Eating Feet, Marinating Words

At midday I met Duncan in Nice, where the wedding he attended took place, and we sat down at a cafe so a French waitress could treat us like idiots. We walked through the town, along the beach (which was made entirely of pebbles, actual small rocks that people were lying on, which, if this is where they go to relax, perhaps explains the French) and up to a nearby waterfall/city view. The town was pretty nice (absolutely no pun intended, it's just really unfortunately the exact word I want to use here), if extremely touristy and gaudy.

We spent the afternoon in the hotel of some of Duncan's family friends and were treated to some luxury- a pool, a nice bathroom to shower in- before heading to the train station that night. On the way, I saw three familiar German looking guys across the street. Unable to think of anything better, I shouted 'Hey Namibia!' The backpacker circuit in full force, these guys had made their way north after Napoli and were going to stay in Nice for a few days. They gave me email addresses and said they could probably help me find a place to stay in Munich, where they would be working.

We took an overnight train to Bordeaux and then another train to cross the border, and a third to get to San Sebastian, which was at the time covered in thick grey fog. This did not suit the city well. Our walk up to the castle and Jesus figure topped hill revealed a long sandy beach backed by boxy ugly modern apartment buildings that were on their way to looking pretty run down.

We were thinking about renting a car to take west to Bilbao and into Cantabria and Asturias, and I saw a rental car sign in an internet place so I stopped in to ask the attractive blonde at the desk about it, and another guy overheard my questions and stopped to listen. We talked for about five minutes in Spanish until she asked if we spoke English because it would be easier to explain, and I said yes and the other guy did as well. Turned out she was American, a graduate from Syracuse, had come to San Sebastian after graduating to learn Spanish, and was an idiot. After terribly misunderstanding what travel recommendations we were looking for, she kept saying, 'if you can pick up a bit of Spanish , you can just ask people along the way,' having forgotten that she was the one who suggested that we switch to English. She said that she came here instead of South America to learn 'real' Spanish, and then went on a long diatribe about how South American Spanish is corrupted by English. She cited as an example the fact that in Spain, they call a computer an ordenador, whereas in Mexico it is a computadora, because in English it is computer. I pointed out that the advent of the modern personal computer took place almost entirely in America, and ordenador is equally similar to the French ordinateur. She found this very confusing. She then repeated that she wanted to learn real Castillian Spanish, not some cheap Americanized version like in Mexico or Colombia. This I loved. I was about to ask her why, then, did she come to the Basque country, where they prefer their own completely non-Spanish language and are decidedly not a part of Spain, have violently sought independence from Spain, but realizing the argument would be lost, I opted for the diplomatic solution and put her head through the ordenador.

Later that afternoon we stopped in a tapas bar, where we ate a little meat stuffed thing, some kind of shrimp salady (using the America version of the word 'salad,' meaning smothered in mayo) thing, and I finished the snack off with a big bite of my foot. When the 50 something friendly carmudgeon sort of bartenders served us our glass of the local cider, and poured themselves one, I lifted my glass towards them and said, 'que viva Espana,' forgetting where I was. After a minute, the bartender said, brusquely, 'this is not Spain.' Not realizing my mistake, and without any idea what he was talking about, I said, 'What?' 'This is not Spain, it is Euskedia' (the Basque word for the Basque country). I apologized sincerely, wondered if Basque terrorists ever pose as aging barmen, and slowly backed out the door.

We met a friendly Spanish couple that night and sampled the local wines, which are cheap and good, and the next day we set out on the bus for Bilbao. The highlight there is the Guggenheim museum designed by Frank Gehry, a building so bizarre and incomprehensible, and yet so sublime that the art on display inside hardly seemed worthy.

Some of the exhibits were very impressive, but others, a 'sculpture' that was a large undecorated steel plate, square on three sides and curved on the other, for example, were of the kind that makes you wonder if something becomes art when somebody hangs it on a wall. And still others- a large spiderweb-like metal cage enclosing a horizontal screen that repeated a 12 minute video of a young Eastern European man receivng electroshock therapy and being held down at the face by a nurse whose right hand had only little stumps for fingers, but he could use the fleshy pads of his mangled or birth defected palmy stubs to grip the screaming and contorting patient's features as necessary- that make you wish all modern artists were content to suspend scrap metal. And then you wonder why you can't stop watching.

On the walk back to our hotel from the museum we were met by a parade of mostly young, poorly dressed (by choice), chanting Basques, who looked like they had been recently been attacked by a mob of disgruntled barbers (more on Spanish haircuts to come), and whose front rank held a white cloth banner that said something in Euskedi about someone named Sandra.

I asked a guy smoking while he watched what they were going on about, and he explained that they were demanding the immediate release of a well known, vocal Basque activist/terrorist, who may have played a leading role in several deadly bombings. I asked how long she had been in jail, and he said, 'she was arrested the day before yesterday. She was brought in to face the judge in Madrid who will decide if there is enough evidence to put her on trial.' 'When will he decide?' 'Tomorrow.' I have to give credit for the spontaneous mobilization of the protesters here, but, um, not to be politically insensitive or anything, but that is just fucking crazy. Shouldn't they be waiting until after the judge decides whether she will even face trial? I imagine their chant went something like 'NO TO TIMELY LEGAL PROCEDURE. RELEASE THE FAIRLY TREATED SUSPECTED MURDERER. NO TO LEGAL PROCEDURE...'

The Basques we met were all very friendly and generous, but many projected their pride on too big a screen for me to find it admirable. Understandably, there is a historical context of language and culture oppression that you don't hear much about these days, but the independence seekers seem concerned with what distinguishes them from the Spanish rather than what unites them. They vehemently cling to their language, which is spoken nowhere else in the world-language being primarily a system of communication- instead of embracing an international language that affords them a connection to a broad global community. I understand that language is also a strong symbol of identity, but the very need to express a distinct identity from those who are so otherwise culturally similar suggests a worldview that is best eradicated. This is indeed a vibrant and warm culture, but one that is disappointingly-because they are educated enough to know better- committed to difference in a way that stinks of regressive tribalism. And now, my hypocrisy: when I meet new people and they ask me where I am from, I always say 'New York' instead of 'America.' When they ask me about Bush and America's political climate, I say that New York is New York, and not America. That revealed, you won't ever see a New Yorker clamoring for independence from the red beast of the middle, or wasting his precious time to blow up anyone from said beastly red middle for said independence. Though perhaps I will be eating these words come November '08.