I had a good night’s sleep in my little pine pod and after a few shots of coffee was ready once more to brace the outside world.
While I was “packing” for this weekend, I decided I wouldn’t need a coat because Spain has glorious weather, and also discovered my sandals had gone mouldy.
As if by magic, I found a Dr Marten’s store in which I was somehow unable to resist spunking more money than should be sensible on a pair of sandals which then spent the rest of the day defiantly trying to lacerate my feet but were nonetheless slightly more practical than my boots. One problem solved, or so I thought. Undeterred by pain, I strolled gingerly through the green leafy Gipuzkoa Plaza, one side of which was lined with little blue stalls filled with books which passers-by were stopping to browse and buy or photograph. I stopped for a quick mosey but remembered that I don’t speak Euskara or Spanish, so further hobbling onwards found myself sitting at a table in one of the many beautiful arcades that provide welcome respite from the sun to the donostiarra, devouring a large cup of coffee and an eager bagel.
Because I felt yesterday’s photograph of Donostia Amara was unsatisfactory, I tottered on to the Euskotren station to have another go, where I found the café open and serving pintxos. As it had taken rather a lot of energy to get there from the last place I’d found food, and uncertain whether my feet would ever carry me to a restaurant again despite a hasty late-morning acquisition of plasters in a pharmacy near the hostel, I had a quick Mahou with something eggy in a tiny bap that I managed to order with a combination of pointing, smiling, and pointing while smiling — and the help of the woman at the end of the bar who seemed to understand my non-meaty predicament.
My second graze of the day was successful.
In a moment of post-pintxo madness I briefly contemplated a trip to Bilbao because at 12€ return it almost seemed rude not to, but then reasoned it would be silly to try and do everything in one trip as then there’s a reason to come back. I also couldn’t quite fathom the ticket machine.
Emboldened by a gaggle of youths rocking socks with Crocks in the gardens opposite the station, I decided that teeny little sports socks would be at least temporarily acceptable to mitigate the rubbing of leather against flesh, and a while later successfully limped out of a Decathlon clutching three pairs of salvation. I quickly upgraded my feet before braving the suggestion of Dérive to “find a couple and follow them for two blocks”.
With my new reduced speed I spent a lot more time than was healthy looking at other people’s footwear and potentially developing some kind of foot fetish, wondering quite how, exactly, they were managing to stay upright and move normally. I did, however, realise that the new speed restrictions imposed on me through discomfort seemed to bring me closer to what the locals would consider a normal walking speed and I was no longer overtaking them everywhere in an effort to get to things. It appears the locals’ solution to not being able to walk properly is simply to sit in the shade for a bit looking at other people’s feet until you’ve built up the courage to go a little further.
I finished the Dérive challenge with seven minutes to spare and no way of moving to the next one so abandoned it and successfully purchased a fine fridge magnet in the Old Town. I was not overly impressed by the selection of refrigerator accoutrements available, even after inspecting the offerings of multiple establishments. I tend to favour a credit card-sized flat magnet with little embellishment — save for the super-tacky masterpiece I picked up in Lourdes — but a lot of the offerings all looked a little too Swiss Alps for my liking.
Still. One more.
I had now crossed two things off my list for the day so I headed for the Basilica of Saint Mary of the Chorus, whose entrance is apparently of note. She looked quite sparkly inside but I was thwarted by the woman defending access to the sparkly things with demands of payment, and although I heard someone get in for free under the auspices of credence I wasn’t convinced that I could pull off the premise of “just having a quick pray” and aborted the mission just as someone came in wheeling a bicycle. In retrospect should’ve shown the woman my new blisters but am not sure that my Oatmeal teeshirt depicting a kitten wearing an M1 helmet and clutching a hand grenade would’ve contributed much to the façade of piety. As it turned out, I remembered I’d not had food for at least an hour and subsequently discovered that 4pm is another perfect time to sit down near the seaside with a massive bowl of olives and a half of Mahou.
An English couple with a child that had a set of lungs perfect for communicating its displeasure at pineapple juice and colouring-in marred some of the tranquility, yet someone somewhere heard its protestations favourably as its demonic chorus summoned massive black mothers-of-cloud which came rolling in over the sea and reminded me why one should always pack something waterproof. My summer hat put up a outstanding effort at keeping some of me dry just long enough for me to abandon the idea of having an ice cream at the seaside and instead cower under bridge next to a shop which had seamlessly switched from selling postcards to hawking souvenir ponchos and umbrellas. This was a shame, because people undeterred by the rain had taken advantage of the shorter queues and were now walking around triumphantly in souvenir ponchos eating cornets.
Post-apocalypse and back in my cosy little pod, there was time for a late-afternoon snooze before I braved the streets for a final bout of grazing. I quickly discovered that Donostia seems to shut earlier than you’d expect for such a big European city, but perhaps this is because you’re supposed to have filled up throughout the day. Botanika served me a final Mahou on the understanding that the kitchen was closed (a shame, but I made a mental note to go there next time), after which I spent a little while longer pottering about taking photos of streets that were amazingly photogenic even when wet.
The guides say that Donostia is known for its world-renowned restaurants helmed by top-notch chefs, and Botanika did look as if it might have some interesting offerings, but I much preferred idly lolling between taberna, sampling pintxos and supping beers. I briefly weighed up the merits of a falafel before I decided didn’t really think I was actually hungry after all, and crawled into my tiny pod for one last night’s sleep.
