Who should be
the heros
of the story? I hope the reader
won't be disappointed, nor surprised, when I reveal that the hero
wasn't me. Since this is not a travel story, I shall only mention
that in July I spent some unforgettable days (and nights!) in
Southern France. I couchsurfed among two different households,
trekked on the Pyrenees, obtained (hopefully) lifelong friends, made
acquaintance with Diplomatico-rum, lied in bed until mid-day, learned
about life and the French language.
At the start of the
week, around half way of July, I spread the map on the morning coffee
table and measured the distance to San Sebastián in País
Vasco. After a plaintive farewell and
“we'll see again” -vows, I trimmed the straps of my rucksack and
set afoot for the roundabout on A64, next to the village of Seysses.
A quarter hour later a shared-ride picked me up and Seyesses, as well
as Toulouse, began to divert away a hundred kilometers an hour.
Three hours later I
disembarked at Irun, at the border of France and Spain. My host in
San Sebastían had been forced to cancel his invitation due to a
medical emergency. I decided to loiter on the side of the road and
set my thumb up. A moment later a toyota roared onto the spot:
”a San Sebastián?”
”Oui!”
I climbed on board. I speak the perfect pub French, so I inquired for the possibility to switch into Spanish.
”¡Sí!”
The driver, Ivan, was a curly headed young man in his thirties. Despite the bohemian appearance the bloke could spit out some words in English as well. Because my castellano sounds like driving a tractor to a porcelain tienda the outcome was more or less Spanglish. When the toyota was angled to it's final approach for San Sebastián, we had built first name basis, and Ivan was curious where to drop off Mr. Backpacker. I presented my problematic situation by stating that there really was no matter, since I didn't have anything booked anyhow. Ivan interrupted my monologue and dug the phone out of his pocket.
”I ask my girlfriend. Maybe you can come with us.”
A phone call later Ivan flapped the cover of his phone shut:
“It's OK. You come to our place.”
I raised my right eyebrow. At this point of the trip my charisma was obviously well known from the island of Corsica all the way to Toulouse, but was this guy for real?
Few minutes and cheek kisses later, I was watching Ivan's spouse Isabella set two plates of steaming chicken soup on the kitchen table, in an apartment where everything was still packed in cardboard boxes.
“We eat and then we relajo. At four we go to San Sebastián.”
Affirmative. I was looking at Isabella, who hadn't sat on the table yet but was, instead, dragging my rucksack into their kid's room. The boy was on a summer camp in Andalucia. Ivan motioned me to sit. “Ah, me also chicken soup?” I asked stupefied.
After an hour-long siesta Ivan was leaving to teach a photography class and promised to drop me to San Sebastián's Parte Vieja. Isabella, who maybe from God's grace, didn't speak any English decided to accompany me as a guide. Within the next three hours it became clear that, if one wanted to avoid the butt-end of a rifle, one had to start picking up Spanish quite quickly.
Along the next days I noticed to my astonishment, that I had established a temporary berth at Ivan's and “Isa's” place. The kid would be at the camp until next month and everytime I brought up the matter of my possible departure the subject was changed to “our” plans tomorrow. Besides, the accommodation situation in San Sebastián hadn't gone any better.
Isa worked the evening shift in a restaurant and Ivan, as a photographer, from seven to four. We often made long morning walks with Isa around Pasaia and the surrounding hills. My language got a little better and, I bet, so did Isa's patience. In the evening I kept company for Ivan in the kitchen. We discussed over a half of piel de sapo and a slice of appenzeller, while Ivan waited to pick-up Isa from work. We both enjoyed reading Orwell, and there was a book exchange.
On the weekend they organised a town fiesta in the neighboring village. On the same day, it was planned, to celebrate the birthday of a friend of my host. I noticed my name on the guest list. The birthday party took place in Errenteria at a rented restaurant, where the revelers are able to cook and serve their own dinner. Once again the spanish hospitality stretched to a ridiculous degree. Four 1,2 kilogram well bred, 30 days matured T-bone steaks sat on the table tempering for the H-hour. Wine and beer flowed throughout the night. As a small retaliation, I helped to chop the salads until the host came to switch my knife into a beer. A kind reminder was expressed to join the others at the tables. When nobody was looking I slid a twenty-euro note into the tip box.
The next days involved photography and a jazz-fest. I dropped by in Bilbao, just to return back a few days later.
“There's more photography to be done”, argumented Ivan.
When eventually they threw on the legendary fiesta in Bayonne, I informed my hosts of my plans to rejoin my friend from Toulouse for the weekend.
“But there's BBQ-night tomorrow”, protested Isa.
It was time for another plaintive farewell. Isa exploited the opportunity and managed to embarrass me by giving me the appropriate set of clothing for the fiesta - a red scarf and a white T-shirt.
The franco-train began creeping from Pasaia toward Bayonne and I sunk into my thoughts about how privileged I had been being able to spend my time in San Sebastían with these people. It was obvious that without Ivan and Isa, due to the availability of accommodation in SSB, the whole trip wouldn't have worked out.
I thought of France and the fiesta. The celebrations of the July 14th in Toulouse reminded me of the high-profile presence of the police and the military. I can't either forget the concrete barricades blocking the streets. The whole atmosphere seemed to concretise into these blocks. On the eve of the celebrations we sat in a cafe to have dinner, when a gendarmie motorcycle passed by and flashed it's lights and siren. My hostess jumped in front of me: “I'm so afraid of an attentat.”
More or less the same lines were repeated: “I don't like the crowds”, “It's better to be at home, rather than constantly check over your shoulder.”
In this era of fear and terror, isolation politics and blooming nationalism, it is maybe important to travel and spread the idea of a common Europe. To us Scandinavians the continental Europe may seem unified. But we have to remember that in Spain, as well as in France, there are embers smoldering beneath the surface. In Catalonia it is sometimes mandatory to speak Catalan, if one wishes to study in a university. On Corsica, in the town of Corte, there are bullet holes on the facades of official buildings. In the Basque, they resorted to bombings, not more than ten years ago, while fighting for their independence. When I asked what is “cheers” in Euskerian language, I was told la muerte del Rey – Death to the king. “We don't much like the king here!”
To change the Cambio de aires – the essence of time - we need heroes like Ivan. A fellow who, in addition to a ride, offered candidly his apartment and beer to a total stranger. Or Isa, who was ready to sacrifice her free-time to me, even though we didn't share a common language. All three of us discussed about this, and we all agreed that most of the people are generally nice. At the town fiesta I discussed the same matter with Oscar, a friend of Ivan's, and he said that he wouldn't had even considered the possibility to accommodate a hitch-hiker. Why? Because he was always told not to. While hitch-hiking, I most often get my rides from the more elderly people. The story is always the same: “I used to do it myself when I was young.” Then these same people teach prejudice to their children. Again, why? Because the world has changed since. The truth is, the world has changed already since I was in the cradle and, yes, it's become way more scary since that time. Yet, it's not an excuse to curl-up in a ball and build barricades. I say, we need to reach out of our comfort zone, and for this, a man often needs an example to follow. And I'll be damned if I don't blast the trumpet when a modern day hero like Ivan appears on the horizon.
Thank you, excuse me and good bye!
