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San Sebastián In hopes of catching up, I'm now transcribing and adding slightly to my travel journal, written in most cases a day or two after the events described.

Where northern Europe seemed to invite a retrospective approach to my journalizing, this Basque nation, politically an autonomous region of Spain, calls for a much more immediate style, lest too much be lost. Why? Because England, Belgium, Holland, and France felt familiar, but this place is distinctly different, and the textures and impressions feel as if they will be more fleeting, and subject to forgetting important bits. Progressively as we moved south through France, our "Train à Grand Vitesse" – TGV – moved more slowly as the tightly woven northern infrastructure gave way to more relaxed hot-country standards. Our train gallantly proceeded beyond the limits of the smooth and exclusive TGV rails all the way across the border to Irun, in Spain. I almost felt sorry for this thoroughbred that had raced smoothly across the broad farmlands of France at better than 200 kilometers per hour (160 miles per hour) but was now required to rattle along badly maintained roadbed. Other changes were immediately evident: the French factories we saw, few and far between, are modern and tucked-in, but immediately across the border, rusted hulks and brawny industrial clusters pressed close to the railway. Sitting near us on the way south, a couple of travelers were quietly discussing, in English, their strategy for managing our intended destination, Bilbao. They were determined to visit "El Goog" despite the host city's gritty reputation and the museum's crowdedness. Still bleary from our Parisian overdose of culture, we could all feel our enthusiasm for rooms more full of people than paintings evaporate. We overcame our reluctance to invade the privacy of others and asked how they were getting to Bilbao – a bit of a mystery to us navigating based on sketchy information in our train schedule. "Oh, we're not staying there at all; we're staying in San Sebastián, which is a lovely city. Would you like to look at our Lonely Planet book for a while?" Getting to Bilbao from France any way but by car is a pain, but San Sebastián is an easy commuter train ride from Irun, and we were delighted to shorten our trip. Furthermore, the recommendation of a more pleasant city to stay was most welcome, and we instantly determined to stay in San Sebastián. With the help of their book, we developed a strategy for finding lodging in San Sebastián, and upon arrival put it successfully into operation.

Racing boats in the bay

With our baggage stowed in a completely satisfactory hotel, we turned to our next priorities – Chad to find an internet café, and Sienna, Rochelle, and me to find a tapas bar where we could get a little late lunch and cold beer. We could feel this city welcoming us, and drawing us into its intriguing life. A little later, Sienna and I ventured out to watch the rowing races – narrow, colorful boats each rowed out to sea and back by two dozen husky oarsmen, time trials for next Sunday's "world championships" even though these boats are peculiar to the northern coast of Spain – and then to explore the shopping precincts.

San Sebastián's day may start early for most, but the shops and services don't open until 11am and then close again at 1:30pm for siesta, reopening again from 5pm until 7pm or 8pm. Such a nice long siesta may be necessary during the hottest months, and may also be in accord with the rest of Spain – that remains to be seen. The shops are glossy, with an unhealthy sprinkling of multi-nationals such as Benneton and Ralph Lauren. The windows held a few surprises: amazing batteries of shiny kitchen and bathroom gadgets, some of which were unfamiliar, some unusual women's clothing.

Boats at finish line

Racing boats after their runs
Cathedral at dusk	The city fronts on a perfect semicircular beach, La Kontxa – the Shell, or Concha in Castillian literation. Despite a brisk wind that kicked up nice waves, there were many people playing in the surf. Most of the central city's buildings, both old and new, are six stories with fanciful features at the tops. Back away from the beach, the streets are narrow canyons between buildings, although Sienna noticed that careful alignment of streets with the cathedral, another principal Church, and natural landmarks such as a hill and an island in the harbor, relieve the congestion. Although some streets are blessedly pedestrianized, there was lots of traffic on some streets, and parking here would be a trial even though every large public space has been excavated to create underground parking lots. Around la Kontxa, a broad promenande was crowded with Sebasteños out for their evening paseo: a well-dressed and civilized group, better turned out than the average crowd in Paris or Amsterdam.
A harbor town, San Sebatian is dotted with clocks, barometers, and other weather gear	Some of the architecture is from the Art Nouveau period

