carried out in the group's earlier years by the hundred. These murders focused largely on political figures, and the group has ebbed and flowed in violence, having declared two previous cease-fires in an effort to carry out peace and independence negotiations with Spain. Following a few highly publicized and sensitive killings, the group lost substantial community support, and the Spanish and French police have worked together to quash their efforts with the arrest of several key leaders. In 2011, the group declared an end to violence with the general belief that such acts were not bringing about their goals. Given the group’s flippant behavior before with such declarations, many remain wary of the genuineness of this move. Spain, the European Union, and the United States have listed the group as a terrorist organization. 

I already knew a decent amount about ETA before coming to Spain, and I would be lying if I said their existence didn’t make me a little apprehensive as I travel to landmarks around the country. But life is meant to be lived, not protected for fear of some small possibility of being caught in a rare crossfire. And more than being afraid, I was curious if I would even notice the separatist presence in the region or if it had been so stemmied that I would feel like I was simply visiting another Spanish region. My Spanish friend warned me not to patronize establishments that hung mugshots on their walls because they were ETA supporters and they fund the terrorist attacks. Him being Spanish, I took his warning with a grain of salt. This situation seems to me more complicated than the violent acts, and as always, it is all about perspective. Good intentions must be carried out with good acts, never violence, but in truth, I think I am too ignorant to make a judgement call on the matters based off of biased presentations of fact. 

Ultimately, I saw little evidence of a resistance in my short, touristic time here, but that is not to say it did not exist. The first night we were in Bilbao, engaging in our Cider-Pintxo tour, we stumbled into a bar to check out the food, and found ourselves surrounded by four walls screaming for independence. The bar had been fairly crowded but not chaotic, situated amongst others we had been more than comfortable popping into. But the bustle of the place came to an ominous stop when Jonny and I - clearly tourists - stepped in. And the staring began. Jonny, never keen on tone or mood, bounced around, examining the food the bar had to offer while I began to look around. Behind us, font over the image of the Basque Flag read “remember tourists, you are not in Spain anymore, you are in Basque country.” Behind a woman who had been eyeing us warily, the mugshots of a few men hung, and my suspicions were confirmed. We were not welcome here. I turned casually to my gleeful husband about to stuff his mouth with artfully crafted snacks, and told him none of them looked good I wanted to go somewhere else. 

The People

People warned me not only about ETA supporters, but also about the general demeanor of locals we would encounter. I was told, they were harsher, colder people, likely to stare, and unlikely to smile back. Hearing this from Madrid locals worried me - if people from this city thought people from Basque Country are cold and unwelcoming I was prepared for a nightmarish experience. Being pushed around and scowled at here was already too much to take, and I spent a decent amount of time fretting and bracing myself for the impact.  

Perhaps we caught everyone on a good day? Perhaps it was the marijuana scent drifting through the streets as people openly smoked on terraces? Whatever it was, despite the stereotype people were pleasant here! Sure there were your grumbly individuals every now and again, but by and large, people seemed to embrace us. Bartenders all around were animated, and even poked fun at my efforts to speak Spanish. I even joked with a local when I thought I had witnessed him put Tabasco sauce in tea! Sorry, no secret recipes to reveal - it was broth. 

Logistics

We decided to stay in Bilbao because it was cheaper than the luxurious Donostia-San Sebastian, and travel to other parts of the area would be easiest from here. To get there, we took an ALSA bus from Madrid and it took about four and a half hours (the train is not any faster, is more expensive, and has fewer time slots). This dropped us at the Termibus Station - really just a covered plaza. 

One element of Bilbao that I instantly fell in love with was how easy it was to find everything. Our friendly Airbnb host gave us a map - and an abundance of brochures and guides - and he was situated in the perfect spot to take us out onto the balcony and orient us. The city has a historic center (Casco Viejo/Siete Calles) that leads to the river, which the city bends around, making navigation a breeze. After our first walk through the central part of the city, we knew where we were and how to get where we wanted. Wasting no time, we headed to the most obvious tourist stop, the Guggenheim... 

