Finally...Spain and Children

Once upon a time a girl left Iowa to see the world; this time to the north of Spain; Euskal Herria. The first time she left, she had been 18 and ready for adventure. The second time she knew a secret she had not known the first time; there was a whole world out there she knew nothing about, and had never even imagined. Enter the San Sebastian chapter of life; one, short, too short, semester abroad in the loveliest place I have ever seen. 

Twenty-some years later, I was able to share Donosti (the Basque name for San Sebastian) with my children. I have waited for years and years! It is mountain and ocean, grandiose plazas, luxury hotels, beaches and tiny, 6-floor walk-up apartments (some things we do not forget), shared with three Basque women and one New Yorker. It is cooking meals for five every night and hollering down to the gas truck on delivery day; "Senor! 6th floor, por favor!" 

It is, above all, representative of a Spain that literally lives in the streets almost all of the time. Night and day there are bars open with people going in and out of them, discussing everything from politics to the price of pasta to the weather, eating a bite (a pintxo, no "tapas" here), usually standing up, having a tiny beer or a half glass of wine, and moving on to the next one. I miss this street life, vibrant even in tiny villages and towns. I miss the Basque culture, in which I steeped and stewed for five fabulous months. (It rains a lot).

Those are hams hanging from the ceiling; in every bar. And the wide, delicious variety of pintxos meant that even my vegetarian daughter had a choice of items everywhere we went. There is just the smallest amount of Basque vocabulary left in my head, enough to warm the locals to my requests. This bar tender said "yes!" to a photo with good grace in the middle of a busy pre-lunch hour. 

Another couple offered to take a picture of the whole family; I find the people here some of the friendliest anywhere...almost as good as in the Midwest. Everywhere you look, there will be someone giving a tourist directions, with big arm gestures and a million explanations. If you look really lost, you might find your arm tucked under theirs as they walk you to the place you pointed to on the map or tried to pronounce.

It really is not far away, but logistically, there was always a reason for abstaining from one more thing on my "to see" list. If you do not wish to drive and tempt fate with a French license plate (the Basque would notoriously set fire to cars daring to approach their territory in a French car at one point in time), not to mention traffic, limited parking and long lines, there is an easier way; the TOPO, or tiny train from Hendaye to Donosti, a 30-minute ride. I was finally able to gather all items needed to make this little trip happen, at least for the five of us. The older kids...will have to return with me or on their own another time. We drove the two and a half hours down the coast, parked in a secure parking lot with video surveillance now, for a whole 7 Euros for the day, and hopped on the TOPO two minutes later. 

The streets of "La Parte Vieja" where the pintxos are the best and it is all happening, unless you are looking for the A-crowd in the chic part of town. Even many of them will be here too. Note; the tables on the right; OUTSIDE of the bars.

The square outside of the station in Donosti:

Along the docks of the old port; we sat and watched half a dozen people dive from the edge into the bay; right in front of the "NO DIVING" sign. The rebellious spirit of the Basque people is alive and well.

I studied Basque at La Universidad del Pais Vasco with one of the kindest, well-educated professors I have ever known. There were five Americans, and that was the whole class. We learned the language, geography, the struggle, the poetry and the music of Euskal Herria, or Basque Country. Singing is a serious part of being Basque. It was one of the ways the people could express their discontent, hopes and ambitions for their country. We visited churches, museums, towns, and attempted to learn this very particular, non-Indo-European language that sounded like nothing any of us had ever heard before. The love of my life lived a train ride away in France and visited often. It was the best semester of my life as a student anywhere.

Here is the main beach/boardwalk of Donosti; La Concha, I have memories of walking home from the Parte Vieja, late, late at night with friends, filled with wonder at the moon beams shining on the beach...

Sunflowers and Sea

Photos brought to you by budding photographer, Valentine, below:

Valentine had the idea for a photo-shoot amid the field of sunflowers down the road. It was one of those sweet, sibling moments, where they left, with the cousins in tow, to spend a minute together on their own. All that sunshine and heat was not my speed that day, so I reluctantly handed over The Camera to Valentine, who had a blast taking a hundred thousand photos of her sister and of flowers. I'm glad I did. She's pretty good! Photos of Valentine, credit to Cate, who captured her little sister really well!

