Airport Goodbye – Leaving Bilbao

July 2020

The French lady at the Ryanair desk throws her arms in the air in exasperation as if to ask ‘Why must I deal with such idiots?’ The idiot, in this case, is me. I gave her my passport when she wanted my ticket and now I’ve just put my bag down on the belt the wrong way.

‘Well you don’t give very clear fucking instructions,’ I say.

Stupid move. My bag weighs in at 21kg. That’s 1kg over the limit. I could get hit with a fine.

Normally I’m not like this – swearing at people in the service industry – but all she did was grunt and wave her fingers, expecting us to iterpret her impatient body language. Not easy as we are functioning on very little sleep and there’s time pressure cos Jess’ sister is circling the airport while we say goobye. Also, I feel an urge to wrap this up in an eloquent way where I find the words to soothe us both. Blame Hollywood. I’m not doing a great job so far: In the queue for check-in Jess’s eyes welled with tears and I hugged her and said, ‘I’m not leaving you. I’m just leaving Bilbao,’ which just sounded corny. I could’ve sworn I saw the fella behind us with a black eye cringe on my behalf. In fact, the bruise was not so much black as brown and yellowish. I can describe it in detail cos he was not fucking social distancing. No wonder someone gave him a black eye, the nosy fuck.

Thankfully, the lady hits the button and my bag is carried away on the belt. Next.

‘Sorry but fuckin’ hell,’ I say to Jess, as we walk away from the line.

‘She was being rude to the people in front of us too,’ Jess says which helps make me feel a bit better.

With the bag drop done I’m left with two bags; a rucksack and a school-bag. We move to the side. There is no café. It’s a small airport so we just stand by the cordon for departures, well clear of Mr Blackeye. I shoulda prepared something to say. I wish I had cos I can’t think of much. We’ve said it all already. The plan is as follows; Jess is coming to visit me in Dublin for a weekend in October and I’ll visit her in Bilbao for New Years. Plus, Jess has applied for a graduate scheme to come and work in Ireland from March to May. That’s how we will manage our first year in a long distance relationship. I’ve rattled off the plan many times to friends and family over the last few months and each time watched as their faces clouded with concern.  Yes, we know about Covid but we need to cling to something.

‘I’ll text when I get to Dublin.’

‘Do, please.’

Not my photo but gives the gist

I’m trying to get a command on the situation when I see my Irish friend and her Basque boyfriend Enrique enter the airport. She is returning to Ireland and he has come to see her off. She will be back in Bilbao in September whereas I will remain in Ireland to resume my work in a primary school after a Career break . As the flights from Bilbao to Dublin are not flying at the moment, here we all are in Biarritz airport. This is inconvenient. They are great company but I don’t really wanna see them right now. Even though Jess and I don’t know what to say to one another we don’t want anyone interrupting us either. Irish friend joins the queue while her Basque boyfriend comes over to us.

‘I have a little present for you that will just take up a little space in your bag,’ he says.

It’s a Biarritz rugby jersey. Although we spent some great weekends together in Biarritz I cannot say I’m on top of their rugby team’s trials and/or tribulations. Enrique knows this but the shirt is adorned with flags and symbols of the Basque country and he wants me to wear it with pride in Ireland. I thank him and he moves off to leave us to it. He gets it.

‘Wow,’ I say, overwhelmed by yet another kind deed. The last month has been one big farewell; parties, toasts, a speech, tearful hugs, nice text messages. I feel the love – am bowled over by it.

‘It’s nice,’ Jess agrees.

I put the jersey in my bag and straighten up. It seems like it’s about time to leave her go. Her sister is waiting after all.

‘And of course we can do Teams or Skype or even Whatsapp video calls,’ I say.

It’s hollow consolation. We have a plan but the truth is we are staring down the barrel of a long distance relationship, an alliance that is made easier, expert’s say, when you have a date when you will meet again. We have a date but it’s being ganged up on by a whole lot of ‘ifs.’

I take off my mask and kiss Jess. We hug. There is nothing left to say but goodbye. I think about past goodbyes. When this relationship was in its infancy, three and a half years ago, I would walk Jess home after a night out. We’d small talk outside her house, kiss and part. As she walked away she would look back, catch my eye and say, Agur (the Basque for goodbye). In those early weeks – when I really hoped but wasn’t sure we had a future – this little gesture was packed with significance – Yes I would like to see you again soon it seemed to say and it put a spring in my step as I walked home.

I’m about to say all this to Jess, ‘Usually, when we say goodb-‘ but the months ahead of separation come down on me like a lead weight, my throat catches and my eyes burn and blur. We hold each other tight for the last time in who knows how long. Fuckin’ Covid.

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The Worst Beach in Bilbao?

Las Arenas would certainly receive a nomination for The Worst Beach in Bilbao Award. It’s hemmed in between a promenade and a wooden jetty.  Sailboats, the unused toys of the rich, crowd around the other side of the wooden jetty. Opposite, the promenade juts out like a bouncer’s arm, separating the Nervion river from the sea. The views are of the idle cranes in Santurtzi port.

The life-guards sit in plastic chairs, shooting the breeze outside their cabin. They have an easy beat. Further out the coast in Sopelana and Arrigunaga the waves boom and wallop the shore. Just standing in it is bamboozling yet neoprene clad thrill seekers attach 6ft boards to their ankles and -somehow – gracefully ride the chaotic swells. Between the surfers and the current trying to impale swimmers on the rocks, the lifeguards there have their work cut out for them, patrolling the shoreline blasting into whistles and gesticulating wildly in an attempt to communicate over the chaotic surf. But none of that in Las Arenas. Here there’s barely a ripple. In fact, no one seems interested in the water. There’s no-one swimming and the sunbathers are turned away from the sea – arms out and faces craned towards the sky, soaking up the glory of the sun. There are plenty of people walking the promenade in their Sunday best; immaculate white trousers, smooth tans and shades.

