Livin' in Euskadi #2

Gernika was unexpectedly pretty. The mystical heart of Basque identity, politics and life was razed to the ground in the infamous bombings of 1937. The town was completely destroyed, many were killed, and only the highly symbolic oak tree under which the ancient Basque parliament assembled, and Lords of Biscay swore to protect the liberty and independence of the Basque nation, the Gernikako Arbola, was left standing. Gernika has since become a symbol of rebuilding and regeneration, and a UNESCO protected international centre for peace. But don't believe the guidebooks telling you that you will find Picasso's sketches for his masterpiece painting there - they are in Madrid in the Museo Thyssen-Bornemiza, and while I think that El Guernica should now sit in the Guggenheim, it hangs in the Museo Reina Sofia, also in the capital. The Museo de la Paz, where the sketches allegedly were, is an entirely unnecessary stop: its sentiment sweet, its execution saccharine, messily lacking in historicisation, and jumbling too many things together (the Holocaust, Apartheid, the IRA, the Berlin Wall, Kosovo - all treated as one same evil. Humm.)

As the sun went down we continued to the curious Bosque Encantado de Oma, a living forest artwork created by painter and sculptor Agustín Ibarrola. Ibarrola painted small individual signs, dots and lines on various trees in the forest, which viewed from various spots produce colourful optical illusion of rainbows, figures in movement from one pine to the next, hundreds of eyes observing the observers. The effect was truly magical, and the fact we went there at sundown made for some eerie moments when, in the majestic silence of the shadowy trees, suddenly a ray of light would appear and disquiet squirrels and birds, with unexpected rustlings and crackings here and there. The day was crowned with a golden beach sunset, River Song from the Pacific Ocean Blue reissue playing loud in my ears.

But besides our wonderful friends and hosts in all this Basque joy, seeing Bruce Springsteen in Spain for the first time was the reason why we booked the holiday in the first place. Driving west down the coast to the gig offered the spectacle of the rich, fat San Sebastian/Donostia splayed out before us to be kissed by the sun in the early morning: three glorious sandy city beaches, encompassed by a collection of lamp-posts ordered individually out of a 1920s designer catalogue. It's easy to see why Franco thought San Sebastian should be the jewel in the crown of Spanish tourism and invested in the preservation of its casinos and luxury hotels.

We walked half the length of the Ondarreta Beach to Eduardo Chillida's rusty Comb of the Winds, as the Springsteen family were sunbathing on the other side of the Kursaal bridge at the Zurriola Beach. Although Donostia has more in common with Cannes than Asbury Park, apparently they liked it so much they want to go back - so did we. I proudly wore my new E Street Band through the streets of the Casco Viejo (see, there's one in every town!), and nodded at all the fellow Bruce fans in town. All the cafès and restaurants were playing Bruce classic and vintage - sadly we ended up purchasing a sandwich at a place where Oasis were menu del dia; I should have left, but hunger does bad things to you.

In Donostia we also caught an improvised game of Pelota Basca. The pelota pitch is a guaranteed presence in Basque towns, and most of the ones we have seen were packed with kids and grown-ups playing the slightly masochistic sport. It's bascially squash, played with bare hands as rackets. Ouch. The umarèll you see here was a professional player in his youth, and he easily won against five or six strapping young kids (and a fat one with an ice cream). Our friend Edu brushed up his pelota skills, only to come home with a reddened bruised hand.

And then one would have to say something about the concert itself. It was perfect and wonderful, but it wasn't a concert for me - I was there by proxy for somebody else, who needed some Bruce wisdom to get through a rough patch after some news to squeeze a heart dry. With a terrifying precision and a coincidental ruthlessness that applies only if you believe in these things like a religion, Bruce said all the right words and played all the right songs - some truly unexpectedly. I had prescribed Tunnel of Love to my friend in need, and lo and behold, concert opener: Tunnel of Love, previously unplayed for years. My heart skipped a few beats. My mind vacant. My ears picked out words to fit the state of mind: 'heart' and 'promise' recurred, often in conjunction with 'broken'. But then I looked at Bruce and Patti, singing and moving as if one being, truly possessed with each other, strung together with something strange, and truly aware that there is a mystery about another human being that we will really never uncover, and that mystery is what attracts us to each other, and pushes and pulls in and out of love, moving the currents of our hearts. The mystery of love can damn us, but it can also save. And it was then that I started to listen differently, and the words that came out were 'work', and 'hard', and 'growing', and I thought we will all be alright if we can work on it, if you can work on it you can fix or you can stand it. It wasn't a concert for me, but it was the only thing I could do - be there, exchange the favour of a song recorded on an answering machine, sing, cry and pray the prayer of rock'n'roll. Goodnight, it's alright Jane. (I got another Thunder Road, Tougher Than the Rest, Sandy, and finally - as a special request for a lucky Xavier, my Incident on 57th Street - it never made more sense than on this hot sweaty night in Spain).


Technorati Tagged: Basque Country; Euskal Herria; Bilbao; Barakaldo; Guernica; Gernika; San Sebastian; Donostia; Guggenheim Museum; Food; Victor Montes; Just Bruce;