November 2003 Archives

Eeegads. So, Friday night we traveled to Bilbao. "How long is this bus ride anyway?" I asked cheerfully as we got on the bus. "Nine hours..." says my friend Sara. "Oh" I said. And indeed, nine hours and 700 kilometeres later, I staggered bleary-eyed off a bus in Bilbao and was greeted by a wet, clammy, green city surrounded by mountains and smelling faintly of fish. All in all, very like home.

Luckily for us, my friend Sara has family in Bilbao who were good enough to collect us from the bus station at seven in the morning. It would be the understatement of the decade to say that these people were welcoming.

Over the course of the next 48 hours these people extended to us a form of hospitality that I thought only existed in ancient Greek and Irish epics. The Greeks called it Xenoi, or 'hospitality': the idea being that when a stranger arrived at your door, you provided food, shelter and welcome before ever asking them their name. This is pretty much what we got. We were given a full (Irish) breakfast, shown to a bed for three hours and then given lunch before anyone seemed to think it neccesary to ask me who the hell I was.

Then we were whisked off in cars for a scenic tour of the city ('Bilbo' as the locals proudly call it) and the wilder environs to the north, where the Cantabrian sea faces towards Britain and Ireland. The landscape was staggering.

Following that we were taken for 'Pinchos' which are similar to normal Spanish Tapas (small dishes of food) except served on small biscuits with red wine. "OK. Now we have lunch.." Rafa (our host) informed me to my astonishment. 'Lunch', as he casually called it, was a monstrous four course affair of the most beautiful food I have ever eaten, followed by Gin and Tonics, coffee and Cuban cigars. It took almost three hours to finish the food.

Finally, we were taken to see the purpose of our visit: the Guggenheim museum, an astounding feat of engineering and architectural inspiration. Sitting in the midst of the citys' river, the museum looks like a downed mothership from a 1970's sci-fi flick: all shimmering glass and titanium wrapping - a mass of silver superstructure justting in ten different directons, huge bulbous atriums and graceful curved galleries.

Then we had dinner. No. I'm not joking. Next came more booze, drinking, smoking, drinking, dancing and yes, drinking. Eventually things started to get to me and I made an attempt to get to the bar to get a round in. Before I had even opened my mouth to order I was forcibly thrown back in my seat and told that 'no a-guest of mine pays-a for anything when they a-stay wiv me'. I made more feeble protestations, but to no avail. I snuck out the next day and bought them a bottle of Sheridans by way of thanks. When i handed this to them, the fixed me with a blurry eyed stare and trembling lips as though I had just presented them, not as I had done with cheap Irish grog, but rather with the Holy Grail itself.

Considering myself a lucky man to have met with such friendliness, I awoke on Sunday assuming that I would be left to my own devices, having already taken enough of these peoples time. Oh no. Not a bit of it. Over the next five hours I was treated to a uniquely Basque experience.

A Txoko (pronounced 'Choko') is a private members-only club, which originated during the late 19th century as arefuge for Basque men from the then predominantly matriarchal society. Access is strictly reserved for male members and occasionally guests. All of the machismo aside, on Sundays the male members bring their wives and daughters, cook for them, serve them and clean up for them. Women are prohibited from helping in any way.

To put it quite bluntly: the food was spectacular. Possibly the nicest meal that I have ever eaten, and of course washed down with copious quantities of wine and gin.

Sadly, time ran out and all that was left to do was get the bus back. Another nine hours and 700 km's later and I found myself back in Valencia, staggering towards my first class of the day with Jorge, at 8.30 a.m.

I'll be going back.

First things first: apologies for the radio silence of the last few weeks. It's been manic. As some of you will know, myself and the senorita moved into a flat about two weeks ago. At first glance all seemed fine. A bit grotty, a bit run down but it had as they say, 'character'.

It fascinates me just how much you can delude yourself when you are desperate for somewhere to live. Two nights in this place and we were no longer using such words as 'rustic', 'character' and 'authenctic', but instead found ourselves using words such as 'hole', 'sh*t', 'stinking' and assorted variations on the theme of 'me', 'the', 'fu*k', 'out, 'get', 'of' and 'here'. It is difficult to write with any degree of dispassion regarding the unimaginable farce that living in this toilet has been. I shall, in chronological order list the grievances which we had.

Exhibit A: the cracked window which torrents of rain and howling wind poured through, turning our bedroom floor into a slithery, damp mess.

Exhibit B: the leaking toilet which had to be flushed by pouring a bucket of fetid water down it.

Exhibit C: the shower. Never, in my life, have I seen anything like this. When I say 'shower' I actually refer to a small square of tiles, mounted with a nozzle from which great gushes of foul water would occasionally burst forth and freeze/scald me. I actually came out of this thing feeling dirtier than when I went in.

Exhibit D: The washing machine. Oh yes, folks. The WASHING MACHINE. On our firsat night, myself and the missus decided that it was about time that we washed our enormous butter-mountain sized heap of underwear and set at the task with a degree of guarded optimism. But then, the WASHING MACHINE intervened. Washing the clothes was no problem. It was getting the fuc**ng clothes out that caused the unpleasantness. The machine was refusing to drain the water (caused by, I later discovered, the neanderthal plumber who had been around earlier, disconnecting the pipe at the back). I literally had to prize the machine door open. Of course, cue the torrent of water across the kitchen floor and about an hours mopping. Then we had to hand rinse and wring the clothes. Of course, it was hammering rain and I had to hang the clothes inside. This, of course, led to the clothes drying out like slabs of concrete and smelling like the lower intestine of the last corpse in a mass grave. Of course.

Exhibit E: the flat mates. Now, I try. I really try. I try to be a good christian, love my fellow man and chortle in a benevolent fashion when someone does something that could be considered irksome. But this bunch of useless, dribbling, bovine morons have driven me to a point of exasperation which words fall short of describing. There's Christian the perpetually stoned hippy from Bilbao, who is basically alright, except that it is near on impossible to have a lucid conversation with, on account of the fact that he is continually monged out of his brain. Then there's Valentina the Italian student. Basically Christian with breasts. However, where as Christian is just a bit dim, Valentina is a pouty-mouth, ill-mannered ingrate with the social charms of Donald Rumsfeld with a hangover. Next we have Stefan the Romanian, who, truth be told, is the nicest of the three, but is congenitally incapable of thinking for himself. I have never met three more useless people: incapable of conversation (in any language), incapable of cleaning or even taking the slightest shred of responsiblity for anything in the flat. Hamsters could look after themselves better than this bunch.

So. Last night we bailed. Enough, was enough. Ya Basta, as they say in Spanish. We have found a wonderful new flat about five minutes away and we moved in last night. It's brand new, beautiful, clean, spacious and has a rather benevolent washing machine. We think. We're having our house warming tonight, which should be fun.

The job is going well - most classes are a doddle to teach. Except of course, for one bunch of hooligans who I have for two hours on MOndays and Wednesdays. However, a couple of sinister Damien stares and a few choice expulsions later and the little gits were trembling in their Nikes.

Right. Better go. I have to go back over to the pit and reclaim the rest of my worldly goods before they dissapear in a deluge of urine, faeces and cigarrette ash.

More soon.

Adios...