10/5/2022, San Sebastián

Halfway through our month in San Sebastian, it’s time to evaluate how we might have benefited by taking crucial steps that others typically take before they travel internationally. Like planning, for example.

But first, I gotta say San Sebastian has already become one of my favorite places in the world, and not just because I can body surf in October without a wet suit, or even because nobody here knows or cares who the Kardashians are. It’s got it all. Big enough to have an endless supply of places to explore and small enough to do it on foot. Great weather. Two beaches only a couple of minutes stroll from anywhere in town. Cool architecture, with towering centuries-old churches around every corner. Tapas bars everywhere you look, serving great seafood and local wines that are not only good, but cheaper than water. Spectacular, panoramic views of the city and Bay of Biscay from any of the surrounding hills. (Hiking up one on our first day, Kelly and I agreed it was the most impressive view we’d ever seen. Within a few days, that view was only the third best we’d seen that week.) So, yeah, I dig it here.

Now, back to that planning thing. Once we’d decided on San Sebastian, all I had to do was pick out a decent Airbnb. Shoulda been a slam dunk. And I found a perfect one, I thought, in Parte Vieja, the quaint Old Town section, crisscrossed by narrow cobblestone lanes lined by small shops and restaurants. I didn’t give much thought to a line I read in a tourist guide: “The Parte Vieja area has more bars per square meter than anywhere else on earth.” But I should have. Sure enough, from the balcony of our third-floor apartment I can probably read the time off patrons’ wristwatches at any one of eight tapas bars below. Nothing like convenience, right? Right.

At midnight on our first night, I looked down from our bedroom to see dozens of people standing around high-top tables, nursing drinks, talking, laughing. “Ah,” Kelly said, “it all blends together like white noise. How relaxing.” We left the windows open and went to bed. But the revelry was just getting underway. By 1 am, it sounded like the entire student section from a Duke basketball game had squeezed onto our block. I closed the windows. Didn’t help. By 2 am, it seemed that the Duke student section had merged with a Metallica concert. And all were ordering another round. Now I know why there are so many churches here: everybody needs a quiet place to pray for their raging hangovers to go away. Finally, at 3:30, there were only a few stragglers left on the streets – mostly couples who figured it was the ideal time for high volume arguments. During these hours of sleeplessness, a lot of thoughts were going through my head, like:

• Maybe I can put myself to sleep and practice my Spanish at the same time by counting sheep in Spanish. Nah, I can only count to ten. And I don’t know how to say “sheep.”
• I wonder if Spain would be willing to trade San Sebastian for Kansas. Wait a minute, Kansas is quieter! Maybe we should’ve gone there for a month! Nah, it’s still Kansas.
• Why was that guy on the boardwalk this morning wearing a t-shirt that said, “Still Alone on Valentine’s Day,” in September? Or, for that matter, even if it was February 14th ? And did he buy it for himself? And does he realize that his willingness to wear that shirt might, by itself, explain why his calendar is empty in mid-February?

Finally, I decided to use that awake time to pick up some Spanish street lingo from those 3 am couples’ arguments on the cobblestone lane below. Yep, I figured that by the time we started attending the twice weekly Spanish lessons Kelly booked, I’d have an expanded vocabulary. And sure enough, arriving at our first class, I’d already taught myself to say:

• “You idiot, you were in charge of finding out the time of the last bus back to the hotel!”
• And, “But honey, how was I supposed to know she was your sister?”

Our Spanish teacher didn’t seem that impressed. On a positive note, I can now count to 11. And sleep is overrated.