The Running of the Buses (Donosti) [Revised]

*Revised for friendliness and grammer.

The weather has been improving, which one would normally expect as spring creeps in, but with the global climate growing inpredictabile of late, it's tough to count on anything.

Which is why my planned visit to the Basque town of San Sebastian proved complicated. The small city on the northeast coast of Spain, just a short 20-30 miles from the French border, was my first-choice residence in this country, strictly because it's known to have some of Europe's best surf. Ultimately, settling in Barcelona proved a better idea, both in terms of price and wider-spread availability of amenities like broadband internet, but a nine-hour busride couldn't keep me away from that funky little beach town on the Bay of Biscay.



However, choosing the right days to go was difficult. I needed more than a forecast for sunshine, already a rare commodity in the month of April. There also needed to be an incoming swell- something born in the North Atlantic, like around Iceland, and mellow winds that weren't going to destroy the good breaks. My attentive studies of the various forecasts showed a promising window beginning on a late Sunday and heading into midweek.

Catching the right bus can make or break a trip, as I should have learned pretty quickly when boarding in Barcelona. It was getting late on a Saturday, and already the seats were near full as we departed for the overnight trip via Irona, and the more famous Pamplona. The driver brusquely directed each passenger to specific luggage compartments and was obviously in a desperate hurry to leave. Little wonder most of us didn't have the courage to argue or question his methods despite the confusion of multiple languages and a collective uncertainty about just where this bus might go. Only one passenger did, and he made me instantly regret politely offering my place in line. But who ever heard of a belligerant priest? Padre was apparently reluctant to give up his fabric briefcase, which he clutched as if it contained so many precious relics. He and the driver had it out, with some hint of foul insults tickling my uncomprehending brain. To be honest, I think that briefcase held booze.

Regardless, the ensuing mood probably had a lot to do with a young Oklahoman couple's decision to board without question. I heard these honeymooners speak English to each other during the wee holy fracas, and when they happened to take a seat across the aisle, I decided to casually strike up a conversation as the bus left the station. Lucky for them, because they were anticipating a short, twenty or thirty minute busride to a hotel room they'd resrved on Playa San Sebastian, a beach on the outskirts of Barcelona. I inoccuously made some incredibly lame American traveller's joke about nine hour busrides and they looked at me as if I was a tornado about to flatten their Dairy Queen. I helped them arrange to disembark at the nearest stop on the way out of town, but I still wonder how long they would have stuck out that trip before they began to wonder if they were even still in Spain...

Anyway, the nine hour trip to the Basque country took less than seven, somehow, and after nearly an hour and a half determining that A) The local bus to my hostel doesn't run on Sunday mornings and B) All Basque taxi drivers hate me, to the point of screaming at me in Euskara (the native tongue, unrelated to any other known langauge in the world and apparently quite prolific with the venomous metaphors).

I then discovered that, depsite telling me otherwise, the hostel didn't have a bed ready for me until early afternoon. They did let me stash my backpack, though, and so with six hours to kill, I hit the beach, just a block away.



Here's the part my male readers have been waiting for: the topless sunbathers (sorry, no pictures). I'd sort of casually understood this actually took place, as opposed to being some 1980's R-rated B-movie comedy-romp plot device. I guess I was just unprepared to reconcile the concept that, early on a Sunday morning, it would just be me, a couple of sleeping homeless hippies, and a seemingly endless parade of women laying down blankets all around me, then getting to work with applying the sunscreen. To my credit, I did manage enough focus to read an entire novel while I sat there. On the other hand, it was a short book. Farenheit 450-something. It was about fire.

I did finally get to check-in to my hostel room, where I bunked with an Australian kid and was surrounded by an amusing variety of Aussies, Canadians and other Californians. A few of them vowed to check the surf with me, but chilly, flat waters prevailed this day and we settled for Acoustic guitars and drinks on the midnight beach under a half moon.

I hadn't stayed in a hostel for roughly ten years or so, and was the oldest person there by a good seven or eight. None of the kids staying there could really understand what I was up to when I'd set up my laptop in the lobby and get to work with the wifi signal. It honestly took a couple days for the notion to dawn on them that I am a writer and that I was actually working remotely to support myself while I stayed in Europe, not just travelling off of graduation gifts (which I totally should have done ten years ago, by the way).

The weather was gorgeous, though, and many hours were spent at the beach. However, my attempt to surf proved lackluster at best. The waves picked up a little bit for a couple of hours- right around siesta time, when all the surf shops were closed. I managed to rent a board from the hostel manager, but without a wetsuit or wax it was a very cold, slippery ordeal trying to drag a longboard across slow, weak waves. I also had to contend with the locals, who were not necessarily the greatest surfers in the world, but certainly some of the rudest. A couple of guys went out of their ways to cut me off, even going so far as to team up, leaving several empty, unridden waves, purely out of some sense of spite. I got out in less than an hour.

Of course, then I had to return, shivering, to the beach and try to locate my friends, who had set up our towells somewhere, out there, in the sand. Good luck scanning all the beach towels for familiar faces on a topless beach.



This left me to focus on the food. Thank goodness. The Basque Tapas (aka Pintxos- Euskara is one crazy-ass language) are clearly the best there are. In fact, this is definitely some of the best food on the planet. I can't say what or why, because there is such a loose definition as to what makes up a Tapa, but I got a bit adventurous on this trip and tried a wide variety of bizarre cooked and/or meticulously designed concoctions involving seafood, ham, and things that I only know didn't contain shrimp. Upon return to Barcelona I told my roommate, who's in the habit of tucking aside cash every paycheck to save for his next meal in San Sebastian, that I never wanted to eat anything else again. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, sympathetically, "I understand."

Getting back should have been easy. As I finished work on Tuesday night, I checked a current weather forecast calling for rain overnight, which would ruin a shot at any surf finally showing up in the morning. Deciding to save myself the cost of another night at the hostel, I hastily threw my things together, had one last Tapas meal and caught a taxi to the bus station. This is where my luck changed for the worse... or so it seemed.

The bus driver wouldn't let me on-board, because the ticket counter had closed and he would not accept cash. I once again learned that there's nothing like an argument to bring out my knowledge of Spanish, but no displays of contempt, no amount of bribe would change his mind in front of an equally impotent supervisor, and I was forced to return to another listless night at the hostel, which had gained some new guests in the form of Canadian teenagers who were clearly excited to be drinking liquor, and just as clearly inexpert at holding it.

Gloriously ,the next morning started with a knock at the door- a new California acquaintance wanting to check the view of the surf from my balcony. And it was good! We'd somehow avoided all but a light drizzle, and the forecast swell finally showed up, offering decent, almost fast head-high waves. And the localism was no longer a problem because, although it was a little crowded, I have gotten used to more difficult waves and hit these fun rides with more gusto than gourmand at tapa-time. Nobody was going to deny the massive smile cutting across my face. In fact, I came to realize that the Basques were overwhelmingly some of the friendliest I'd encountered yet over here. I was going to sleep well on that long busride home.