When we collected the rest of our family and set out again for dinner at half past eight, the streets and many tapas bars were still remarkably crowded, but in the old section of town, in an area called "restaurant walk" we found an appealing restaurant, and were the first to sit down to dinner at nine o'clock. By ten, when we were halfway through our first delicious dinner in San Sebastián, the tables were nearly full. As in France, dinner consists of a starter, a main course, dessert, and coffee, all accompanied by wine. As well as being in the heart of a rich farming area, San Sebastián is a fishing community and so we enjoyed the abundance of the Bay of Biscay: stuffed pimientos (red peppers) in a gorgeous red sauce, grilled shrimp reeking of garlic, perfectly prepared fish, and flan. At nearly eleven, we walked home with full bellies through streets only slightly less crowded than before; where the tapas bars had been mobbed, now it was the restaurants that were full. Our Friday, 31 Agosto, in San Sebastián found us pursuing separate paths for awhile after all visiting the market to find a picnic, and the internet café to find places to stay in Santiago, our next planned stop. Rochelle and I went back to the hotel to try to arrange accommodations in Santiago – we'd researched five places on the 'net, and all five were full, but the nice man at the fifth, who had little English, gave us one more name, and bingo! When asked "Hable Inglés?" the brusque but friendly fellow who answered the phone replied, "Digame" which we took to be a joke but turned out to be the conventional Sebastiano response. So I confided our needs and he replied, "No problema! We've got you covered." Then we were off to the train station to arrange for our reservations on the train to Hell ... no, that would be the eleven-hour ride to Santiago. Okay, tomorrow's covered; what about today?

a bar break on the mountain	We met Chad and Sienna back down on the promenade at la Kontxa and headed up past the old city toward the top of the hill that commands the northern side of the little harbor – a hill surmounted, of course, by a fort and a huge sculpture of Jesus. We had made it about a third of the way up when Chad got schpielkes and so we sat on a bench above the harbor and ate our lunch.
He zipped back to the "cyber" and we clambered on up the cobbled steps, through a couple of dark tunnels through defensive walls, past more defensive walls with gun ports, up to a terrace with a bar, where we had beers to complete our lunch before clambering to the top ... to find the Castillo museum closed for siesta. (We didn't much care.)	San Sebastián from the top of the hill

Downtown San Sebastián	Back down the hill past the cat lady and her dozen ardent but skitish attendants, and through the heart of the old town, where they were getting ready for the night's celebration. Did you say celebration? Count us IN. Not that it matters too much, but what exactly are we celebrating? I'm glad you asked: in 1813, when Napoleon's troops occupied the north of Spain, the British and Portuguese (who shared a dislike of the little man) sent an expeditionary force to beat him back to what they considered the proper French border.
By the time they were done battling, San Sebastián was in flames but Napoleon's troops were hastily retreating. When the fire finally stopped, only one street, five blocks long, and the two churches at either end, were unburnt – precisely the kind of story the Spanish love. The date? Need you ask? The 31 Agosto 1813, of course, and the street was renamed to commemorate the event. Every year on August 31st, at 9:30pm exactly, electric lights along the short street are turned off, and lighted by candles, and a small parade of singers and soldiers in Napoleonic uniforms parade through the crowd from one church to the other. Sound like fun?	The view from the Mirador
The fountain	Well, it was and it wasn't. Like any intensely local and meaningful commemoration, the actual events are eclipsed by the social magnetism created. In the case of the Spanish, who are great talkers, such a gathering is primarily a call for endless palaver. We also noticed that the Spanish sense of personal space is very different – smaller and more concentric – than ours.

And so by 9:10 we found ourselves hemmed in by a friendly, talkative, mildly expectant but excited mob of Sebasteños with a very light sprinkling of outsiders like ourselves. At 9:30 sharp – lots of clocks in San Sebastián, and lots of barometers, too – the lights were turned off, and the flickering candlelight created a magical underwater glow. At length at the far end of the crowded street we saw lights moving our way, possibly a block along, and then stopped. Ten minutes later they moved toward us again, covering half the distance, then stopped again, and in the occasional breaks in the incessant conversations going on all around us, singing could be heard. "Are you sure it isn't time to go find dinner?" asked Rochelle, but Sienna and I were bound to stay and see how the parade ended. After fifteen more minutes, the lights, which could now be seen to be torches, started moving toward us again; the crowd parted and moved ahead of the parade, reached the church steps where we were standing, passed us close enough to see that the torches were tin cans affixed to broomsticks with spirit lamps inside, and assembled the chorus on the church porch not twenty feet away from us (amidst a dense crowd that FINALLY shut up expectantly.) The singing, once it began, was stirring. After a couple of "story songs" that seemed to tell why we were gathered, the chorus started singing Vasco songs, and many in the audience started to sing along. Finally, the chorus leader turned to the throng and started a song that must have been patriotic, and a majority started to sing along. Pressed close with a few thousand of our closest new friends in the torch- and candlelight on the church porch, it was a stirring experience.

Singing on the church porch photo credit: Chad Abramson
	The song ended, and the throng began to spread out into the city. We sought a likely looking restaurant, and again chose luckily, one that turned out to be staffed entirely (except for the dive and the prep cook) by women. We had pimientos in delicious sauce and gambas a la plancha – grilled shrimps in garlic– and an awesome paella that left us staggering. Home after midnight, we packed so we could leave the hotel in time to catch our 9:02 train.

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