I walk down the ramp onto the beach, manoeuvre around the parasols and topless sunbathers and lay out my towel near the water. I’m not much of a sun bather.  More than twenty minutes exposure to the sun and my skin would tighten in protest. I change into my swimming togs in a slow, distracted way. I watch a bird hovering over the water before arrowing itself into it like a kamikaze pilot. It’s in and out in a flash and a thin fish flops out of its beak as it rises.

The tide is in. I never go to Las Arenas when it’s out. With the lack of water the bare legs of the wooden jetty and the black seaweed clinging to the rocks make it seem like the long hair of an old man falling away to reveal liver spots. Plus, there’s no depth. You have to walk a good distance and the sand takes on a slime-like quality that gives you the creeps. Not that you’d be expecting much. The beach has the appearance of being tagged on to the city as an after-thought. It’s like the sea said ‘Fuck it, that’ll do’ and dumped its sand.

But when the tide is high, it’s grand. And it’s the closest beach to my house, being just over a 10 minute walk away. I make sure my card, wallet and phone are safely in my bag. I get my location. I’m between the ramp and the showers, in front of the blue and white parasol. Grand. Time to swim.

I begin the walk from towel to sea.  My heartbeat quickens. My body and head are tired, Really do we have to? they seem to ask. No matter how much I swim I cannot bring myself to like this part. It’s just as well no-one’s watching (a glance to my left confirms not even the lifeguards are paying me any attention) cos it’s not much of a spectacle. People wanna see someone stride into the water and dive into its cool depths, then re-emerge glistening and victorious. You know – really going at life. But that’s not my style. I’m hesitant and slow, like someone leaving a supermarket who’s sure he’s forgotten something important but is unsure just what.

The shoreline’s speckled with twigs and other shrapnel. The sea wraps around my ankles. Hola! It’s great to be able to interact with something so natural and vast. It’s difficult to find the right words to do it justice. American poet Amy Clampitt does a fine job in her poem Beach Glass. Although not talking about swimming, she captures the mysterious ancient vastness of it. Here’s a few lines.

The ocean,

cumbered by no business more urgent

than keeping open old accounts

that never balanced,

goes on shuffling its millenniums

of quartz, granite, and basalt.

                    It behaves

toward the permutations of novelty–

driftwood and shipwreck, last night’s

beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up

residue of plastic–with random

impartiality, playing catch or tag

or touch-last like a terrier,

turning the same thing over and over,

over and over. For the ocean, nothing

is beneath consideration.

 

The water splashes around my thighs like a tiny aquatic welcoming committee that’s very happy to see me.  Once up to my waist, I lower myself into the greeny grey, brackish water. The shock of the cold on my chest, shoulders and head gives me a jolt and I burst into the front crawl, my legs and arms scissoring the smooth surface. Then I turn onto my back. Held by the water and confronted by a blue sky that’s interrupted by wispy white clouds, I feel wonderfully alive.

In A Bilbao Minute (oohohooohhh): The Public Toilet Incident

A short anecdote from Bilbao.

I was bursting for a piss outside the train station. My train was imminent but there were no toilets on board and I might not last the journey. What to do? I had vague recollections of seeing a toilet in the park around the corner. I dashed there and found a silver, cube like structure with lights that was either a toilet or a time machine. I opened the door. Yes it was a toilet but there was an emaciated couple huddled over a piece of tinfoil within. I had startled them. I closed the door and stood back. I looked to the hedges. I thought about pissing there but it was 10:30 on a hot, bright Monday morning – not 1am on Saturday night, an internationally okay time to piss outdoors.

Thankfully the door opened and the couple emerged. The man started speaking to me but my listening skills weren’t up to scratch and he wasn’t exactly speaking News broadcaster Spanish, if you get my drift. He was pointing to the door of the toilet. I smiled and said, ‘Sí. Gracias.’

I opened the door and entered. Just before the door shut I heard a cry in Spanish.  Boy, did that lad like to harp on. As I undid my fly, the lights went off.  Next the walls went clunk and suddenly there was water spraying from all directions. I turned quickly and tried the handle but it was locked. I was trapped in a strange metallic robot controlled toilet-shower combo. I pressed my back against the door. My urge to piss dropped a few positions on my league table of concerns. As the water pooled around my shoes, I could already hear the news report:

‘A 35 year old Irish male has been found dead in a public toilet in Bilbao, Northern Spain. It is believed he drowned in the water from the self-cleaning toilet. On further investigation the police discovered that before entering the public latrine the 35 year old blogger ignored a man in the park who had told him the toilet was temporarily unavailable. It appears he also failed to notice the flashing light indicating that entry was prohibited. A spokesperson for the police said in a statement that they do not suspect foul play and have concluded that the Irish male was ‘just a bit of a twit.’

 

I stayed tight to the door, in the only two feet of space not being blasted with water. After what felt like forever (but was probably only 40 seconds) the spraying stopped. The walls made another clunking sound and the lights returned. Metallic surfaces dripped and glistened. I was tempted to try the door and escape but instead I stepped over the puddles and relieved myself.

But it was too early to cancel my obituary yet. Would the door open? The answer, dear reader, is in the next sentence. Yes it would.  I stepped out into the welcoming warmth of the day. The birds were tweeting and the world was going about its business as before. I ran through the park, into the train station and made my train by doing an Indiana Jones style leap as the sliding doors were closing.