Ávila - the Town of Stones and Saints

Ávila is a place that fools overlook, and to their utter misfortune, when they seek out an authentic Spanish adventure. Indeed, like Seville is with Andalucia, if you want to feel the true emotion of Castile and León, Ávila should top your lists. Sure, Segovia has impressive ancient plumbing and magical castles and Salamanca has a historic university - and no one will argue that these stops should, and likely will, rank highly on your destination itinerary. But obvious, awe-inspiring entertainment aside, you are missing out. You omit the spirit and true energy of the people of the region. You miss what they hold dear in their hearts and culture. And you will pass up an incredible, 12th Century, near to fully intact medieval wall encasing the city. 

Verraco de piedra, a granite sculpture of a boar from the 5th Century B.C.,
its features worn away by weather and the passage of thousands of years

Ávila is a small Spanish town located in Castile and León, as the capital of the Province of Ávila. It is celebrated as holding the highest number of Romanesque and Gothic churches per capita in Spain, and indeed, it holds one of the first Gothic Churches built in Europe. It was inhabited in the 5th Century BC by Vettones – migrant cattle-herders whose “verracos de piedra” still remain intersperse throughout the region. It was conquered by the ancient Romans for a time, when it likely developed its permanence and Roman shape (square with two main roads intersecting through the middle). Following the fall of the Western Roman Empire, the Visigoths developed a stronghold in the region until repeated attacks from the north by Christian Kingdoms reduced it to a no-man’s land. When Raymond of Burgundy reconquered the area in 1088, he is credited with initiating the construction of the magnificent walls that still stand today. Enclosed within a nearly complete medieval town wall, this 16th Century-esque town was declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1985. Today, the town has come to enthusiastically embrace St. Teresa of Ávila as its patron saint. Teresa of Ávila was a key player in the Counter-Reformation of Spain in the 16th Century, a Spanish mystic and Carmelite Nun. She reformed the order of Carmelite Nuns to regain the contemplative meditation practices it had lost in recent years, and she herself engaged in strict seclusion where she wrote several books prominent in Spanish Renaissance literature. Forty years following her death, she was canonized as a Saint, and she is the patron saint of headaches and ailments. 

I came to Ávila for a very brief visit on a school trip passing through on our way to Salamanca. At the time, it seemed there was not a whole lot to offer a tourist passing through, other than an endless litany of churches and a chunk of wall to climb. Online blogs and TripAdvisor forums on the matter indicated the same sentiment - three hours was the most anyone should ever really need in this tiny town. Anything beyond that, and you risk utter boredom. We, having nothing better to do on the Saturday before Holy Week (Semana Santa) began, decided to make the most we could of this “simple city,” come what may. And with Jonny there, we were always risking an encounter with some worn grassy spot he alleges is a path that would ultimately lead to a mountaintop view three hours later. It turned out that we had no need for spontaneous side adventures. What we expected to be a leisurely 8-hour stroll through a quiet town turned into a lively, jam-packed adventure that left our legs and feet crying for mercy, and our hearts flooded with contentment. 

Our beautiful 19°C day began with a two-hour train ride (sorry no bullet trains to Ávila), twisting and turning through, under and around mountainsides. While most travelers were lulled to sleep by the quiet hums of the train, we set our swivel heads in motion, taking in the boulder-sprinkled fields of cows, the spontaneous swaths of abandoned stone fencing descending with the passage of time, and the jagged mountain peaks reflecting the glare of the sun off of their untouched, now receding, snow-caps. Eventually, we emerged from the sea of mountains, arriving in Ávila . It is approximately a 10-minute walk from the train station to the walled section of the city. However our first destination was el Monasterio de Santo Tomás - a 16-minute walk from the station, located outside of the walls.

EL MONASTARIO DE SANTO TOMÁS

The Monastery was constructed in 1482, built for the Dominican Order, and sponsored by Ferdinand and Isabella (los Reyes Católicos) and the inquisitor Fray Tomás de Torquemada.

