Last Wednesday morning, I got up so early that I’m sure some people were still out for the night to catch a flight to San Sebastian, also known as Donostia in the Basque language. After a couple weeks of traveling in a crowd, I was ready for a little alone time, and I was really excited to see San Sebastian, a town I’ve been longing to visit for years. (I think it started with The Sun Also Rises…)
The main attraction is food–San Sebastian is second only to Kyoto in the number of Michelin-starred restaurants per square kilometer, and I had reservations at two of them, Arzak and Mugaritz, both of which also feature on the World’s 50 Best list. The early flight, in fact, was made in the service of lunch at Arzak–I couldn’t get a dinner reservation, but it’s the same menu. And beyond the super fancy, San Sebastian is also famous for its pinxto bars: tiny restaurants that serve delectable small plates, which you eat standing up.
Beyond food, there’s not a lot going on. It’s a small town with three great beaches–even a surf break at one of them. The photo below sums up San Sebastian’s beach life; the dogs run free in that town. Unfortunately, three out of four days I was there were cold and rainy, so I spent a lot of time catching up on Netflix. There’s a museum, an aquarium, and loads of cute shops, but since I’m living out of a suitcase for a year, I took the time to recharge.
On Saturday, the sun finally came out, and I attempted to cram a long weekend’s worth of tourism into a day. First up, a trip to the Frank Gehry-designed Guggenheim in Bilbao, which is an easy hour and fifteen minute bus ride from San Sebastian, a drive that winds through beautiful mountainous countryside.
The Guggenheim, like so many things, was smaller than I’d imagined, but lovely. The building itself is fascinating; every angle gives you a fresh perspective:
The main exhibition was Abstract Expressionism, and they had some interesting and significant works, though I have to admit that period leaves me a little cold. I was listening to the audio guide as I browsed, and while I’m fascinated by the artists’ processes, and I can intellectually understand the idea of creating a reaction through color or shape, rather than specific forms, it just doesn’t do much for me, much in the same way that I don’t like house music–my book-obsessed brain longs for narrative.
But I always look for at least one new painting to fall in love with, and at this museum, that was Anselm Kiefer’s The Renowned Orders of the Night. The photo doesn’t do it justice; it’s breathtaking in its scale.
Back in San Sebastian, I braved the hordes of children heading up to the rides at the tiny, rickety amusement park at the top of Monte Igueldo to get this breathtaking view of the city.
It was interesting–I don’t know if it’s because it was Saturday, or it was finally sunny, or the combo of the two, but I’d been thinking that San Sebastian was the sleepiest little town, just some surfers and a lot of old people, all of whom seemed to know each other, and hundreds of adorable pups. But then the sun comes out, and all of a sudden, the beach walkway is packed, and I’m fighting my way through the streets of Old Town like it’s Times Square.
I went to a pinxto bar recommended by none other than Anthony Bourdain, La Cuchara de San Telmo. Really, you’re supposed to do a pinxto crawl, but I only had it in me to elbow my way through one insanely crowded bar. It really is a bit of a fight, and then you’re left standing up eating gourmet food as if it were a bad canape at a reception. But I had delicious veal cheeks and pig’s feet in romesco sauce and suckling pig with an apple sauce (all the food my mom would refuse to eat, basically) and called it a night.
It was a slightly disappointing weekend, if I’m being honest, just because I’d built the city up so much in my mind–the difference between travel expectations and reality is something I think about often. And it was definitely one of those times, where if I hadn’t been flying solo, I might have been pushed to do more and explore further. But sometimes travel can be about recovery as much as discovery.
The only truly sour note of the weekend came as I was trying to leave at 7 AM on a Sunday morning. There were no taxis at the stand (you can’t hail one), and the promised 7:15 bus didn’t arrive. The taxi companies weren’t answering their phones. One group of people, just going home from the bars, promised to call me a cab from another town, but then they took the first one, and their drunk friends surrounded me and shooed me down the street, mocking me from the windows of the taxi that was supposed to be mine as they drove by.
Back at the taxi stand, another group of men came by and started talking to the girl standing next to me. In Spanglish, they offered me first a ride, then the open containers of beer they were holding–for obvious reasons, I accepted neither. I finally got through to a company and mustered enough college Spanish to communicate, “Necesito un taxi. Voy a aeropuerto. Estoy a Idiakez.” Not the most elegant turns of phrase, but a taxi did appear–which the other girl tried to take, since she was next in line. We communicated, insofar as we were able, and agreed that the taxi would drop her home first and then take me. Luckily (who has ever thought this?), my flight was delayed an hour, or I probably would have missed it.
