Bilbao -- rain-washed beauty and burned undies

I loved Bilbao from the moment the plane touched down on the rain-wet runway. The place is surrounded by hills and is green, green, green -- from all the rain, I suppose. It reminds me a bit of Oregon. When the bus from the airport rounded a bend I got my first glimpse of the city: the titanium sales of the Guggenheim caught the sun and wind and the changable sky. Lots of other remarkable buildings as well, and a river running through it. (Bilbao is not on the coast, as I first thought.)

My first impression of the people here: small, sharp-featured, stylish, and very, very friendly. When you ask them a question they come up close to your face, look you in the eye, and take their time in giving you a complete answer. My Spanish is rusty but thank god it´s there, because I have to ask my way around at every turn.

At the airport baggage carousel, I watched as everyone claimed their duffles, rolling suitcases, and parcels. Then I´m the only one left, watching the empty black band go round and round. Trying not to cry (tears come easily when you haven´t slept in 2 days) I ask a guard, who points me to the lost luggage counter. The woman there looks at my baggage claim ticket. "Cinta seis," she says, pointing. I´d been at the wrong carousel.

From airport, took the bus to Plazy Moyua (runs every 30 minutes), then took the metro to Casco Viejo (the old part of town). Emerged at Plaza Unamuno. Off that plaza is Calle Maria Muñoz, and half a block down is Hostal La Estrella. Modest but clean and friendly. Thirty-five euros a night, and I get my own bathroom, plenty of hot water, and a little balcony overlooking the narrow pedestrian-only lane. I love the architecture here, and the quality of light.

It´s cold. This morning the hot shower felt great, and as I hung around my room, regrouping and figuring out my plan of attack, I wore long underwear, socks, and my lightweight fleece jacket. Trying to speed the drying of the underwear I´d washed the night before, I draped it over the lamp. A few minutes later I smelled something burning. Now one of the four pairs of underwear I brought is crotchless. At least that pair weighs just a tiny bit less now.

Fellow pilgrim of the day

I´m not walking yet but I met my first fellow pilgrim. Carlson, German, retired, biking along the north coast and will then drop down into the interior. This his fifth time heading for Santiago. His bike weighs 20 kilos, he said, and his gear another 10. He had a scallop shell tied to his gear, one he´d bought in Santiago on another trip. (The scallop shell is the symbol of the Camino and of St. James.) He had a detailed book of maps with his route and possible albergues marked. The lesser-known routes take more planning, as one has to piece together a way and be careful that there´s somewhere to stay at the end of the day.

About the Camino Frances, the best-known route and the one I´ll be walking, Carlson said, "It´s too crowded. Lots of Europeans who don´t think about what they´re doing and have no Christian sentiment. They get up at 5 am, rush the 25 or 26 km to the next hostal. They´re there by noon, jockeying for position so that when the hostal opens they´re first in line. There are lots of big fat Englishmen who snort when they walk and snore when they sleep."

Spiritual Superhighway?
On the plane from Frankfurt to Bilbao I sat next to a woman whose husband was walking the entire 800 km of the Camino Frances. She was flying out to celebrate with him at his halfway point. Why wasn´t she walking the Camino? I asked. Four children, she replied. She didn´t seem surprised or even particularly interested that I, too, was going to walk the Camino.

At the airport I saw plenty of people with backpacks, mostly older couples. I imagine they are fellow pilgrims. And Bilboa isn´t even on the Camino--tomorrow I´ll take a train from Bilbao to Leon to put myself on the route(train details below).

I guess you can´t have it both ways -- breathing in the heady fumes that rise from shared experience, while also enjoying the rarified air of a private and personal journey.

Train details
There are two trains from Bilboa to Leon. FEVE´s trip is cheaper and longer -- the train leave as 2 pm and arrives at around 10 pm. RENFE leaves at 9:15 am and arrives in Leon at 2:05 pm. The RENFE and FEVE stations are a half clock away from each other, near the Puerta de Arenal (Arenal Bridge).

The Guggenheim
Knocked my socks off. Which is a pain, since I have so few pairs. Anselm Keifer´s bleak landscapes like dirty fields of snow, with objects attached: metal folding chairs, charred stacks of paper, small branches bundled or arranged to form runic characters. The series is a tribute to Jewish-Romanian poet Paul Celan who survived a Nazi concentration camp, author of phrases such as "the black milk of daybreak." Slightly cheerier were his Flower Books, fanned metal pages bigger than me, with sunflowers half again as tall.

Richard Serra´s torqued ellipses get their own huge gallery. My head, already pounding from three coffees and too much art, pounded even more vehemently as I walked inside Serra´s curved steel labyrinths.

Language
Words I thought I knew (in Latin American (LA) Spanish) don´t work here. We won´t even get into the Basque language, with its embarrasment of Xs.

Examples:
pinchos (bocas or antojitos in LA Spanish; snacks in English)
bolleria (postre/pastry)
zumo (jugo/juice)
infusion (te/tea)
aseos (baños or servicios/bathroom or toilet)

It took me a long time to find this cybercafe, and I am unloading here pretty much without editing. I´ll save the editing for later, when I´m home and internet access doesn´t cost me by the minute. Managed to download some photos, for what they´re worth. Hasta pronto, mis amigos.