Monday, October 12, 2015-Down to Madrid on Spain's National Holiday

Obeying Patricia, our San Sebastián Airbnb concierge, we stocked up on food Saturday as she insisted that nothing would be open today (Monday). Today reveals her claims to be completely specious. The fair continues. Perhaps Patricia believes that patriotism reigns supreme, but it doesn’t. For good or ill, money to be made harvesting the tourist trade overrules the symbolism of Spain’s National Holiday.

We gleefully note that many holiday visitors have already left Sunday to return to work tomorrow (Tuesday). “Yeah,” we think, “fewer people on the trains.”

After packing our remaining still-wet clothing (mostly jeans), we embark upon a two-hour whirlwind tour of the city.

We begin with the fair, enjoying the multi-hued booths open for business. Bear pushes Bird and me through the quiet streets before anyone else arrives. I see nothing I wish to purchase but enjoy looking. (Window licking, the French call it, but we have no windows. Don’t go there!) But if this really were the Middle Ages and I had one chance to shop all year, my attitude would alter and the merchandise would become much more appealing. I might be forced to buy one of everything! Oh no, no credit cards, cancel that fantasy.

Keith buys some doughnuts, freshly made. One bite of the anise flavored cake donut entrances him, my happy Bear. Delirious, he propels me down the streets out to the waterfront to look at the ocean. We see people attempting to sunbathe on the beach despite the cool weather. We find the aquarium, also not closed. We wander back in front of our house and get some coffee, tea and bad tapas at an open restaurant.

Back upstairs, Bear calls me to our balconies repeatedly to watch the fair unfold right below our flat. I catch sight of the medieval costumed people sauntering down the street playing antique instruments. I miss the more exciting acrobats, including the woman walking on a ball while jumping rope, preceded by a juggler, and followed by a man pulling a cart collecting donations.

I anxiously await a text from Bloodroot. As a mother, I find it impossible not to worry as my one and only massively beloved son flies in to Madrid from South America (Santiago, Chile). Seeking contact, I open my phone over and over again. I try to be discreet and unobtrusive as Bear will laugh at my worry. I fail; Bear teases me mercilessly.

Shortly thereafter, the landlady from our Madrid Airbnb calls asking for Bloodroot. Since Bloodroot will buy a phone when he lands, he currently has no phone number, and I can’t help her. She will look at his flight to see if it’s delayed and wait a while longer.

Meanwhile our taxi arrives to take us and all of our junk 500 meters to the train station. We engage in a hilarious quasi-discussion as my elementary Spanish deserts me and he “no habla ingles”.

At the station, we encounter our first (and fortunately only) amazingly nasty RENFE employee. The laziness of this woman defies imagination. All we need the bitch to do is walk ten meters and activate the battery operated ramp lifting me onto the train. She acts like I’m pulling out her eye teeth. We’re amazed as we’ve found the RENFE people bored and incredibly helpful as we give them something to do to relieve the monotony of clock watching. Not this puta. She first informs me, as I sit in Bird, that I can certainly ascend the three steps onto the train. We vehemently disagree, saying “Rampa, rampa” repeatedly. In her next attempt to avoid work, she badgers an English speaker into telling us that we needed to reserve the disability service 24 hours in advance and perhaps only through her goodwill she might condescend to help us. We begin to shout, “We were here Saturday and told to return 20 minutes early! What is the problem?” The English speaker rolls her eyes and tells her miserable co-worker to do her job. Señora Unpleasantness takes my name, ostensibly to call ahead, and with great reluctance loads me and Bird on the train. She refuses to assist with luggage, leaving Keith to trail behind us heavily burdened. Every other RENFE person has taken at least one suitcase in their free hand.

Unfortunately, today we have to manage two trains, the only thing I could find online (back in Denver) from San Sebastián to Madrid. After listening to Patricia, I was concerned that even RENFE would close today. This morning, RENFE’s website listed eight trains to Madrid today, all sold out. More unnecessary worry.

I don’t have too much trouble getting into my seat. The conductor stops by, insisting that we move Bird two train cars away and fold her up. Complying, Keith discovers the unoccupied handicap accessible spot where he feels we should be sitting in the first place. But RENFE will only let you sit in the seat you purchased. At times they can be kind and move us, but not today, as the holiday has left them screaming busy. I have a lot to learn before I book train tickets again.

