The final leg of my journey with Gen, and of my adventures in Spain as a whole, brought me to the Basque country, a fascinating place in a lot of ways, but mostly for me because of how very different it is from the rest of Spain. I remember thinking that this difference was at least as clear, if not even more so, than that which was apparent in Lisbon. Everything from the landscape, architecture and of course the language and culture was unique. What’s more, this proud apartness and tradition survived (or at least a lot of it has, it seems) the rule of Franco. Before that it survived persecution from the religious zealousness of Spain’s Catholic Church, which has apparently in the past called the Basque language “the language of the devil.” And before that, it survived 800 years of Moorish rule in Spain. And before that, well who knows. The bottom line is, this place, and these people, are old.
To travel to the Basque region from Logroño we used train, which was eight euro well, well spent. The two hour ride took us out of La Rioja, or Spain’s wine region, and into the more rugged and diverse scenescapes of the Basque region in what I have to say was one of the most beautiful rides of my life. A few times I tried to wake Gen, who began nodding off within the first few minutes of the trip, but to no avail. I’d wake her, my eyes half crazy I’m sure with excitement at the view around us; she’d stir, look around and smile dreamily, and then cash back out immediately. And so I took to simply staring and contemplating. Hill after hill of redish clay earth, each covered in vineyards and later snow, stretched out all around the tracks until reaching jagged peaks in the distance. Small villages at times populated a hill or two, consisting of red roofed homes encircling an old castle or church, which of course rested at the highest point. The relatively smooth clay and grass hills were at times interrupted by jagged yellow and white rocks and cliffs, which looked as if they had been eerily peeking out, untouched and in the same position for thousands, tens of thousands of years or more. The land grew more mountainous and green as we drew closer to the coast and to Bilbao.
Exiting the train station, we were immediately taken with the architecture of the place. Despite the cold air and overcast weather, we strolled out of the station along the Casco Viejo and up the Paseo Campo Volantín toward the Guggenheim in relative bliss, being surrounded by these very handsome, very modern Basque buildings. After dropping our bags off at our unimpressive hostel, we grabbed lunch at a random café, the owner of which happened to be one of the kindest people either of us had ever met. Marijose was her name, and she owned the quaint little café with her husband, who sat in the corner reading the paper fixedly and contently. Immediately seeing Gen and I’s general confusion and unfamiliarness with ordering food in basque cafes, Marijose told me we needn’t worry, and that she’d fix us up a cheap and healthy mix of some of her best pintxos (pronounced peen-chos). And she really meant it; within minutes she had served us up a mixed salad with loads of vegetables and chicken kebabs to go along with some tortilla española and coffee, all for next to nothing. I translated for Genevieve as all of this occurred, making sure she was ok with the food and then relaying that everything was wonderful to Marijose. Keeping with the blunt character of the Basque’s, Marijose exclaimed that she could see that I was the translator or informant and that Gen held most of the decision making power in our little traveling pair. A bold statement, but not totally off the mark. I had a hard time translating it for Genevieve. Within no time, whether because of my sometimes overly prying questions or because of her naturally open nature, Marijose began talking about her upbringing in the Basque country. Her parents were both Basque, one raised in Bilbao and one in a small village away from the city. Shockingly enough, despite the fact that both had been raised with the language in a region that, if I’m not mistaken, is smaller than the state of Illinois, neither could understand each other’s Basque perfectly, because one spoke a rural dialect and the other a city dialect. Compounded with this problem was the fact that during the rule of Franco, people were not allowed to speak the language, let alone teach it to their children, unless they wanted to face brutal and totalitarian consequences. Marijose, who lived in the city with her parents, was not allowed speak her native tongue throughout her entire upbringing, and so never learned it, while her sisters, who lived in a village outside of the more easily policed city limits, were taught in secret. And so to sum up, Marijose was sadly one of the only members, if not the only, member of her family who could not speak the ancient language. After Franco’s end, she had tried to pick up the language but, as she explained, you can’t really study Basque. It’s not a tongue well kept in literature or texts, and is apparently almost entirely oral. By the time she could finally try to learn, she was no longer young enough to pick up a solely oral language. However, this did not prevent the woman from having a wonderful disposition, or from talking our ears off in Spanish. She soon began talking to us about politics, and with a far more serious tone. After telling her we had indeed voted for Obama, she put her arms around us and spoke with a sudden conviction about health care reform (among other things) that almost shocked me. “When you return to the states,” she said. “You must talk about these things, you must tell all your friends and everyone you know and be unafraid to encourage change.” We nodded and agreed in earnest. If Marijose was a good example of Basque hospitality and culture – and I think she was – then it means care and concern, but more importantly perhaps a lack of fear to speak openly and bluntly. I liked this a whole lot.
estuviste en una errikotaberna?
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