Public toilets; they’re not the rundown, broken- locked ammonia smelling shitholes of yesteryear. Be careful out there folks.

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The Riverwalk

Jimmy, Mike and I met in Spanish class. One day Jimmy said ‘Fancy a coffee after class?’ So coffee after class became a thing. One day over coffee Mike said, ‘Fancy a beer at the weekend?’  So beers at the weekend became a thing. And over beers I said, ‘Fancy seeing if there is a route from the river mouth to the centre of Bilbao?’ And yes, you guessed it, that too became a thing, but not as frequent as the coffees and beers. We’ve done it about eight times over the last five years. We call it the Riverwalk.

I’d recommend the Riverwalk to no-one. It starts off near the seaside and finishes in the city centre but a part of it entails walking on the side of a busy road where you gotta gather yourselves into single file and shout if you insist on being heard. The road is followed by a stretch of derelict buildings with graffiti on the walls and weed strewn yards.  It’s not exactly the stuff of Wordsworth.

So why have we done it more than any other walk in a city embraced by mountains? Well, it’s rare you get to walk into a city for one. Usually you are shuttled there underground via a metro. The vistas consist of grey walls, polished white platforms, advertisements and red signs with white letters to tell you the name of the stations.  Rising to ground level courtesy of escalators you find yourself slap in the centre of the city. Like this, it’s difficult to get your bearings. It also feels like a veil is thrown over the uglier parts of the city. On foot, you get the bigger picture, warts and all.

Another good thing about the Riverwalk is that it is straight and flat; get yourself to the Nervion river, stick to it and it will guide you to Bilbao . It’s a bit like walking on train tracks, without the fear of an oncoming train; you know you are going places and you are unlikely to get lost. And of course, there are the plusses you get with any walk; it’s a chance to bond with a mate and it’s healthy -ish. I add the suffix cos we usually have a few beers at the midway point. And the three quarter’s way point. Also on arrival in Bilbao. To be fair, this is the main attraction of the walk cos the scenery, for much of it, is pretty shit.

The plan was to leave at 10:30 but Jimmy asked if we could push it forward to 1 o’clock. I agreed, thus ensuring we covered the 10km when the sun’s heat was at its most intense. All 34 degrees of it. I met Jimmy at the Hanging Bridge in Getxo. Like me he was lathered in suncream.  We bought bottles of coke and set off.

Clear of Getxo we passed a couple of car dealerships and then a string of non-descript premises that seemed to have something to do with engineering or rubbish collection. On our right was the sleepy, slate grey Nervion. Passing through Leoia the dregs of my Coke bottle were warm but cool refreshment was imminent. The 5km we had covered had a desolate quality to it so it was nice to see a side street in Erandio buzzing with people. A friendly waiter beckoned us to a free table. It was 2:30 in the afternoon and the street was alive with chatter, to which we added an international flavour.

We talked about previous walks with Mikey. He had left Bilbao two years ago. A common feature of living abroad is that friends come and go. The conversation turned from absent friends to absent cigarettes. I smoked my last one on March 15^th . Jimmy stopped a week or two before that. Being a consistent smoker for longer than me and the fact that I bummed loads of ciggys off him meant that Jimmy’s achievement was bigger than mine. How’d he do it? Will power and a book by former smoker Alan Carr.  On the fourth beer we got to talking about The Beatles. Did you know George Harrison was only twenty-six years old when The Beatles split up? Mind blowing.

Thirst quenched we got back on the road. Spray paint under a bridge told us we weren’t in Spain and a scarecrow hanging outside a building suggested we were in a good location for a punk rock video, horror movie or documentary showing gritty urban realism.

Once we got to San Ignazio (beer stop) the buildings brightened and we came across a new walkway / cycle lane. We joked that they should name the new path after us cos we had walked the route more than anyone else. Hilarious.

The gleaming white bowl of San Mames football stadium and the sleek sliver of skyscraper that is Iberdrola tower came into view.  With our t-shirts sweat-stained and our faces sun stained – relief was the overriding feeling, followed by tipsiness, a need to piss and some nostalgia cos with a one way flight to Dublin booked for July this was my last Riverwalk for the foreseeable future, perhaps ever.

That said, before I leave I must get a few walks in around some of my fave industrial estates.

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A (mis)Guided Tour of a Town in The Basque Country

The Hanging Bridge is in the list of top ten things to do in Bilbao. Imagine a ferry but instead of floating atop the water, it is suspended above the River Nervion by huge cables. The ‘ferry’ has room for six cars and a hundred or so foot passengers. It’s a certified Unesco World heritage site. Site is a misnomer perhaps, cos it is on the move. Yes, it glides back and forth between the towns of Portugalete and Getxo and is part of many people’s (yours truly included) daily commute.

It’s a Sunday. Alba and I are standing in the cabined foot passenger section slowly being transported towards Portugalete.

‘It was built in 1893 and it’s still going -24 hours a day!’ I say.

‘Really?’ says Alba. ’24 hours a day?’

‘How did you not know that? You grew up in Getxo.’

‘I haven’t used the bridge much. I’ve never really explored Portugalete.’

‘It’s the town right across the river from you!’ I say.

‘I was exploring the world. Seeing more exotic places. We are not all like you, just staying in the same place.’

‘Clearly I’m not like that either. I’m from Ireland, remember?’

‘But you stay in Portugalete all the time, like it’s the most interesting place in the world.’

‘My girlfriend lives nearby,’ I say.

