justinlife

30 July 2010

a post about traveling

Posted by admin @ 19:39 pm categories: traveling

So, it’s been a while. I’m back in Miami.

As you presumably know, I spent a while traveling around Europe. I have particular problems with the term “EuroTrip” — which may later be explored here on this blog — but that was essentially the idea. Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Copenhagen, Lund, Paris, Flavigny, Gubbio, Madrid again. 4 European capitals, 4 smaller cities. 29 days. 6 cemeteries, 13 museums (‘though heavily stacked up in Berlin), only 3 churches. 3 synagogues, too. Moved my luggage 13 times. 5 flights, 2 longer bus rides, 6 longer train rides. 3 hostels, 5 couchsurfers, 3 friends’ houses/flats. Only 1 novel, and 1 magazine. But the novel was in Spanish and 667 pages long.

In the past, when I’ve taken a grand trip, I’ve made one or two posts on my blog with pictures and descriptions. I’m not going to do that today. Instead, I’ll take a page out of the way blogging services like tumblr work, and keep it small. What I’m going to do: over the next few days, I’ll post each day (as I have time) a photograph (or two) and an excerpt from my travel journal, which will probably be brushed up and expanded for the blog. (To be fair, I won’t change all that much. You’ll notice my shortcuts, like dropping the subject a lot more than is really called for. When it’s obviously me, why write “I”?) The idea will be to highlight the best things I did, and ignore some of the worst. Not that there was much bad. Some days the writing will align with the photographs; some days they may not. So it is.

In any case, when better to start then today? First up, Berlin.

The room at the end of the Axis of the Holocaust tower, in the Jewish Museum of Berlin

The room at the end of the Axis of the Holocaust tower, in the Jewish Museum of Berlin. A giant, empty room, with only a hole at the top for letting in light

Friday, 02 July. Berlin.
I’m sitting now in a Jewish cemetery on Groß Hamburger Straße — I’m the only one here. People look in occasionally, but almost no one opens the gate to come in. In the New Synagogue, the exhibits mentioned this cemetery, just down the street — the oldest Jewish cemetery in Berlin. All the graves have no headstones, now; it’s just green. They were torn down; they don’t exist anymore. There’s a sprinkler in the distance watering the foliage. It’s beautiful, and quite peaceful for the middle of Berlin. I wonder what it was like with gravestones? There are more than 5,000 graves in this tiny space. They have a sign at the entrance asking men to cover their heads, so I’ve got a yarmulke on from the box below the sign. First time I’ve worn one of these in quite a while.

It’s interesting how Berlin today reacts to Judaism.

This morning, I went to the Museum für Gegenwart (the Hamburger Banhof) — a modern art museum in what was once a train station. The temporary exhibition was work by Bruce Nauman, and called Dream Passage — there was some very intriguing experiential work that I rather liked. The permanent collection wasn’t bad, either. I enjoyed the museum. Upstairs, there was an exhibition called “Models.” On one half, there was an interplay between these super-detailed bug models (made by Alfred Keller) and Gerd Rohling’s work, using plastic containers and lighting to make them look like fancy glass bowls, pottery, etc. The other half was this really cool piece called Schattenspiel (Shadow Play) where, by shining light on toys and random objects arrayed on a table, the artist (Hans-Peter Feldmann) created a shadow world. Then, and perhaps most interesting, was a piece called Spielzeugland (Toyland), by Jochen Alexander Freydank — a short live-action film that won an Oscar (2007), a very moving film. (It appears to be on youtube, but I couldn’t find subtitled versions — look for it if you speak German.)

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8 July 2010

a check-in from Prague

Posted by admin @ 9:11 am categories: traveling

So I’ve been traveling for a bit more than a week now, which is kind of exhausting to be honest. I’m not saying I’m not enjoying myself — I am. But I’m definitely the sort of person who feels more comfortable when in a place that’s my own. I feel like I’m continuously stepping out of my comfort zone, which is both kind of fun and kind of tiring. Maybe comfort zone isn’t the right word — that has the suggestion of me being genuinely discomforted, and I’m not. But yes: I don’t feel like I have the opportunity to recharge as easily. I don’t think it detracts too much from my having fun, though, which is a good thing. Yes indeed!

I’ve moved around a bit, for the nine days since I left: I was in Berlin for five days, which was great, and then in Dresden for three. I just arrived here in Prague this morning. It has a very tourist-centered centre, with tons of different languages spoken every which way — I’ve heard a lot of Spanish, and definitely noticed some Argentines as well as Spaniards. (Well, people who speak with the sh/ll sound; they could be from elsewhere maybe. I doubt it.)

There’s no question that I’m a big city or no city person — it feels nice to be back in a big, busy city. Dresden was only busy in the very centre, or right before the soccer game (hurrah, Spain!). But I’d like to get to spend some time in the countryside, before I leave the Czech Republic. So we’ll have to arrange that, won’t we?

I’m here through Monday, when I head to Copenhagen. So let’s get outside! (Well, once the heat starts to fade a bit…)

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27 June 2010

more translation

Posted by admin @ 10:06 am categories: Spanish • language • writing

A translation of the poem I wrote a few days ago. Discussion after.