So I suppose all’s well that ends well, and I never felt like I was in real danger–but it was a slightly dicey moment for a solo female traveler with only a moderate grasp on the language.
Nevertheless, I’m happy I saw the town and ate (some of) the food. It’s changed a lot from the quiet fishing village Hemingway visited, but it still has a certain charm.
Last weekend, my new friend and travel mate, Abby, thought it would be fun to do a double date. I was supposed to see a flamenco show with a guy I’d been talking to on OkCupid who was visiting Barcelona from Belgrade (our September stop–hoping to line things up in advance; I’m very pragmatic). Abby had never seen flamenco, so she hopped on her phone to find a fourth. Over lunchtime beers, this all seemed like a great plan.
By the time we were in the cab on the way to pre-flamenco drinks, our plan looked like it might be devolving into a third-wheel situation. Abby’s date was skeptical of the entire concept of the double date–perhaps it’s not so common in Spain?–sending messages like:
“I don’t understand why we’re going out with your friend. Can’t we have a date just the two of us?”
“Is this a group sex thing?”
But he kept promising that he was on his way–as soon as he got off work, changed his shirt, ran a couple errands…the excuses evolved over the course of the evening. Nevertheless, we soldiered on and were soon sitting across from my date, whom, to protect the privacy of the asinine, we’ll call Mark.
Allow me to be blunt: Mark was not attractive. Revisiting his profile later, I realized how strategic his photos were. So, all dolled up in my Friday night red-lipsticked best, that was disappointing. But he gave good text, so I had my fingers crossed for some scintillating conversation.
Then, ten minutes after we sat down, Mark told us about Helen, another girl he met on OkCupid, with whom he’d spent the entire week, sharing a room by night and exploring Barcelona by day. “I hope she might come by later,” he said casually, as if this were a perfectly normal thing to tell someone when you’re supposed to be on a date.
So at this point, two girls. One guy. The promise of a potential third girl. No actual dates happening. But there were mojitos on special and some delicious pesto bread, so we continued.
Getting the bill in Spain is always a process, and I wanted to regroup with Abby about our plans for the evening, so I sent Mark ahead to get seats for the flamenco show. When we were halfway there, Mark messaged to say there were no seats left; we’d arrived too late. There went the entire premise of the evening.
At this point, I was ready to bail and tried to convince Abby we should find another bar with different, better boys. It was Friday night, we were dressed up, it was Barcelona. But she was committed–to the idea that Mark could hook us up in Belgrade, to the possibility that her date (still messaging! still promising!) might come through, maybe even to the narrative itself.
So we moved to a different table on the main square of El Raval and waited for Mark to rejoin us–he seemed mysteriously committed to the evening as well. The waiter approached and asked, “Drinks? Mojitos?”
It’s like he knew us.
Mark came back and proceeded to tell us the FULL story of his romance with Helen, complete with photos. It was like a fairy tale, right up to the point where Helen apparently broke his heart the night before. Guess that’s why he decided to meet up with me? (Pro tip: don’t tell the girl you’re on a date with that she’s a consolation prize.)
Figuring this obliterated the need for any vestige of politeness, Abby and I were blatantly on our phones at this point. She started a thread on our We Roam Slack so that everyone might delight in a little schadenfreude. She also surreptitiously took photos of Mark showing us photos of Helen (they’re hilarious, but I’m too nice to post them). And we were both swiping through Tinder, still trying to make an actual double date out of the evening.
After forty-five minutes or so, I hooked one. Let’s-call-him-Diego was on his way and promised to bring a friend for Abby.
Half an hour later, Diego showed up alone. Alone and fully twenty-five years older than his late 20s-looking Tinder pics. 50 at least. Balding.
I contemplated karma as I scurried across the street to meet him, vaguely explaining that Mark was someone we’d met recently, and he was a little weird, so Diego should just ignore him. Not the world’s best cover story, but I was five or six mojitos deep.
We shared an awkward cocktail, over which Diego explained the finer points of Spain’s governmental structure, and then Abby and I agreed via WhatsApp that it was time to go.