‘You only see her at weekends. You could live somewhere more interesting and still see her. Getxo, for example, has a beach, a huge promenade and carefully planned streets. Not like this,’ she says waving a hand towards Portugalete. I dislike her dismissive tone. The Portugalujos had warned me about people from Getxo. Snobby types. Alba certainly has a spoilt bratness to her.  Added to that she seems to think the rest of us are sleepwalking and only she is truly alive. Thus, she ‘helps’ people by dishing out her opinions on their lifestyle and habits, seeing herself as a necessary stinging fly that provokes people out of their stupor.

Bizkai Bridge/The Hanging Bridge, Portugalete (euskoguide.com)

The ferry gently kisses the land and we step into Portugalete. We walk along the boardwalk. It’s a sunny day and lots of people are out – immaculately dressed as ever.  I crane my neck to admire the ornate windows of the buildings on the waterfront, like I’m seeing them for the first time. Alba just looks straight ahead. There are men from East Africa selling their wares; football jerseys and Nike runners.

‘Maybe Chris might like to buy a jersey of a local team,’ I comment.

Alba makes a face. Hardly.

Chris is her boyfriend. A New Yorker. They met in Boston while she was doing a Postgrad there in Chemical Engineering. She’s been back in Getxo three months now. They’re doing the long distance thing and Chris is set to come in April; Meet the parents, see the Basque country. Alba is nervous about the impending visit. That’s where I come in. She’s trying to make an itinerary and has asked me to show her the attractions of Portugalete in advance. Also, she wants Chris (who has only a handful of Spanish phrases) to meet other English speaking people. I’m happy to oblige. I was quite anxious when Jessica came to Ireland for the first time. I took her to some great spots (Kilmainham jail in Dublin, Hook Head and Loftus Hall in Wexford,Cavan town…) but it was the people that made the biggest impression on her. I had said this to Alba, ‘think people – not places’, but she wasn’t convinced and is determined to show Chris the best destinations Bizkaia has to offer.

We come off the boardwalk and enter a square, greeted by the din of keyboards and a plodding bass. There are old couples waltzing around the bandstand. A huge Basque flag stands over proceedings, gently lapping in the breeze.

‘This happens every Sunday,’ I say to Alba.

We observe the slowly circling couples, the bored musicians going through the motions and the vivacious singer in a short skirt imploring the dancers not to be shy and to give it some oomph.

‘She thinks she’s Shakira playing in a football stadium,’ Alba remarks.

Beyond the dancers and behind a bank of trees is a cobbled pedestrianised zone with bars. Locals are sitting on the large terraces enjoying a cold beer or vino tinto while popping complementary olives into their mouths.

‘Nice, isn’t it?’ I say.

‘Yeah, Chris would love this… if he was seventy years old.’

‘Fine,’ I say. ‘I don’t care if Chris comes here. It’s not like I work for the Portugalete tourist board.’

‘Yes but Chris is coming for a month. The bridge is a must and if we are seeing the bridge we may as well see Portu.’

We pass the town hall which looks suitably imposing and magisterial. Next to that is an archway into the old town, a small almond shaped maze of narrow, cobbled streets. It’s shady and pretty. Even the street lights – massive bulbs held into place by metal arches- add to the charm. Plenty of bars too, dark and cave like. But there isn’t much of a buzz about.

Old Town, Portugalete

‘My brother tells me that ten years ago Portugalete would have a great nightlife. Is that correct?’ Alba asks.

‘I don’t know. I’ve only lived here for five years,’ I say.

‘Five years! Here!Why!?’

Here we go again.

‘You should see this place for La Guia on the 1^st July,’ I say. ‘It’s mental. These streets are absolutely-‘

‘But is it correct?’ Alba interrupts.  ‘The English. Ten years ago Portugalete would have a great nightlife? To talk about a state in the past that is no longer true.’

‘Used to,’ I say. ‘Portugalete used to have a great nightlife.’

‘Ahh yes. Thank you.’

‘You’re some brat!’ I say pushing on up the hill.

‘Why are you so defensive?’ she asks, catching up with me.

‘You are taking a big shit on Portu. This place is like a second home to me!’

She stops me, searches my eyes. I regret my dramatic outburst. Second home? Really?

‘Oh my God, you’re serious,’ she says.

I shrug and we continue walking up the main thoroughfare. It’s steep. When we come to the open square at the top of the old town it feels like coming up for air and we go straight for the benches.  We take in the views of the red rooftops, the river and the buildings of Bilbao glimmering in the distance. Revived, we get off the bench and potter around the square.

‘What a pretty church,’ Alba says.

‘I did a guided tour of that church one slow morning,’ I say.

‘Okay. Great. Tell me about it,’ Alba says.

‘It was me and four strangers following the guide as he pointed this way and that and we were just nodding and making impressed noises. I can’t remember anything he said. What I recall is looking for signs that he was going to wrap up and wondering to myself; how is it I can walk up and down Mount Serantes of an afternoon and my legs wouldn’t ache half as much as they do when required to spend an hour walking around a church?’

‘It’s a mystery,’ Alba says in a way that makes it known she doesn’t think it’s a mystery at all and what she would really like is some facts to wow her boyfriend.  ‘Speaking of mysteries; what’s this all about?’ she asks pointing to a statue of a man with a book in one hand while his other hand rests on the sword hanging by his hip.

Lope Garcia de Salazar Monument, Portugalete (photo found on wikimedia)

‘Clearly this man is a lover (of literature) and a fighter.  The pen is mightier than the sword is his creed, but best to keep your sword at hand cos you never know when some swine is gonna sneak up on you while you are reading.’

