Un Poquito De Sol

When I awoke, or rather, when I was awoken by a French train operator shaking me and saying a number of things to which my simply standing and gathering my things was luckily satisfying, I had come, over the course of about five hours, to the French border town of Hendaye (Onn-Dye). A quaint port town resting at the feet of the Pyrenees, Hendaye might make a good quiet getaway for a writer of cheap, recycled-paper bound mystery novels, the kind the would-be-surprise end of which the experienced reader is aware hundred pages before the end, yet finishes it for the same as yet unintelligible reason behind the unbridled success of such tripe as the Da Vinci Code (Tom Hanks, truly, you are the ace in the hole). But my stay here was brief, allowing barely enough time to enjoy a baguette y hamon y uno pint de Kronenburg. Soon enough, a privately operated train left from across the parking lot that promised to take me to San Sebastian (check your pronunciation; it’s wrong) for the nominal fee of one Euro and thirty-five cents. The ensuing ride through the Basque country (do your own research) was the first time yet that I had begun to ask myself just exactly into what I had gotten myself now. Dilapidated apartment buildings, the type with clothes hanging on all the balconies (I suppose for drying, though the weather has been anything but dry, ensuring must, mold) set off the skyline while the ground was covered, when not simply with trash, by tent like residences, resembling a refugee camp from TeeVee. This continued for about 35 minutes when finally the train arrived at its terminus in the heart of San Sebastian. A beautifully planned and constructed port/beach city, S. Sebastian is home to brave coldwater surfers, tourism in the warmer months surely, and a bustling café and boutique atmosphere. My momentary fears were heartily dismissed.
This is the first place yet where people, once they find out I speak not French, Basque, or Spain, are surprised, curious what exactly has brought me these many thousand kilometers to their relatively small town. To some, I am an interest, especially as I am traveling alone, to others, a nuisance, wasting their time trying to explain myself. Regardless, and I cannot stress this enough, I am overjoyed to be doing this on my own. Everything I do is exciting and a challenge. On my seat on the trains, I literally sit on the edge. Any compatriot with which I might travel would surely tire of me, and I of them, wasting energy and attention better directed at unfamiliar experience. An exception might be made in the form a female comrade whose required heartiness (that is, ability to not bitch) might certainly have a negative effect on her aesthetic quality. Perhaps I could find a tenable combination somewhere in the Eastern block.
My mind is firing a million bursts a second, digging tunnels through my grey matter in a valiant effort to adapt to my fish flapping on the carpet circumstances, and this can be exhausting, if not merely exhilarating. So after a hot meal and a beer I made my way to my room and shut down my circuits for the night, at 8:30 local time, falling asleep to the tune of Spanish-language coverage of the USA v. Norway Olympic Curling competition.
The following day I had to myself, as my train to Pamplona departed not until 8 pm. I spent most of my time on the beach with my novel (The American by Henry James, purchased from a second hand bookseller on the Thames walk) enjoying the first sunshine I have yet to see my entire trip. Though the air estaba frio, I laid in pants and a t-shirt for the better part of two hours in complete comfort. Then, when clouds blew back over the sun I found a music shop, the first one I have been able to locate yet, and shredded for an hour. Upon deciding the proprietor had had his fill of my art, I made my way down the street and into another music shop, where I preceded to do the same thing for another hour. By now it was time to catch my train. Two hours through the darkness to the tune of the Lips (my travels’ theme music) brought me to Pamplona, Katherine, and a night on the town where I made a great number of friends, even having a philosophical conversation with two philosophy majors in broken spanglish with subjects ranging from the LA attitude of Adorno, to the lack of academic attention given to the Pragmatists (Perth, James) in the States. Needless to say, I was a pig in pigslop.