The Dominican Order was established in Spain and spread through Europe with an effort to return to religious foundations, leaving the secluded life behind and involving themselves in the community to spread education. They are more-so famed with their overzealous dedication to the faith that led to their key involvement in the Spanish Inquisition, a time where conservative estimates of 130,000 Jewish persons were killed for their beliefs (not counting those estimated to have perished in their dispersal from the country). Some contend the number reaches 800,000 in reality. Fray Tomás de Torquemada, had been Queen Isabella I’s confessor, and he was a strong influence on her decision to marry King Ferdinand II of Aragon, uniting the kingdoms into one country of Spain in 1469. A Spanish Dominican Friar, Torquemada was the first Grand Inquisitor of Spain’s 15th Century attempt, through the Alhambra Decree, to force Christianity upon its Jewish and Muslim inhabitants, and out any pretenders (called Marranos).  Through his role as Grand Inquisitor Torquemada led something of a witch hunt for those who allegedly converted to Christianity but retained Jewish practices (no one would have to ponder for long why pork is such a prominent dish here). Arguably he restrained the actual punishments of the inquisition to a degree, often making the offenders wear pointed hats pictorially displaying their sins to the public. Still, many died under his watch. He died in 1494 and was laid to rest in the monastery. In 1832, two years before the Alhambra Decree was disbanded, his bones were stolen and ritually incarcerated as an ironic display of auto-da-fé (the term used for burning one at the stake).

Los Reyes Católicos are arguably the most well-known royal figures of Spanish history. Spain had been under the rule of the Moors (Muslims) for several centuries before Catholic kingdoms gained a stronghold of the regions. King Ferdinand II and Queen Isabella I’s marriage, as well as the victory in Granada, the final standoff for the Muslim population, sealed the deal for Spain’s successful conversion back to Catholicism. Los Reyes Católicos had only one son between them that survived into adulthood, and hardly for that matter. At age 19, only six months after the marriage to his much beloved Margaret of Austria, Prince Juan died in his father’s arms of unknown causes. Most believe it was tuberculosis, but many rumors about his sexual overexertion also spread. Los Reyes Católicos designated the Monastery of St. Thomas to be their son’s final resting place, and his tomb now sits prominently at the head of the Church, a glowing white, alabaster piece of art as big as a queen-size bed.

Admission to the building came to €4.00 each (no student discounts here) and it included in the cost an audio guide. These are somewhat necessary for your self-guided tour, if you are like us and know nothing about this place. Buying our tickets gave us a glimpse of what we would see and feel throughout the day - people here are very friendly. With a town as small and conservative as Ávila, it seems it could go one of two ways, in the extreme. People could tend to be cold, distant, and unwelcoming, or they can be open, conversant, and friendly. Luckily, Ávila is the latter. People great you with a smile, and they make small talk as they perform their tasks. The visit consisted of a tour through three cloisters, a church and its choir, and two small museums - one on natural science, and the other on Oriental Art.

The Novice Cloister (El Claustro del Noviciado)

The first section you are led to is the “Novice Cloister ” the smallest of the three, and the simplest, with plain grey columns and basic roman arches lining its internal courtyard. Unique to cloisters in general, this Novice Cloister’s courtyard was composed of stone slabs, now overgrown with spongy moss, and an off-center well.

We proceeded through a small, rounded, passageway of red brick, with nothing but a light to guide guests, and into the second cloister: The Cloister of Silence.

The Cloister of Silence (El Claustro del Silencio)

While called the Cloister of Silence pursuant to the  practice of the Monks to walk in silence throughout its halls and courtyard, I would imagine it is hard to speak the first time seeing this place anyways. It is, by far, the most decorated Cloister of the three, with well-selected hues and unique displays throughout. The ceiling in its golden stones and complicated archways that came to a point with what looked like a pine cone, were my favorite part. What was interesting was the lack of uniformity of it all. Each pillar consisted of a different abstract design. 

This arch design was our favorite, what with the demonic looking clown
El Claustro del Silencio

The courtyard with its lush green grasses were a beautiful sight to peak into, but nothing too special. As customary, it had a well, and the decoration from the outside looking in gave you another perspective into the care that went into constructing this place of quiet contemplation.

We were allowed to view the courtyard from a different perspective - the upper level of the cloister - where we could view more closely the ornate carvings in the arched window-ways overlooking the yard below. In the white stone, Pomegranates (“Granadas”) lined each arch, tangled in their carved vines - representing what was at the time the last stand of the Moors in Spain: Granada. the columns supporting each arch held three-dimensional dots lining its corners. Below these windows, Spanish coats of arms were carved into the same white stone. 

Finally, in the upper level, brilliantly sharp paintings lined the walls. I assume this was temporary, as they were held by flimsy easels. The hall was otherwise bare. 