‘Good advice,’ Alba says.

We exit the old town and enter the larger and less interesting part of Portugalete which consists of high rise apartment blocks stacked on a myriad of hills. While at the waterfront Portugalete wears its best dress, once you get behind the facade there’s more of a ‘Feck it no-one’s watching’ attitude. There are no proud flags lapping in the breeze just underwear and bedsheets hanging from drying racks on the side of apartment blocks.

And hills, lots of hills. There are so many hills that some of the particularly taxing elevations are fitted with escalators, allowing the footsore to glide through the dense concrete jungle. I bring Alba up a street with escalators, acting like it’s not part of the tour but it’s quite unique and I want her to see it. I mean escalators belong to the shiny surfaces and polished displays of a shopping centre, not in the middle of a street.

‘This is nice,’ says Alba, riding the escalators. ‘What else has Portu got?’

I rack my brain.

‘Portu arse!’ I say, having a Eureka moment.

‘What?’ Alba asks. ‘Tell me.’

‘Portu arse. All Portugalujos have a great arse – on account of all the walking up hills.’

‘So what? I should bring Chris here to check out women’s behinds?’

‘It’s one of the great sights Portugalete has to offer.’

‘Is there anything else?’ she asks.

‘No. Let’s go for a drink,’ I say.

‘Really? The tour is over so soon?’ she says.

‘I’ve passed 1500 words,’ I say. ‘And I want to keep this blog post short.’

‘Why?’

‘Cos if it’s too long no-one will read it.’

She puts a hand on my shoulder, looks deep into my eyes and says,

‘You really shouldn’t worry about that.’

 

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Something similar? 5 Things I Love about Bilbao

Countdown to Lockdown in Bilbao

The Meeting

The Director calls an Emergency Meeting with the tutours. Coronavirus has come to town and the question on everybody’s lips is, When are the schools going to close?  I speculate with the other teachers at the coffee machine. Eventually the door of the meeting room opens and the tutors fill the staff room all talking at once, as if they were the ones buzzed on espressos. I lean in to make sense of the rapid fire Spanish

‘Any day now.’

‘And what? Send the kids to their grandparents? Come on. Kids are prolific germ spreaders.’

‘Online classes? How do we do that?’

I slip back to my classroom with more questions than answers.

The Bar

A text from Carlos,

Where will we watch the game? In The Travel Corner?

Usually it was not up for discussion. We watch all Liverpool matches in The Travel – it’s where the Bilbao Reds Supporters Club meets. And on Champions League night you could expect, if not fireworks , flares. But I know why Carlos is asking. The Travel is dark, cave-like and as for the toilets, well, if we were to compare toilets with football players they’d be like the Athletico Madrid manager Diego Simeone in his playing days. In a word; dirty. That makes me uneasy as nowadays cleanliness is the watchword (although my housemate has yet to get the memo).  We choose a brighter, cleaner, less crowded bar. The locals are up for Liverpool too. As Athletico bang in the goals and the fella in the corner lets out four enormous sneezes with zero effort to contain the spray, a depression sinks in: Liverpool are out, this is probably the last sporting event on TV for a while and I’m gonna have to stop going to bars.

The Classroom

The next morning the children of 3^rd Primaria pour into the classroom and start emptying their shelves. Books, notepads, artwork, teddy bears, everything is being crammed into their schoolbags. It’s like they are trying to replicate the scenes from the supermarkets. They do this without any instruction from me, but, to be honest, there is a lot they do without instruction from me.

Their tutor comes to the class.

‘Estais nerviosos sobre el Coronavirus?’ she asks.

There is much nodding of heads and concern on the little faces. She plays them a Slideshow. In it Coronavirus is represented by an amicable looking spherical figure with spikes who carries a suitcase.  He likes to travel you see.  The images pass, the tutour speaks in dulcet tones and the children are soothed. They nod and smile. It’s going to be alright.

Later, it’s left to me to break the news that from tomorrow the school is closed. I do this through English and gestures.  I know I have been understood when a little girl starts to cry. Meanwhile, out on the yard, the teenagers are singing, embracing one another and jumping up and down. You’d swear Athletic Bilbao had just won the cup.

Friday 13^th

I’ve got a spring in my step. No work and I’m meeting with my girlfriend Jessica later. Had I been paying more attention I might have realised that it wasn’t gonna be like other Fridays.

Jessica texts,

Have you seen the news? I’m not leaving the apartment this weekend.

I reply,

Noooo. It’s too early to lock yourself in. If we don’t meet tonight God knows how long it will be till we can meet again.

Her reply is succinct,

I live with my parents

Things are moving fast. Last Saturday we booked a weekend away in La Rioja. The next day there was news of an outbreak there. The virus was passed by mourners at a funeral.

Cans

It’s a bright, clear Saturday evening. My friend Frances and I are drinking cans by the river. There are lots of people out walking.

We both have a morbid fascination with the number of cases. In checking them we get news of the imminent lockdown. As of tomorrow, everything will close except supermarkets, pharmacies and hairdressers. We put our phones away and sip cans while the sun sets on our last day of freedom.

Lockdown

I wake to the sound of my housemate coughing.  Is that a smokers’ cough or a coronavirus cough? I’m edgy around him. He stands too close and cleans too little.

A slow day. You know things are messed up when you are excited about taking out the rubbish.

Jessica texts to encourage me to go to the balcony at 8pm and applaud for the people on the frontline. A nice idea cos the building opposite my apartment block is an Old Folks’ Home. At first there is silence, just the patter of rain. But soon applause spreads like a gentle wave around the neighbourhood. The windows of the Old Folks’ Home open and they wave white towels. The applause grows louder.

