1.29.2010

Saturday, August 13, 2005

Just one week after leaving England for our month-long European interrailing adventure, James and I awoke to find ourselves in the north of Spain, on a playground in a small town called Hondarribia. As we slept, more campers arrived on foot and pitched their tents so that the long, narrow playground was filled. We could hear cutlery clinking and smell eggs cooking in the restaurant above us.


I hurried to the shower block, eager to start exploring. I found dozens of Spanish girls jostling for space in front of the mirrors, armed with curling irons and mascara wands. I had vowed to abstain from hair styling and anything but the bare minimum of makeup for the entire trip, so I was happy to have my shower and get out of there. The girls all seemed fierce, and not the Tyra kind of fierce.


People were checking out of the campsite and moving on, so James and I were able to move our tent to an actual pitch. We would leave the playground for the next group of backpackers who arrived on foot. Our new pitch was squeezed in between two other tents. The quarters were so close that the edges of the tents touched and we could hear everything that our new neighbors were doing. And I do mean everything. We packed our day packs and left in a hurry.
On the way to Plaza de Armas, Hondarribia


Fisherman's Houses, Hondarribia
We made our way toward the center of town in the bright morning sun. Our wanderings brought us to picturesque fisherman’s homes with potted geraniums hanging from the balconies, laundry gently swaying in the breeze. Exactly what you’d picture for a small Spanish town. The small streets began winding their way upwards toward an archway and the Plaza de Armas beyond. The Santa Maria de la Asuncion stood there, its Gothic and Baroque towers overlooking the harbor, surrounded by high stone walls. Once a fortress of defense, Hondarribia was attacked over and over during its long history for its strategic location at the mouth of the River Bidasoa. Now it’s just a peaceful sea town, declared an historic artistic monument.


Seafront, Hondarribia
James and I explored the seafront, with its many small shops selling to the many, many tourists. I bought a sarong that was to be one of the most versatile souvenirs of the trip. I loved the views toward France over the Txingudi Bay and the way part of the coastline seemed to be formed in long stone steps. All over the seafront there were feral cats living in the rocks. Here and there residents and visitors had left dishes of food and water out for them, and they hungrily snatched bits to take away to eat in private.


James, Hondarribia
We headed back to our campsite, but not before stopping off for a late afternoon drink in a small seafront bar. James enjoyed his beer and I my vino blanco. The owner of the bar ambled over with two small plates holding crabmeat salad on crusty bread. With a surprised “Gracias,” we dug in.

After our tapas, REALLY on our way back to the campsite this time, we stopped at a corner store (literally on the corner) to pick up our dinner: bread, tomatoes, onions, garlic, carrots, broccoli, red bell pepper and shrimp. We feasted on bruscetta and stir fry, sitting on our sleeping mats outside in front of our tent. We chose to ignore the everything our fellow campers were doing and to enjoy the relative peace and quiet of the evening.

One week into our month-long trip, James and I were happy and excited, satisfied with all we had seen and done thus far. We made plans to take the bus to Bilbao the next day.