Three hours later, a ramp meets us as we exit the train at Zaragoza, halfway back to Barcelona Sants. Gracious people move me and our stuff up one platform, through the ascensores, and down to another platform. We await the fast train to Madrid coming out of Barcelona. Sometimes I feel as though every train we take wants to send us back to Barcelona, specifically Barcelona Sants train station.

Personnel hustle us onto this train and abandon us with a chorus of “Baila, baila” (dance, dance). Actually, they say “Vale, vale” (OK? OK?). The fast trains have a very tight schedule, never stopping anywhere for long. We notice our seat numbers are 7A & B, halfway down the train. It’s 8:40 PM; I’m completely exhausted, but I begin to walk down the aisle as Keith holds my arms, keeping me upright. But my left leg will not move forward at all. This causes massive consternation among the other passengers. An incredibly kind woman and her daughter sitting in the last seat by the train car door jump up and trade seats with us. In our travels, we experience many random acts of kindness that earn our eternal gratitude.

Our first train took three hours to get to Zaragoza. This train, a high speed AVE (bird) train, flies along the tracks a longer distance to Madrid in an hour and 20 minutes. At Zaragoza, they’re so busy shoving us on to this train that they don’t really care where we put Bird, so we put her by the door. She’s happy to be near us, often frightened when she feels abandoned, folded up several cars away.

Every long train ride comes with a movie both dubbed and subtitled in Spanish. The conductors hand out ear buds that we never understand. But most people seem to find the buds easy to use. Viewing this film for the third time, we wonder how often RENFE changes films. RENFE began running the film before we boarded, so we only see the last part. The movie, called St. Vincent, stars Bill Murray. I note that Murray looks a good bit worse for wear. Keith says that Murray always looked scruffy.

At long last, Bloodroot calls, telling me that his plane crashed, stranding him in the Azores. Panicked, I momentarily believe him. Where did he learn to be such an inveterate smart-ass? Could this be his upbringing? Naturally, despite my motherly paranoia, his plane landed on time at Barajas, Madrid’s airport. He took a while getting across town in a new city but eventually found our new landlord. After receiving the keys, he settled in for a nice, long nap in our new Airbnb. We arrange to meet at Customer Service for handicapped folks in the Puerta de Atocha train station when our train arrives at 10PM.

When we pull into the train station alas, alack, no ramp greets us. Someone has dropped the ball! I suspect, perhaps unfairly, the nasty creature in San Sebastián.

This is how today begins to feel to us.

We watch in horror as everyone pours off of the train. No ramp arrives. I am stranded, three steps above the platform. In terror, I fear the train will just drive off with me on it. After what seems an eternity, Keith flags down three train conductors who stop and consider my predicament. They chatter in Spanish, reaching some agreement amongst themselves.

The three strong men approach my train car, hoist Bird and me, shouting uno, dos, tres and set me on the platform. The gentleman with the best English begins to push me while dragging one of our suitcases. Keith trails behind with the remaining baggage as we roll up to Customer Service. I learn the high-speed train is actually a German train, very long and strong. The conductor expresses great pride in the train. “It goes 300 kilometers per hour!” He continues in a different vein, “Madrid feels like and is a real city, unlike Barcelona, which is basically a tourist mecca.” He updates me on all the cool things to see in Madrid. I relate our planned Madrid itinerary and he approves.

He has visited the States seeing San Francisco, Las Vegas, and the Grand Canyon. What would those three places teach you of America? San Francisco, expensive yuppies; Las Vegas, addiction and tastelessness; Grand Canyon, beauty. So we’re a beautiful, expensive, addiction-prone people lacking taste. Perhaps correct, no?

The conductor delivers us to Customer Service, still open. In halting Spanish, I explain that we plan to meet our son here. No Bloodroot. The clock passes 10 PM, 10:15, 10:30. We call his phone as he calls us, but Vodafone does not consider our calls important and constantly drops them. We can’t get through. Finally our phone rings. Rejoicing, we hear Bloodroot’s voice. He’s been waiting by the Information desk where all the normal passengers file out as they exit trains. The boy never has listened. Handicapped people roll through secret ascensores to Customer Service. Drama resolved, Bloodroot greets us a few minutes later.

Bloodroot insists we need no taxi. He grabs some luggage and leads us to our little apartment, easily within walking distance.