Next we were led to the church choir, on a balcony overlooking the church. A mass was going on at the time, which made be a little uncomfortable to enter. I felt silly in my yoga pants with my camera in hand while the people down below us were taking communion. But we were encouraged to enter, and so we did - and I tried to tiptoe through it all. It was similar to most choirs I had seen in the Gothic Churches, with the dual-level seats lining three of the walls and a podium at the center of it all. The chairs were made of walnut wood with Gothic style carvings throughout - each chair displaying different monsters. The view of the church below was wonderful. The original altarpiece, on a higher level than the rest of the church displayed paintings encased in gilding. It was decided after its construction, to not be used because they would not have room for the staircase ascending from the main hall of the church. Where they planned to put what I could only imagine would have been an elegant and elaborate stone staircase bathed in matching gilded decór now instead held the tomb of Prince Juan II - glowing like the snow-capped mountains. 

View of the Church - and Prince Juan I's tomb - from the choir balcony

Each wooden seat in the choir carried a different engraving,
many with animals, several with demonic looking beings,
and all with a Celtic-like pattern throughout. 

After touring the church itself, lined with seven side-chapels to peer into, we headed towards the final cloister - the Cloister of Los Reyes Católicos. It was the largest, but it was quite basic in design. No carvings in the walls, no paintings in the hallways. The Courtyard of this cloister is what really carried the day. The courtyard was ethereal, with deep green grasses and an intersection two walk to the middle where the well is placed. Daisies and dandelions sprinkled the ground here and there, and with the sun warming our chilled skin (it is very cold in the cloisters), we were induced into a moment of quiet contemplation. We lingered here only a brief moment as time was running out and we did not want to miss whatever the museums might have to offer.

Courtyard of Claustro de los Reyes Catolicos

The museum of natural science was, in a word, creepy. Filled with nothing but a large array of dead animals categorized in glass cases throughout two rooms, it would be more aptly called the taxidermy museum. But even then, it would have been a disgusting display when it came to some if its more “ferocious” animals. For example, a male line stood in the center of the room, its eyes bulging manically, and its feet positioned as if he were standing on his toes. If you are going to exploit the beauty of these creatures, at least try to be accurate - stuffed animals surely would have been. We were alone, and animals were snarling at us as we passed them, so we moved on to the final museum.

Lion in the Natural Science Museum of the Monastery 

The Museum of Oriental Art was more aligned with its name. The Dominican Order had collected a substantial collection of statues, paintings, porcelain and other artworks typical of ancient Asian cultures. They were all finely decorated and full of warming colors. The only elements that brought pause for me was the large display of ivory carvings - out of elephant tusks. I know these are all older items, and that at the time they were acquired, there was not enough information out there. But the continued sale of these ivory carvings and figurines absolutely disgusts me. Our elephant population is declining at a rapid pace for our selfish desires. Ok, I am off of my soapbox now. 

In all reality, we spent too much time in the monastery, but it was different from the other places we had been to so far, and a nice substitute to yet another Cathedral. However, in retrospect, I would have shortened our two-hour visit to about one hour, and I would have used the time left to visit one of the oldest Gothic Cathedrals in Europe – that of Ávila. We were ready for lunch when we finished touring the monastery, and excited for the new foods unique to this area. And so, grumbling bellies in tow, we headed up a very steep hill towards the wall of Ávila.

When I came here the first time, it was a cold, cloudy, and desolate weekend day. Even in the main parts of town, there were never more than a handful of people, counting the tourists. This time, coming back up the hill, I noticed a distinct change in the atmosphere: there were endless streams of people descending from the city center…and most of them with CAKE! We stopped using the map, and enthusiastically headed in the direction of wherever these delicious-looking desserts were coming from. This led us right to the plaza in front of the fortressed part of town, and into an enormous, buzzing crowd. As we made our way through the people, we found a long line of people receiving these little treats. I thought to myself, what magical world had we encountered, where cakes were just handed out to the town in the plaza, and how do we convince St. Louis to do this every Saturday? It turns out this was all in anticipation of the Easter processions that were scheduled to occur that evening – not just some regular hidden practice of Spanish small town life. The line was long, and we were hungry, so we moved on and promised ourselves a true Ávilan treat for the evening.