Full of her newly-found confidence as photographer, Valentine continued to find reasons for more "portrait sessions" while we were in Pays Basque, Spanish and French sides (another article, but here are a few of her shots):

And her take on the sunset over "La Corniche"cliffs and ocean, that I had renounced trying to capture:

She made me sit for pictures too; and had the good idea to make sure I took off my ugly and comfortable shoes after the first couple of shots. Port of San Sebastian...more on this tomorrow.

Gone Visiting

For a "short" trip, this one packed so much joy, including what I did not think I would be able to do; see friends! It looked complicated, and it's not exactly simple, but how fantastic it has been to spend time with friends that are only dearer now that it has been so many years. 

It started with a short train ride, with my own seat; a set of four, actually, all to myself. The second train was an altogether different kettle of fish. It was all full of these things...other passengers. Not a free spot for eons. I did snatch a jump seat in the back, with my bags tucked around me, around other people's bags. I still had elbow room to knit; the essentials, right? At the first stop after I climbed aboard, an announcement let us know that the engineer needed to make a computer adjustment and this adjustment could only be done on an empty train, so everybody off! for "five little minutes" while he makes the adjustment/reset, whatever. All twelve hundred of us trudge off the train, into the hot sun on the platform, and although we were reassured that there was no reason to bring anything with us, most of us brought our luggage, because we were not born this morning. The five minutes stretches into ten, and the sun is sort of warm at 4pm. There is nowhere to go, because at any minute we will be told to get back on the train, so I just have to sigh and put up with the six hundred smokers around me, up close and personal-like, puffing as though their next cig was not going to be until 4:30 or some crazy time. Great journey, zero glam, but I got where I was headed. 

My friend was there at the station to meet me; fantastic! I had packed super-light, for me, and had only one backpack and a purse, containing vitals such as toothbrush, phone and knitting. We headed off on foot; across the bridge of many flags in Bayonne, to the bus stop we needed to get to the hospital. D's husband had had surgery the week before and was recovering there. After three or four buses...I lost track, because we were catching up non-stop the whole time, I just followed D wherever she headed next, we arrived at the hospital to see my friend, J. We had a nice visit, he looked happy to see us, so I was glad we could make it. D and I left in another bus, headed to Biarritz. In this town on the Basque coast; the view hits you with a force that takes away your breath; waves, crashing on rocks, beauty, savage and glorious, buildings hiding and revealing the beach off and on; then, a clear space with a view to make you never want to leave. We trekked up to their apartment, dropped off our bags and headed out to enjoy a night in Biarritz. We spent one lovely evening strolling the streets, glorying in the view as the sun set over waves, rocks and cliffs, and sampling delicious food in different tapas bars; squid, foie gras, tortilla (Spanish potato omelette), and rosé.

The next morning we did it all again in the opposite direction, deciding to splurge on a taxi to make sure we got to the train station on time. Unfortunately for the taxi profession and fortunately for the reputation of Uber, the taxi never showed up. I missed my train, but had an extra half-hour to hang out and have a bite to eat with D. In keeping with their reputation for excellent food and terrible service (which is not always true here), the place we chose to eat did not serve lunch before noon. Pressed; "Might you have a couple of packages of chips? Croissants left over from breakfast? Granola bars?" the waiter offered, halfheartedly, to bring us a plate of Bayonne ham; "yes, please!" 

The next best thing after Bayonne ham is Prosciutto, but equality with jambon de Bayonne? Not so sure. This was perfect; thinly sliced, almost shaved, and it had just been cut, perfectly salted, with just the right amount of fat striped through it in the right places, nothing hard that could not be eaten easily... magnificent. The grump even threw in a few French cornichons (a version of pickle not found in America). The coffee...was gross enough that we dashed next door, at D's insistence, for a real cup before crossing the street back to the station. 

The next train was a TGV, or a high-speed train. All seats have reservations on this type of train. D and I grabbed a set of four again and settled back for the half hour or so to Dax, where my family awaited to take me to see friends from Toulouse. It is hard to say good-bye, but what a fun visit!