But the drama of this day never ceases! The apartment elevator, probably once a broom closet, in no way accommodates Bird, though she considers herself a petite wheelchair. Indeed she meets all size requirements in the States where everything is huge. Here, she greatly exceeds elevator width. Bloodroot runs upstairs. Assisted by a nice neighbor, Miguel, he gathers a kitchen chair for my seat that does fit in the elevator. They send the elevator and chair down. The boys sit me in the chair. The elevator lifts us four floors. Success!

We enter our new flat. This flat has a full kitchen, including a dishwasher. We have a double bed on the floor, a kitchen table and a very, very tiny bathroom. I fear I will not be able to access the bathroom by myself. We also have a terrace upstairs, where Bloodroot sleeps. (Photo from a later day.)

Following a vocal animal greeting, Bloodroot tries to tickle Keith but to no avail. Keith squirms, but never giggles. He renames Bloodroot “Ticklehoof” the dancing goat.

We dine on the food we had prepared for the train. Concerned about both the elevator and the bathroom, we give Bloodroot the task of finding somewhere else to stay. He utilizes his computer skills, but fails to discover anything costing less than €250 a night. He finds nothing centrally located. Very late, 1 AM, we turn in for the night.

Sunday, October 11, 2015 - Bilbao

Good morning, world! This morning, lacking yesterday’s hunger and crowds, San Sebastián already looks better. We begin today’s massive adventure by walking down to the Termibus station to catch the PESA bus to Bilbao. Contrary to everything on the PESA’s website, we don’t really need a reservation for the wheelchair. Spain long ago joined the European Union, so unlike the United States, all public transportation must be handicap accessible.

The bus, a touring ark, has a ramp in back that lifts me and Bird up to bus seat level. A secret door opens and in I roll. Only one fly in the ointment: the bus driver finds the ramp’s operation incredibly confusing. Were this accommodation not so vital to our trip, the situation would be hilarious. I don’t think that the bus operators encounter many cripples in wheelchairs. Eventually, with the assistance of other PESA workers, the driver lifts me on the ramp into the back of the bus. The scary ramp pops me into the air, a few meters off the ground. I pray that Bird’s brakes hold. Now I’m up with all the other tourists and I didn’t even have to walk up any stairs. The employees strap Bird’s wheels onto the bus floor. Lacking the common sense God gave a rooster, I don’t fasten my seatbelt.

Our bus charges out of the station like a freed stallion, off to Bilbao, an hour’s journey. I would call this another physical therapy hour as the bus careens rapidly down hills and mountains, eternally flying downhill, turning right then left following the curves of the road, amidst intermittent hard braking. I do my best to remain seated. We fly past the countryside, where heavy industry sustained Franco for so long. Strikingly beautiful vistas form Spain’s Rust Belt, just like the Midwestern US where both Bear and I hail from.

After a very scary hour, entirely my own fault, we arrive in Bilbao. Having left the Rick Steves bible at home and thus lacking easy directions to the Bilbao tram, we wander around a bit, in and out of a RENFE station, taking one ascensor down and another up. (We took the bus because Bilbao lies an hour away from San Sebastián by bus but two-and-one-half hours by train.)

We eventually find the tram, which, as advertised, cruises along at ground level, completely accessible. We ride the tram up to the Guggenheim, today’s destination ─ in truth, the entire reason for the side excursion to San Sebastián. Again, lacking our bible, we don’t cancel our tram tickets before we board but fortunately no one arrests us for our faux pas. Assuaging our guilt, we cancel the tickets as we exit the tram.

Despite my usual obsessiveness, I didn’t buy advance museum tickets in Denver. But we get a bye with the wheelchair. The staff wheels us to the front of the line and I purchase tickets at only six euros for Keith, free for me (€13 each regular price). Go figure.

The outside of the Guggenheim amazes us. The building itself, designed by Frank Gehry, lies beside the Nervión River.

We enjoy the larger-than-life outdoor sculptures. A pond next to the building contains a fog sculpture and a fire fountain. As could be expected, fog rises from the fog sculpture, producing a ghostly presence far cooler than it sounds.

We see a huge Jeff Koons sculpture of brightly colored tulips.

Bear spots a large topiary bear, also by Koons. We read the placard next to the bear and discover that it’s really a puppy dog. “You know you can be just too damn educated,” growls the Bear. I agree, I would prefer to have believed it was a bear made in honor of my bear.