For lunch, we chose a random place (Yakarta) that offered a menú with the famous Ávilan dishes – Chuleton (steak) and Judios Blancos (a white bean soup with chorizo, pimentón (paprika) – and apparently ear). My adventurous side was not up for the bean dish, which Jonny eagerly chose as his starter. We both had the Chuleton as our main course – and probably could have shared one between the two of us. It was an enormous, thick slice, seared, rare steak that might have benefited from more tenderizing, but was so delicious nonetheless. I have forgotten in my five-month stay just how much I enjoy steak. Ávila did not disappoint.

Bellies full, we downed our coffees and it was off to feel better about ourselves through a hike on the walls of Ávila. The walls are said to have been built between the 11th and 14th Century, beginning around 1090. However, there is great debate and much mystery as to the details beyond this. It is apparent that they took a great deal of time, and that several different hands were involved: throughout different styles reveal themselves, from a chaotic jumble of tan stones encased in mortar, to thick slabs of granite, to evenly laid red bricks. The majority of the structure is, however, the first. There are 88 semi-circular towers stretching its parameter of nearly 2,516 meters, many of which you can climb into for some incredible views. I strongly recommend the entire route, and a good pair of hiking shoes.

Initially, we found ourselves in a bit of a panic. We felt like we were running out of time to see the whole of the wall, and we could not find the way in. I look before we travel every time, but my preparation is never enough for the reality we face. Above our heads, we could see people traveling across the wall. But for us, there seemed to be no way to get there. While I continue to reiterate that the people here, in their small town nostalgia, are friendly and willing to help, none of the people we stopped seemed to know where it was either. I could not believe it. Finally, an old man stopped and told us in a thick accent the general direction. After circling an entire block, clearly misunderstanding the finer details of what he said, I asked inside some random convent where they sell tickets. And at last we were on our way in the right direction. For those of you smart enough to travel to Ávila, for your information, the entrance to the upper level of the walls are just to your left as you enter the main entrance of the walled portion of city - about 100 feet where we gorged ourselves on steak. We bought our tickets (student discount under 26 years old!) and began to climb. 

The stairs up to the first section of wall are absolutely terrifying. Flat stones, polished and rounded out by the weather are you only means of making it up the wall, and every step increased my fear of tumbling backwards, or at the very least, smashing my shin to pieces as a slipped. I am a klutz, so to add such expert-level stair climbing to my agenda is not much appreciated. Going down is even scarier. But oh, it is worth it. We made it to the top, and found the timing was perfect. just as we peaked out through the tower walls, the procession into the city (preparing for the real procession) was passing us on the street below!

We climbed up to the top of nearly every tower available to us, soaking up the heat of the sun and watching the birds soar at eye level. We loved looking across to the towers on our left and right.

By the time we made it all of the way to the opposite end of the city, the sun was starting to set. We watched our shadows dance along the buildings next to us, took in the glow that was beginning to emanate from the walls, and had our final looks at this wonderful structure we were standing on. 

We wanted one last look at the walls, and we found a highly recommended viewpoint some distance from it all: los cuatro postes (the four posts). Outside of the city, across a river and into a more forgotten area, stands a square platform with pillars on each corner, and a cross in the middle. From there, you get a solid look at the majority of the walls. 

Unfortunately, tourist buses know where this place is now, and it quickly went from five people to forty people who seemed as though they would be there for a while, taking selfies with their selfy sticks. No matter, we appreciated the up-close views better anyways. We crossed back over the river and began to walk along the wall itself, pausing here and there to watch the golden sunlight explode against the the wall. 

We made it to a corner and entered back into the city - and found ourselves blocked in by an Easter procession. Jesus, being crucified, was displayed surrounded by purple candle on a float that needed 20 people to hold it up. The participants here wore purple masks, but behind them a flood of white cloaks and “capricotes” overwhelmed every emotion. I could not settle on an emotion as the mass of anonymous  people swayed to the rhythm of the drums and a clamor of bells from the towers filled the air. It was terrifying, exciting, mystifying, intimidating, and it all made me feel a little funny. We stopped to watch for a few short moments. But our time here was rapidly coming to a close, and we needed the dessert we promised ourselves - Yemas!

Yemas are the treat typical of Ávila. Like the marzipan in Toledo, the nuns make these morsels in the convents. Essentially, it is egg yolk, and sugar (some soak them in rum). I can’t say they are the best thing you will ever try, but you cannot go wrong with sugar saturated fat. We bought ourselves a box and savored a few of them as we sat and watched the sun fall majestically behind the mountains.