Dax...and no family. When I call, they are still eating lunch downtown somewhere. You might know what time you walk into a restaurant, but you don't always know what time you will walk out in France. That gives me a minute to have a soda and a little bar of dark chocolate all to myself. Then I repent and buy a big bar to share with everyone, and I have one little square with my "Coca-Zero", still American at heart. 

Finally; after a ride that seems to last forever in the summer traffic, we are at our destination of Capbreton, on the coast of les Landes. My wonderful friend, N, and her amazing husband, JM are waiting for us, as they have been for over an hour. N and I have been friends since my very first months in Toulouse. We were both 21, the age of our daughters now. Like with D, I don't feel like this relationship has changed in the least. We always have new things to talk about, and on different sides of the world, we have made similar discoveries about life, about one's outlook, and happiness as something you produce yourself. We had a peaceful afternoon sitting under the parasol and taking walks along the beach, while the kids and Thierry swim and mess around in the waves. I really don't want to say good-bye again a second time in the same day, but again, it was so very good to reconnect that I try to have no regrets.

We head home again, stopping for dinner in a small village in a place that promises a menu ranging from pizzas, charcuterie, salads, and our favorite, normally; moules/frites (mussels and fries). The proprietor is super friendly but a little grubby, the restroom/broom closet is "sketchy" in Gael's words, "impossible" in my estimate. The mussels smell funny, so I eat fries (about 2 kilos) and some lettuce, leaving the mussels to Thierry. Valentine amuses herself analyzing the typical teenage behavior of a table of high-schoolers across the way, giving us updates as the meal progresses. By the time we leave, the rate of traffic has dropped and the road is easy.

We've been back home since Wednesday night, hanging out with a fun cousin who is here as well for a few days. She speaks excellent English and brings a whole, fresh perspective on life. Thank you, la cousine! Her sister came to visit last week with her husband and adorable daughter, Anna. It is a delight to see these girls as grown ups. I first knew them when they were toddlers. They sang a song for us at our wedding, and the middle sister (there are three) was married last time we were here. The setting and ceremony were both beautiful, photos here: French wedding

Photos of now? Sure! 

A stop on the way home from our first beach trip; more successful than the one described above!

Basque tapas; peppers, bread with tomato and anchovies, mozarella and olive for my vegetarian: 

The charcuterie plate:

Dinner in the back yard:

The vegetable patch:

Along my morning walk:

Cows: Jumping/Swerving Contest

Another little competition has occupied our time the past few days; you know, the World Cup? It has been one big party!

On the same day, we were invited to a Course Landaise, the main idea of which is to either avoid, as closely as possible, or jump over, a fierce little cow with big 'ol horns.

It starts with the village band:

Yes; he just jumped and rolled into a flip.

The band plays on:

And the cow, unhurt, tears around and charges:

How About NOT Shopping (Intersperesed with Fun Photos)

I set out to run a few errands yesterday and today; partial success, and too hot to trot. Dang, it is warm, even at 10am, and to my irritation, most shops are not air-conditioned downtown. Since part of our errands included finding swimsuits for two girls, it was an endless succession of shops, waits and no swimsuits to speak of.

How about a shot of the ocean instead? There was an emergency and everyone had to clear out of the water for two hours, looks the way I like it; no people, no boards, no boogers:

Here is how it goes; sales start on July 1, maybe 10-30% off. On July 8, the second set of sales begins, 30-60% off. By the 10th, there is not much left. I shoudda known better. 

As for the "supermarket" (think big stores that sell food and everything else), there will be a line, always, and if you are dim-witted enough to not look up and understand that the "CB" sign means that the only payment accepted in this line is a French debit card, too bad for you, you get to stand in line all over again for the cashier who wants your cash.

Here are the flamenco singers from the other night:

You wanted to buy a fan because it's so hot no one is sleeping? You saw they were on sale at one store? Ha! Sucker! Of course those sold out like two hours after the ad went up. Sigh, but as I am leaving the store, the lady who originally told me there were none left comes to the rescue; "Excusez-moi, madame! I found one! The only one we have, it's back in aisle 15, and it's 65 Euros." "Um, thank you anyway. I was interested in the other ones." New store, new search, victory. But they must be hidden, because someone in the house, or half the population of the country, at least, scratch that, more like 90%, believes that a draft can maim, kill or at the very least give you strep throat. Must. Hide. New. Fans.