 

Something different? A Bit of Romance

Bilbao BBK Music Festival

A line of people walking uphill anticipating the reward that awaits them at the summit. I’m tempted to say it’s like a pilgrimage but the last pilgrimage I was on was in 1994 and it was a solemn affair comprising of elderly folk muttering the rosary. There weren’t any dreadlocks, or people necking cans, or whoops of excitement or stag parties. That’s the scene we have here hiking up Kobatamendi. It’s a Music Festival up a mountain. Namely, BBK Live.

The pace slows and the crowd is corralled into lanes. I try to stamp the impatience out through my feet. It’s always the way. The small steps towards a football stadium, the slow crawl of traffic towards the beach, the wait at the bar; first world torments. A roar rises from the other side, a guitar stutters and a voice greets the crowd through the PA. My heart pounds with anticipation.

Once finally inside we walk very quickly to the bar for a settler, that beer you sip on a grassy knoll where you take it all in and let out a satisfied sigh. All summer you’ve waited for this and now you are here. The price of the settler though, is a bit unsettling. That’s how they get ya. A weekend ticket is €120 – a lot cheaper than festivals in Ireland but the exorbitant cost of food and drink does diminish the vibe a little. Early doors, every time I open my wallet I wince a little. Gotta be savvy if I’m gonna get through three nights of this.

Having rid ourselves of the shoulder tension we move closer to the action and find a spot stage right. Fleet Foxes are plodding through a song.Guitars, hair, beards.

‘Crusties,’ Liam says. ‘I bet they eat nettle soup and do yoga.’

I know they’re back catalogue. It’s a beautiful summer evening and I’ve got a beer in my hand. I’m primed to be stirred by their soulful folk harmonies but their songs don’t grab me. It’s disappointing, like lowering yourself into a bath only to find the water tepid.They work through the set-list, but that’s the problem, it seems like a chore.

When Fleet Foxes finish we grab ourselves another beer en route to the BBK stage. The sky has darkened. The lights are on and we are ticking like a fat gold watch.Phoenix are a different animal. The French group have come to party. The heads and shoulders in front of us are all bopping before an elevated oasis of light upon which stand the celebrated people. The songs get into my chest. I’m compelled to dance but the wet grass robs my moves of any semblance of smoothness. It’s not doing Liam any favours either. He’s like an old fella with bad knees trying to keep his balance in an earthquake.

Phoenix finish to rapturous applause followed by a brief pause. Itineraries are consulted. Plans are made. Our plan involves more beer, this time from a lad with a keg on his back. We then stop at a stall to pick up some sunglasses. Mine have an American flag, Liam’s a tropical tree. Why be savvy when you can be zany?  We follow the stream of chattering people towards the main stage, the main event; The Killers. Together we push our way through the crowd.

‘Oh I hate being small,’ Liam says. ‘You can’t see anything and you keep smelling people’s armpits.’

No such problem for The Killers who emerge through a mist of dry ice and lights. They take their positions. There’s an anticipatory hush. My night hasn’t taken off just yet. I want to be wowed. And then a familiar riff rings out. I lock eyes with Liam.

‘Mr Brightside!!’

It’s punch the air feel good. Euphoria abounds and before it has a chance of escaping they launch into Spaceman, Somebody told Me and Human.We hug, we sing, we dance, we make recordings that will fail to capture the magic of the moment, we spill beer. Just when you think The Killers have no arrows left in their quiver they release a volley of hits; Read My Mind, Runaways, All These Things that I’ve Done. 

The show climaxes with When You Were Young.

The Killers leave the stage. It’s like the circus rolling out of town, the end of summer.The fancy lights cease, there’s a smell of damp grass and the shadows are long and spooky. In the distance we hear a sinister beat broken now and then by a piano loop. It’s a siren call to those with drugs and the people with one day tickets who don’t want to let go of the night just yet.

We make our way to the buses, the walk back down the hill affords us views of Bilbao at night – the city lights blazing like rebel diamonds cut out of the sun.

Woah!! Easy, tiger!

Something Similar? It gets off to a bad start…

Something Different?5 Things I Hate about Bilbao

 

 

Plain Sailing

It’s getting away from it all, while at the same time, being in the centre of everything.

The tide is low. The black and snot-green walls of the riverbanks slide by. Above the riverbanks, the hotels, apartments and businesses of Portugalete and Getxo look down upon us from either side. You would think that all those buildings would generate more noise, but no, they just observe us with a thousand eyes. The only sound is the chug of the boat’s engine.

We are on board the Happy Thought. Aritz, el capitán, is on the roof removing the covers from the sail. Liam is nervously manning the tiller. I’m sipping a beer. It tastes good. Aritz finishes with the sail and ducks into the cabin to fix the toilet.

I smile and wave at the other boats.

‘It’s a bit like I’m the owner and you two are my lackeys,’ I say to Liam.

Liam fails to smile.

‘Here do you wanna, take the… the reins?’

‘Na. You are doing a fine job. And it’s a tiller.’

‘Well you do it then, fucking Brendan the Navigator. I wanna roll a ciggy.’

‘Smoking’s bad for ya.’

‘This is bad for me…for us. I haven’t a clue what I’m doing.’

‘Aritz would tell you if anything was wrong.’

Liam makes a face.

Once we get closer to the mouth of the Nervion, Aritz cuts the engine. The wind picks up and we pull extra jumpers out of our backpacks. There’s an eerie silence. The engine was like the constant murmur of a reassuring mother, but now it’s gone.

