I promised a brief explanation of my evident
exaggerated regard for the French baguette. It is rooted, or should I say
kneaded, in upbringing. Specifically, it is the result of being raised in New
Orleans, and its own version of the baguette, known simply as French bread, and
in sandwich form, the po boy.

  Lucky for me I had two very specific and
don’t-want- to-miss objectives in traveling to Guernica, because the weather
was the worst of the trip so far. Steady rain and gusty winds made the
temperature feel much colder than it probably was. Without those goals, though,
I would have bagged the day, and spent it in a café.

The transportation card provided by the Bilbao tourist office included two free guided walking tours of the city. I am not a big fan of guided tours, but the tourist rep seemed so genuinely aggrieved by my demurral,  I caved and accepted both signups, even though I knew I’d at most make it through one.

The hop on/hop off bus worked so well in Toledo, I looked forward to riding it again to get to know Bilbao. I was informed, though, at the conveniently located tourist office (directly across from the train station) that the bus (note “the” bus) had broken down and was not in service.

The original “plan” was to leave Madrid and head south for Seville. (I was thinking I might need a haircut and beard trim by then, anyway.) Then, from out of nowhere,  the phrase “Basque Separatists” popped into my head. After a couple days in a restive Catalonia, I was in the mood to be among some more troublemakers in the Basque capital of Bilbao.

   I was not trying to be cute or trite with the title. It would not be an uncommon reaction to your first glimpse of this almost golden city on a hill. Here is what Michener had to say about it:

   “The city of Toledo, a bejeweled museum set within walls, is a glorious monument and the spiritual capital of Spain; but it is also Spanish tourism at its worst. Anyone who remains in this city overnight is out of his mind,…”

   I’d first read about Spain’s conversion to high-speed rail in Tom Zoellner’s Train. Having neglected its rail system for decades, the revaluation of Spain’s currency upon entering the European Union in 1986, according to Zoellner, made the country flush with cash. Spain’s prime minister wanted to spend it on “a Japanese-style bullet train.” The first line opened in 1992 between Madrid and Seville, which quite coincidentally I’m sure, just happened to be the prime minister’s hometown. The line between Madrid and Barcelona opened only after overcoming fierce opposition that construction would endanger the delicate genius of Sagrada Familia. Unfortunately, it didn’t.

As pleasant and smooth as it was, the six-hour train trip into Barcelona gave me the urge to spend the first day in town with boots on the ground. It was a fifty-minute walk from my hotel to the Sagrada Familia basilica and that seemed doable. I need a lot of walking on this trip to make up for not taking my daily walk/jog along with me. I wasn’t in a picturesque part of the city, but as I approached the $300 per night Hotel Majestic, they’d set up a piano on the sidewalk as a way of drumming up some walk-in trade. It made for a nice rest break. I also observed that the clean sidewalk and streets are maintained by hand with straw brooms and oversized dustpans.

  Normally, I sleep like a colicky baby. I get maybe four hours of sleep on an average night. Throw jet lag into the mix, and you have the makings of a treatable insomniac.
      For example, by the time I arrived in Barcelona late Friday afternoon, I had logged a total of two or three hours of sleep in the last fifty or so. When Carolyn and I traveled together, she worried I wasn’t getting enough sleep. “You’ll hit the wall by the aftenoon,” she would tell me, full of concern I wouldn’t be able to enjoy the day. Never happened. Now that I am traveling alone, the only person I can cause worry with is me, and I’m not bothered at all. I simply use the middle of the night as productively as I would the middle of the day. For instance, I’m writing this at 3:30 in the morning.

I didn’t get that shower after all. Sometime after 10:00 p.m. last night, I heard a key in the main
door, followed by the rustle of feet. Since the owner required us to remove our shoes, my new
roomies saw that someone was already in one of the rooms. When they also saw their room
had been slept in and not cleaned, it didn’t matter whether it had been Goldilocks or not. They
knocked politely on my door, and inquired whether I had the right room. I told them I had no
idea, but that it seemed to be first come, first served. A quiet ensued, and I decided it would be the friendly, youth hostel thing to do to go out and introduce myself to my bunkmates.