And the dancer; check out the video from a few days ago if you haven't, it is hard to take good photos with 300 or more other people crowded in, all trying to do the same thing:

Ah well, today's expedition ended in locating the yarn shop and then a cold soda (I know, how American of me; I did NOT drink coffee today!) at the cafe. It really is lovely to have even a soda here; served in an old-fashioned soda glass, bottle next to it, opened by the garcon/owner with a bottle opener. My French guy and me at the flamenco festival:

Jardin, Foot (=Soccer)

I had to try to translate/explain "lying low" for my father-in-law today, to say why we were not heading back to the beach this week, for now. Sun burn is not a nice thing. There is no shortage of things to do and be done. A daily walk, shop, cafe, set the table, eat, do dishes, nap, work, play cards, knit, set table, dishes, watch soccer (a slight soccer obsession takes over the family every four years during the World Cup. this year is even greater, since France just made it to the semi-finals, such a rukkus!) Here is what THAT looks like here:

Thierry's parents' beautiful yard, and vegetable garden:

 

Go Blue.

The Atlantic and its Follies

Saturday, we rediscovered salt water, sand and waves; there are no words, really, but here are a few photos. Bliss (see? I did find a word!) Les Landes, France, miles of Atlantic beaches and pine forest.

These are from my phone, and I have yet to figure out just the right way to transfer them to my blog; they were so crisp and beautiful on the phone's screen.

The latest contraptions on the beach this year; self-blow-up-with-the-wind cushions. You just hold it up and let the wind inflate it...no wind means you either run around like a fool or forget it. Cate, relaxing in one, while her cousin, Remy, who is always with her, comes up for air...his chair was out of it, and, in his own words; "Life is just too hard."

The Flamenco

Once in awhile I realize I could have done or been someone else...every time I breathe in and feel my heart beat to the rhythm of flamenco, I have one of those moments; that passion and strength and pulse; ah! I should have been born in Andalusia, into a dancing, gypsy family, trained to take my fierceness into dance steps. 

Last night we crowded in with a few hundred others, under the tent, to get a view of what we could from our vantage point of the stage and the marvelous Gema Moneo:

Not that any more words are needed, but in case you wanted to know...I visited Spain once when I was 18, an exchange student who was living for life in France at the time, a dream come true. I was staying with a host family in St.Jean-de-Luz for the weekend, in Basque Country. The brother and his fiance wanted to take me over the border to Spain for the evening. Of course, I went along, I went anywhere anyone wanted to go that year. It was astounding; there were people everywhere in this town; it was San Sebastian, or Donostia, to the locals, in the Basque language. There were a hundred tiny bars in a street with no cars, people going in and out of them, drinking a little glass of wine, beer, eating a pincho (tapas in Pays Basque), dropping their wrappers on the ground...as though that was the normal thing to do, then on to the next bar. It was the happiest set of people I had ever seen, and I did not understand a word of what was being said. I wanted more! 

The next year, back home in college, I found a semester-abroad program; in Donostia! I spent the most wonderful time, living the life of a Spanish/Basque college student; pinchos and kalimocho on weekends, student protests in squares (my roommates, (in our unheated, sixth-floor walk-up), because of a national strike, had not one day of school all semester, so we would join them in solidarity once in awhile). Burned into my mind's eye; walks home with friends along the moonlit beach at 4am, every other free minute also spent walking the beach, the mountains, learning to sail in December in the rocky waves of the Atlantic. 

Our Basque professor, a lovely, dedicated woman, took the whole class (of five) on field trips to museums, to sacred places in Basque lore, and invited us to her house to learn to cook stew in the traditional way, after a morning spent sneaking us in to the men's-only Basque club, and mass at a church with an alter, like many fishing villages, in the form of a boat.  

So, yes, I have a thing for Spain...and the south of France is pretty close to Spain, if you take a look at a map, you can confirm this for yourself. Our town; little Mont-de-Marsan, population 30,000, is home to the best festival; Arte del Flamenco, each July. There is also bull-fighting, cow-jumping and a party in the streets...all coming up next week. If I am lucky, we'll be home in time from the beach today to take in one last flamenco display...crossing fingers now.