Aritz positions himself next to a crank and starts winding. The sail rises up the pole. The sheet flaps about at first but once he’s done winding it puffs its chest out proudly. The wind pulls the boat to one side. I feel my stomach lift. I clutch onto the rail. The boat is nearly on its side. If I let go I’ll be tipped out. Eventually, the wind subsides and the boat settles.

‘I don’t want to steer this anymore,’ Liam says, ashen faced.

He leaves the tiller go. I look to Aritz. He shrugs. I drain my can and take the tiller. The vessel and the lives within are now in my hands.

Aritz goes back to the toilet. Liam attempts to roll a cigarette with trembling fingers.

‘I have no idea what I’m doing here,’ I say once Aritz resurfaces.

‘You are doing Grrrreat!’

‘I dunno man. I don’t feel safe in a boat that has me in charge.’

‘To go right, push it left. To go left push it right. When wind is straight: 25 degrees either side,’ Aritz instructs and then he ducks into the cabin again.

He makes it sound easy but it’s not like I have the river to myself. There are canoes, trawlers, big sail boats and tiny sail-boats. There’s also the wind and its whims.

Liam stands up, lights his cigarette and takes a long, slow pull. I’m straining on the tiller. Suddenly, the arm of the main sail swings violently. Liam bends backwards to avoid getting his head taken off.

‘Jesus!’ he says, crouching towards the bench.

‘I did say smoking is bad for ya.’

‘Well…’ is all Liam can say. He sits there shaking his head.

‘Some reflexes on ya though. That was like something outta the Matrix.’

It all seems a bit dangerous but every time Aritz resurfaces from the cabin he smiles an ‘Aint life grand’ smile. I decide not to panic unless I see him panicking. I pick a red building on the docks as a yardstick. After twenty minutes, we still haven’t moved passed it. I hope no one else has noticed.

‘This trip is like my relationship; A lot of effort but essentially going nowhere,’ Liam says.

‘This wind is like a girlfriend; one minute she’s your friend, then suddenly, and for no apparent reason, she turns on you,’ I offer.

Liam emits a mirthless chuckle.

Finally Aritz emerges and takes the tiller. I sit down next to Liam.

‘How are things with Emma?’

‘Ah we are fighting a lot. To be honest I-’

Suddenly, Aritz is roaring. I look ahead and see a forty foot sail boat heading our direction. It’s going to hit us. The captain of the forty-footer is moving frantically on deck. But surely it’s too late. I brace myself for the cold water. As the huge sail looms over us I close my eyes.

It hits us on the port side. Miraculously we remain afloat. With both captains pulling the tillers the boats veer away from each other.

We stand. We are staring at the captain of the forty footer. He’s staring right back. A combination of language barrier and shock renders us dumb.

‘All that water and you two are hitting into one another!’ bellows a fisherman on land.

Once we sit back down Liam and I feel the need to recount the story from our own perspectives. We are agreed that the other boat was at fault. A calm descends. Aritz is in charge. Liam and I are just sipping cans and looking about. The boat slowly progresses towards the bay.

‘I guess it’s plain sailing from here on in,’ I say.

‘Yeah,’ Liam agrees, ‘Boring, isn’t it?’

nocktoebenaughto

Something Similar? Bilbao Metro 4am

Something Different? Cans on the Bench

 

 

A Breakdown in Communication #2

The next morning the questions are still following me around like persistent bees. My girlfriend finally responded to my text, acknowledged that things aren’t okay, but failed to signify why they aren’t okay. I guess I should know. I wanna cut the bullshit so I suggest we meet over coffee. Fine, she says.

So after Spanish class I walk across town to Santurtzi. The rain and the tall buildings lend the place the feel of a dark, damp cave. It’s the type of weather that makes you grimace.

I’m standing outside the café when I see her coming towards me with an umbrella in hand. Now, J says herself her default look is one of seriousness, but as she nears I see her eyes are burning with an extra intensity; I mean, she looks like she wants to fucking kill someone. I’m pretty sure that I might be that someone but I have no idea why.

We kiss on the lips.

‘What’s wrong J?’

‘Nothing.’

Well, you should tell your face that.

It’s a terrific quip that I keep to myself. Instead I say, in Spanish, that it’s clearly more than nothing. She makes a dismissive sound, letting me know that I have failed to execute the phrase correctly.

I feel like my stomach is being held hostage by the look on her face.  She has a beautiful face and to have played a part in imprinting sadness/anger upon it makes me feel bad and I wanna see her brown eyes beaming back at me as soon as possible. But for now the atmosphere is heavy.

‘I’ve been worried,’ I say.

She shrugs.

We step inside the café. It’s just another café: pintxos wrapped with cellophane on the counter, elderly clientele, uncomfortable chairs and the owner looks like he hasn’t had a day off in years. He’s in no rush. As he prepares the coffees I think: Am I gonna get dumped here? No, she wouldn’t have kissed me on the lips if she was going to do that. I mean no-one has ever been betrayed by a kiss, have they? We sit down at a table.

‘So. How was Saturday night?’ she asks.

She said Saturday night as if there were quotation marks around it, as if it were some silly made up time in a made up game I play with my friends. She’s looking at me really closely.

‘Fine. Nothing special,’ I shrug. ‘We had some beers in Casco Viejo: Noel, Dave and I. We went around to a few bars and finished up early: got the metro around 130. Sin mas.’

The casual manner which I deploy does nothing to disarm her. She unleashes her second question.

‘When did you make the plan to go to Bilbao? I’m just curious.’