“We have to volunteer REALLY early,” I announced as I stood up. “This has been lots of fun, but our volunteer work is so important to us.” (I’m smarmy when I’m irritated.)
But the fun wasn’t over yet. Diego offered to drive us home, we accepted, and then Mark–still in it to win it–insisted that Diego should drive him to our place as well, and it would be easy for him to walk from there.
Up to my eyeballs in bullshit, I asked Mark where he was staying, pulled up Google maps on my phone, and showed him that his Airbnb was just a ten minute walk from the square, while our place was 30 minutes farther away, and for that reason, we would be parting ways immediately. (Abby has photos of this, too.) I couldn’t have been more clear if I’d had a projector and a pointer.
He drunkenly acquiesced, and we waved goodbye as we speed walked down the street. One awkward car ride and a quick double cheek kiss later, we were free. Free to head upstairs to have a bottle of wine nightcap and regale our friends with the already legendary tale.
Instead of a double date, two dates. At one table. Both of them terrible. With a chaperone. Not exactly the romantic foreign escapade I’ve been imagining.
Was this the kind of date you all thought I’d be having in Spain? Anyone care to top my bad date anecdote? Commiserate below!
Our Barcelona apartments (which bear more of a resemblance to dorms, but oh well) are sort of in a no-man’s land. Poblenou is the closest neighborhood, but we’re definitely not in it. But we are equidistant from a lot of wonderful things, and we’re an easy 20-minute walk to El Born, an adorable old neighborhood packed with shops and bars. The other day I took a photo stroll the long way round…
My first meandering point was the Parc de la Ciutadella. It’s massive (70 acres), and it has museums, the zoo, and a lake you can row on, amidst other delights. You can even have a training session if you want to…
Or, if you’re like me, you can just walk around, read on the grass for a while, and take some photos. My favorite shot is below–I hate those obnoxious bubble gun salesmen, but I love how the bubbles look against the fountain:
From the Parc, you cross the street and enter El Born, full of adorably winding side streets like this one…
…and loads of street art and charming details:
I paused to have lunch at an outdoor table. Sadly, the restaurants with terraces often don’t have the best food in the city, but basic tapas are universal, and I was perfectly content with croquettes, salad, and padron peppers in the sunshine.
Next, I crossed Via Laietana into Barri Gotic, or the Gothic Quarter. It has a very similar vibe as El Born; if you aren’t looking at a map, you wouldn’t know they were two neighborhoods. But there are some nice Gothic* touches. Asterisked because apparently some of the lovely details were created for the 1929 International Exposition. One of my travel mates is infuriated by Barcelona’s penchant for recreation; he told me yesterday that Italy is better because it’s actually old. But I say, what the hell, as long as it’s pretty.
The Gothic Quarter also contains my favorite square (so far, at least), the Placa Reial. It’s lined with delicious restaurants and fun bars (try Sidecar if you want to dance to 80s music), and don’t tell my friend, but it reminds me of Piazza Navona in Rome.
Hope you enjoyed taking this stroll with me! There are so many Barcelona neighborhoods still to explore, and only two weeks left to walk through them. Travel anxiety is real.
If you find yourself in Barcelona on the first weekend of the month (except for August), I highly recommend making your way into the Poblenou neighborhood to visit the Palo Alto Market. This vibrant, elevated flea market was the perfect complement to my beach day Saturday. And it’s the perfect antidote to the widespread Sunday restaurant closures.
The market’s open Saturday and Sunday from 11 am-9 pm. I was there from about 12:30-2:30–it wasn’t too crowded when I first arrived, but by the time I left, it was packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
A “design” market more so than a flea market, the stalls lean towards cute local goods: sunglasses, canvas bags, handmade jewelry, small-batch clothing–like Etsy brought to life, none of the used t-shirts and antique spoon collections you might find at a regular flea market (though I love a good treasure hunt at those). And the setting, a garden at an old factory, perfectly matches the content. Instead of an empty parking lot, the grounds are beautifully landscaped, and the market winds around the trails and through multiple buildings, the live music swelling and and fading as you turn the corners.
A 4 euro entry fee gets you access to a gorgeous garden and dozens of stalls selling delicious food and fun merch. Well worth a visit, if you have enough time in Barcelona to venture beyond the main tourist attractions; several of my friends went both Saturday and Sunday, and we all wish it were open more than one weekend a month!
packed. I started my visit with patatas bravas (natch, I could live on those) to fortify me for exploration.