Post-Dejeuner (Lunch)

 15 hundred hours...or 3pm, and I am just finishing up the dishes from lunch. It's been raining off and on all day, all night too, so outside fun will mean lots of mud. I am having a little work time (glossary updates, a look at my book that I put on hold, answering an email or two.) The view from my bedroom window; that's the tool/potting shed my father-in-law built, a very Peter Rabbit type of place, n'est-ce-pas?

 As soon as I finished the dishes, my mother-in-law got busy with dinner preparations.

The kids play board games with Papy, making him more or less completely nuts:
Thierry works (somehow) from the office at the top of the stairs, open to kids and noise:

And Cate is hiding in the bedroom, studying for the LSAT and consolidating refugee research. I do not dare take HER picture just now.

This morning was spent going to market, stopping for an espresso at the cafe the family likes, as opposed to the cafe the family does not like, new owners, too rude. By the time we left, half the town had piled up around us on every chair the cafe had available; one man left, graciously, but all the same (!) after we "borrowed" first one chair, then his extra table, then all of the chairs around him to seat our impromptu "guests". We bought a few groceries, a few loaves of French bread, and got soaked on the way to the car by a downpour. Lunch was made; delicious! duck and fried tomatoes with onions, salad, cheese and coffee. I am used to life here again.

Early AM, the South of France, Dining Room Table

Welcome to life in the laid-back south of France, in the home of the retired, but not elderly grandparents. The bread is crisp (until the rain hits), the cheese is extraordinary, and the wine is fine. Everyday conversations, seen from an observer's perspective, go something like this;

My husband; "Mama, how do you like the Essentrics DVD I sent you? Doesn't your back feel so much better?"

(Thierry loves Essentrics as much as I do; so he bought his mom a copy of a DVD in French for Christmas and sent it to her.)

Mamie; "Oh, mon cheri, I haven't had a chance to try it. You see, I can't use it because our DVD player doesn't work anymore. I've been waiting for your father to fix it or something, I don't get those things, but I haven't been able to play the thing."

"What's wrong with it? I'll buy you one of those little 10-bit plug-in ones so you can try it."

Papy; "Mais non...it doesn't work because of the new tv regulations and standards. It can't read DVDs anymore, it's been a year now since they changed things and we can't connect it. We have to have one that can handle the new kind of tv."

"No you don't, let me see."     

DVD player plugged in, working, after a good, long session of pinched fingers, irritation and maneuvering behind the television set by the fireplace; "here, hand me that; no, the other one, mais non, that one goes into here. Does not. Hold on, no, unplug that, ouch! grumble, grumble."

"Now look; the channels don't work!" (Papy)

"What do you mean, the tv doesn't work if the DVD player is plugged in?"

Papy; "We can't get these three channels; look!" Fuzz on screen.

"But Channel 3 works...that makes no sense, the DVD player is blocking some channels and not others?"

"The tv doesn't work now, that's what I've been telling you. The DVD player messes up the whole thing. I don't miss it at all. Stupid tv, hated it anyway."

"Is this new?"

Papy; "No, we haven't had any channels since the takeover, it's all a conspiracy to make us buy new televisions every year."

"So, since when has it not worked?"

Papy; "Well, since December or so."

"Then it's not linked to the DVD player being connected."

Papy; "Whatever, I hate tv anyway. I could totally live without it. Stupid thing."

Heeeey! I have found a new ally in my anti-screen campaign! It is like the 21st century never arrived here, I love it. The kids are practically never on their phones; too much to talk about with their cousins and grandparents, too much to eat, games to be played (at least two tournaments of Mille Bourne yesterday with Mamie), and just the novelty of not being at home. 

We were here all day; day one was spent sleeping until noon to catch up after a long journey. Lunch was lovely; we grilled out and ate on the terrace until just before coffee, when the rumble of thunder and then rain sent us scrambling back in. We stayed at the table inside for forever, talking and drinking tiny cups of coffee, nibbling at dark chocolate, joking with the little cousins, Remy; 7 and Alice, 11. None of the six cousins did much talking during the whole meal, everybody still shy of each other, but they were all warmed up and playing together by nap time. Remy and Gael had the little cars out and zooming all over the floor, Valentine went to curl up with a book and Alice followed. We could hear giggling from down here. Cate (who, naturally, not only survived, but THRIVED in Paris, loving every minute and learning how much she has yet to learn on the sticky topic of refugee hosting and immigration, is here now, hurrah!) had Remy on her lap at every meal, and Charles was in deep observation mode, except when it came to practicing naughty words and "helping out" his cousins. Duncan is missed by all, but I bet Tuxy-dog is happy to have one of us at home with him.