Curious? Furious more like. Another great quip that I keep to myself. Still, I know now what’s up.

‘That morning. Remember when I texted you and you said that you weren’t feeling any better?’

She nods. She’s listening intently and I feel like I’m one wrong word away from a massive argument.

‘So I assumed I wasn’t going to see you and made plans with the boys,’ I continue gingerly. ‘Then you said we could meet for a coffee and I thought Great, but I assumed it would be just that – a coffee.’

‘Things went differently than I had expected,’ she says.

‘You thought that we were going to spend the evening together?’ I say, touched.

‘Yes. And over coffee we have this big conversation about spending the future together. Then, I go to the toilet and when I come back it seems suddenly we aren’t even going to spend the evening together.  And I was like ‘Que?’’

‘Okay, alright. I’m sorry.  But, you understand as well, that I thought it was just going to be a coffee?’

She nods.

Something occurs to me.

‘But how come, when we said goodbye on Saturday evening, everything was alright?’ I ask.

‘Sometimes you only think of these things afterwards,’ she says.

‘So, yesterday, I was trying to figure out what was wrong. I figured it was something to do with the conversation we had had, that you had changed your mind about the future and all.’

‘No, no.’

‘And when you didn’t text me back last night I was so worried. I was so worried,’ I say.

‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

Her hand reaches across the table and caresses mine. The tension dissipates and a warmth comes over her features. My stomach begins to settle.

‘I feel better now. Now that we talked about it.’

We finish our coffees. Such is the change in mood I expect that, once we step outside, the atmosphere will have shifted accordingly; the sun will shine, birds will chirp and a barber shop quartet will be on the road singing songs of love. If anything though, the weather is worse. We huddle under her umbrella and set off together.

nocktoebenaughto

Something Similar? A Breakdown in Communication #1

Something Different? Happy Birthday: Life is Long!

Airport/Groceries on the Dancefloor

Airport

London Gatwick. I find the boards and scan with tired eyes. My flight doesn’t jump out at me and I feel momentarily vexed. Has it all been one big mistake? Wrong date? Wrong time? (In airports I always feel like I’m on the brink of a huge blunder). Then I see it. Bilbao. VY7293 19:55. Boarding gate will be announced at 19:05. Grand.

I head towards Departures, negotiating the wheelie bags and fond farewells. I queue. The guys at security have an impatient air and seem perpetually mystified at the hesitancy coupled with stupidity that comes over the passengers. Every day the same. I take out my laptop and place it in a tray. I pull out another tray and drop my bag into it. I remove my jacket and stuff it alongside my bag. I stick my wallet and belt in the sides. I dig my hands into my pockets and feel for loose coins. None. Grand.

I pass through the metal detector without a beep. I meet my bag on the other side and refill my pockets, slip on my belt, place the laptop back in the bag and heave it onto my back. Passport, wallet, ticket, phone, keys, boarding pass. Grand.

Shiny shops in a busy thoroughfare. I find the food hall. The stench of coffee greets and entices me. I pay for an overpriced coffee and sandwich. The coffee feels good. The contents of the sandwich conspire to create zero flavour whatsoever.

I go down to the seating area. People are reading or pushing buttons on their phones while intermittently checking the boards. It seems a numbness has come over us all. We are in-between, waiting for our lives to start again.

Portugalete, Bilbao

I drop my bag in my room, splash water on my face, reapply some deodorant and go outside. I tackle the hill with purpose. It’s been a long numbing day of travel (3 hour bus journey, airport, flight, airport, flight and car ride) so my energy surprises me. I guess my legs are relieved to be finally set free out of doors.

It’s a big night here in Bilbao. The bars are heaving. Jessica and her friends are in the ‘Why not?’ I’m excited to see Jessica as we’ve been apart over Christmas. I’m also a little nervous as I’m about to meet her friends for the first time.

The bouncer nods at me. The bar behind him seems like a busy cave of activity. He pulls the door open and I step inside, and inadvertently, into a group of eight or so people standing in a crescent formation. They all seem to be looking at me. They must be Jessica’s friends. Meekly I scan the group but I can’t see her anywhere. Then I see her sister Andrea. I smile, kiss her cheeks and wish her a happy new year. This confirms to the group that I am him, Jessica’s new fella. I feel the eyes switch from curiosity to appraisal.

Finally Jessica appears at my side. We kiss, hug and say a few words. A drink is handed to me.People from the group step forward to introduce themselves.  Marie Luis, Alvaro, Luis, Martha, Mirren. We speak in Spanglish. We have to lean into one another to be heard above the Reggathon blasting out of the speakers. Everybody’s nice. Everyone makes an effort. Nervousness has me tilting back my glass with speed.  Aritz, Akine and Ane. After a whirlwind of introductions I’m relieved to be back standing next to Jessica. Another drink is handed to me.

‘I’ll get the next,’ I promise.

I spot a plastic bag on the floor. It’s filled with a box of breakfast cereal, a litre of milk, eggs, apples, bananas and mandarins. How curious it looks! It seems as though  it has been transplanted from somebody’s kitchen of a dreary Tuesday morning to this limitless Friday night of disco balls and lights.

‘It’s for you,’ Jessica says following my gaze.

My face clouds with puzzlement.

‘Tomorrow is a holiday and all the shops are closed,’ she explains. ‘Seen as you were arriving late I thought I’d get you a few things.’

I smile at the bag of shopping and then at Jessica. My fondness for her deepens.

 

Nocktoebenaughto

Something Similar? What is she like?

Something Different? Bilbao Metro 4am