We see a big spider and a tree made out of ball bearings. “Silver balls,” says the Bear.

But the inside of the Guggenheim severely disappoints. The three story museum dedicates the entire top floor to huge exhibit of Jean-Michel Basquiat’s work. Long ago, back in the States, Bear and I had watched a movie about Basquiat, so we look forward to seeing his art. Basquiat began as a graffiti artist, befriended and collaborated with Andy Warhol, rose rapidly in the New York art scene, and died at 27 from a heroin overdose. But looking at his work, I note no talent whatsoever. One of Basquiat’s often repeated quotes is “Believe it or not, I really can draw.” The exhibit provides no evidence of this purported talent. Bear grumbles, “I don’t like art that people have to explain to me.” I couldn’t agree more. Nothing moves me; nothing touches me. We exit stage right to the ascensores.

We attempt to descend to the second floor but find it closed, the elevator refusing to stop there. We learn that the second floor had previously been dedicated to a Jeff Koons exhibit that just ended. Bear feels I would’ve liked that. Lots of colors.

So down we go to the first floor. This floor holds a huge room full of humongous steel mazes. I enjoy hearing the kids squeal as they walk through the exhibit, their cries of joy bouncing off of the walls. Bird easily negotiates the enormous artwork.

Walking over to a darkened room, we find nine blue LEDs stretching from the ceiling to the floor. At first I am drawn to this art because, after all, it has color; it’s blue. Approaching the installation, the tickertape-like LEDs actually dissolve into words. Naturally I have to try to read them, which gives me a headache and makes me feel a wee bit nauseous. At this point, we escape the Guggenheim.

We walk along a grassy knoll following the tram tracks back to the bus station, a nice, peaceful and beautiful journey. Fortunately I have the Bear, because I would probably go the wrong way on the tracks, wandering witless like an ant without a scent-trail, and die. This digression ignores the problem that I am not ambulatory.

As we stroll along, we search for somewhere to eat lunch. We settle on a restaurant, Taquillas Guggenheim. We eat some mediocre tapas or pintxos and, far more importantly, partake of some wine and Advil.

After the wine, we think about having sex on the street. We find Bilbao so quiet that the imp of perversity encourages us to stir the place up. Can you imagine, a cripple arrested for fornicating in public? Bear feels he needs time and more wine to devise some sort of contraption with levers and pulleys. “I think it would be more like block and tackle,” he says, “especially if you’re on top.” Eschewing the fantasy, we leave the restaurant and continue our walk to the bus station to await our return bus. I booked a fairly early bus back, 16:00.

This time we board a brand-new bus. This driver understands his lift and loads Bird and me without any difficulty. Unwilling to disturb his shiny new bus’s pristine look, he refuses to pick up the rubber strips lining the tie-down area, leaving the wheelchair unattached to the floor. I lack the intellect and language skills to argue. For the return trip, having been trained up right, I do buckle Bird’s seatbelt.

On the bus ride back, the bus caroms uphill which slows it a bit. I doze a briefly, rudely awakened by Bird’s movements. Although securely braked, we begin to fall into the middle aisle. I desperately call Keith, interrupting his nap. At every curve Keith must hold Bird down to keep her from flipping over into the aisle of the bus. What a bunch of morons (us included)! And I lack the Spanish language skills necessary to even explain their idiocy and fuss at them.

We employed great effort to get up here to visit the Guggenheim Museum. I found the museum pretty sucky and feel depressed about the waste of time and money; Keith isn’t. He feels that everything we do has value. He had a good day; he enjoyed the museum. “It’s not the best museum but I enjoyed the adventure.” I envy his easy, eternal joie de vivre. Thinking carefully, I agree with Bear. Had we not been chasing the Guggenheim, we never would have visited this lovely corner of the world.

Returning to our apartment, we find the fair still burbling below our balconies. No longer dazed by hunger, we enjoy the human tapestry dancing beneath our windows. Keith goes out and wanders through the fair while I nap. He likes the crazy musicians, the wandering minstrels. Happily, he buys some walnuts and apricots and dates, real Bear food.

Yesterday he washed almost all of our clothing and much of it is dry. For dinner he cooks nearly all of the food we bought yesterday in a chicken stir-fry with noodles. Bear’s culinary skills bless us once again!