The trip? Exhausting, but no hitches. Flying through Ireland was a milestone for me; I've finally touched down in the isle of my ancestors, or the Irish half of them. We had salmon; a "must" for Thierry, at the airport, along with an Irish beer, not the best choice in the middle of a long trip, but another "must". The kids were so tired that they decided they were not happy at all about the opportunity to spend three days in this magnificent country on the way home. What they do not know is that they will be full of energy and happy to explore, just coming from a month in France, with rest and good food, and not 15 hours of travel and bad airplane food and not enough water. I know it. And if not, I will dump their sorry selves in a roadside inn and go exploring on my own. New journey, new hopes and dreams...and new set of expectations.

Full House

It is 2 am and I am trying not to make noise, icing my foot, in the playroom, because I am not sure, but I think there might be someone asleep in the living room just over there. It is rare to have all five kids home at the same time these days, but so very nice. The only problem is remembering where everyone bunked down last night so that I keep from waking them up. This has a sort of deja vue feeling from when they were babies and I would go to crazy lengths not to wake them up.

Cate is home, on her way to Paris. We will meet up with her again in July at the house of les grands-parents in the south. I am trying not to worry...I was on my own in Paris, in Madrid, in San Sebastian, when I was younger than she is now. She will be fine. Now if only her father would quit fussing at how she should dress because "she won't be in America, and shorts are NOT OK", I could relax too. I am sure she will have the time of her life...right?

Final exams are in full swing for the ones in school, and Gael and I are winding down our last days of official homeschooling, how in the world did that happen? He will be attending the Creative Arts Academy next year, which looks like an amazing opportunity, most days. Some days I have doubts about losing the last one to school, especially to the pressures, social and otherwise, that I see the others facing every day. I know, that many children go to school...and life is just fine for them. That does not mean it is the BEST choice, just the most widespread. Or popular. Or "normal". I never had much use for popular or normal. Widespread is a little more reassuring, as it implies that most people get through the experience mostly unscathed and somewhat better educated at the end of it. The same could be said of homeschooling, right? Whatever you do or do not do, you will make some mistakes and do some things right. As my friend and mentor David Albert once told me; "You're gonna mess up somewhere. Just set aside an equal amount of money for college and for counseling to fix it later." 

I will include equal amounts of meditation; for the teachers who have the vocation of dealing with a whole roomful of these little boogers every day; thank you! And for mama, as I head into the world of patiently waiting for one more school event, five or six more conference sessions every term, homework to help with, reams of paperwork to read over, sign, respond to, rules and "ALICE" drills to sigh over, and items to pick up at the last minute before school because they forgot...again. 

But before that; we will have one fun summer!

Down to the Mighty Mississip'

Annie Dillard comes to mind as I wander, in mind and body, drinking in the river, the bright blue and rough flood waters pouring down through the open dam, the tranquil, flat grey ribbon that is the Mississippi just a few hundred yards later, as it flows east to west. As I breathe in and just become one with the river and the sky and the birds...do I lose the becoming with the thought that I will just be, just stop thinking and become a part of it? Do the moments right after, even during the time when I let go and be, do they count, or have I already given in to thought and words and descriptions simply in thinking the thought, "let go."

As I ride along, I free myself not to worry about whether or not I have become hopelessly entangled in the same twists and warpings of thought and worry I wished to avoid on this early morning ride. This is a cleansing time, a time for pleasure in the spring morning, the wind, the sun, the budding trees; a week past the first furtive, pale green ideas of leaves sprouting forth all around me, now full-on leaves and blooms everywhere you look. The pinks, lavenders and violets riot with color and snow down petals. So brief! comes to mind, like life, and that thought too, is squashed back down by the choice not to think, just to enjoy, to revel, here and now, to be.