A veces, él recibe notas del pasado,
bruscas en la redacción pero directas en su importancia;
salen del mar como burbujas
y le siguien a algún muro olvidado.
Cuándo vienen a él,
están como luciérnagas abajo de una luna menguante
y él cierra sus ojos ante de ellas
en un movimiento de vergüenza.
Las palabras siempre están escrito en una letra dura,
la escritura más hendidura que perfil,
la tinta negra a veces disipada.
Siempre están inevitable.
Cuándo cena con su novia,
o cambia líneas en las profundidades del metro,
de vez en cuando ve reflexiones,
o palabras en relieve
en las arrugas de la cara de ella,
o en las cajas plásticas que alojan los anuncios.
Un día, en frustración, ella le llamó a las altas horas de la noche
y le preguntó a explicar sus distracciones.
“No puedo,” él dijo a traves del transmisor,
“y no sé si es algo que quiero.”
La presente no es ineludible
no más que el pasado es incapaz de olvidar;
sus sueños no le dejarán en paz,
porque él todavía no los ha dejado.

Translating a poem is more difficult than translating much anything else, in part because one tends to use words very specifically. I’ve never taken a translation class, which I’m sad about, because I think translation is fascinating; here are some general observations:

translating to Spanish is interesting because pronouns become debated — where are they necessary? I could write this entire poem without making the sex of its characters clear, something that’s quite difficult to do in English. I decided to use pronouns quite a bit, because otherwise a lot would be unclear. For example, in the line “en las arrugas de la cara de ella” (“in the wrinkles on her face”), I could translate this as “en las arrugas de su cara” — but then it becomes unclear whose face I’m speaking of. To me, at least.
This translation made two oddities in the English apparent: (1) “script more indentation than outline” — this doesn’t quite make sense. I’m trying to imply that the ink is less important than the impression on the paper, but really both words describe the same thing. I didn’t change this. (2) “‘I can’t, he said into the receiver” — it seems okay to me to use the word “receiver” to mean “mouthpiece.” But really the receiver of a telephone is the earpiece, no? I’m not sure if I should change it. The word “receiver” really could mean either part. But in Spanish, I decided to go with “transmitter,” “transmisor.” I’m pretty sure this makes the most sense.
As with any translation when you’re not fully bilingual, and even sometimes then (I’d imagine), I used a dictionary a fair bit. Sometimes just to check where an accent goes (I’m sure I forgot a few), and sometimes for words — ineludible (inescapable) is a new favorite. I’m still unsure as to exactly what I mean by “short” (“short in their wording and direct in their import”), so my translation (brusco, brusque) might not be quite right.
I’m not sure how I feel about the last lines. In English: “his dreams will not leave him alone, / because he has not yet given them up.” In Spanish, I translated them using the same verb, as though it were “his dreams will not leave him alone, / because he will not leave them alone.” In Spanish, to me, it sounds less awkward. But I’m shaky about it. Equally shaky: “and hold him to a forgotten wall” doesn’t translate well as “y le siguien a algún muro olvidado.” But I don’t think “and they follow him to some forgotten wall” is exactly wrong, either. I’m not quite sure that I mean “hold” as a synonym to “press.”

In any case, this was a surprisingly fun exercise. I should do it again.

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22 June 2010

the unbearable lightness of being

Posted by admin @ 16:37 pm categories: art

(Lee este post en español.)

I finished reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being today. It’s a 1984 novel by Milan Kundera, a Czech writer; it’s one of those books you know about before you really know anything about it. I had it in school on Monday, and one of the teachers who I like a lot, Eva, asked me what I was reading. I tried to translate the title. “La insoportable… ligereza… de ser?” I knew ligereza didn’t feel right, but she figured out what I was talking about. The title in Spanish is La insoportable levedad de ser; I’m not entirely sure what the difference is between the two words, to be honest.

Anyway, “Isn’t that really depressing?” she asked me. But it’s not, at all. I knew before I started reading it that it was a “philosophical” book, and it is. But it’s not heavy in the way it could be; it doesn’t feel like I’m working at anything. I finished the last fifty pages in an hour today, reading while waiting at the doctor’s office. Not the sort of thing you can do with every book. But it’s philosophical without being difficult. It’s about love, and sex, and death. It’s graphic and straightforward. That’s why it’s interesting; that’s why it’s fun.

I’m glad I got around to reading it.

Below are some quotes I liked. I blocked off paragraphs all through the book; these are some shorter ones. There are lots of wonderful passages.

Tomas did not realize at the time that metaphors are dangerous. Metaphors are not to be trifled with. A single metaphor can give birth to love. (Kundera, 11)

This symmetrical composition–the same motif appears at the beginning and at the end–may seem quite “novelistic” to you, and I am willing to agree, but only on the condition that you refrain from reading such notions as “fictive,” “fabricated,” and “untrue to life” into the word “novelistic.” Because human lives are composed in precisely such a fashion. (Kundera, 52)

Now, perhaps, we are in a better position to understand the abyss separating Sabina and Franz: he listened eagerly to the story of her life and she was equally eager to hear the story of his, but although they had a clear understanding of the logical meaning of the words they exchanged, they failed to hear the semantic susurrus of the river flowing between them. (Kundera, 88, oh god that last line is wonderful)

   He knew that instead of waking her he should lull her back to sleep, so he tried to come up with an answer that would plant the image of a new dream in her mind.
   ”I’m looking at the stars,” he said.
   ”Don’t say you’re looking at the stars. That’s a lie. You’re looking down.”
   ”That’s because we’re in an airplane. The stars are below us.”
   ”Oh, in an airplane,” said Tereza, squeezing his hand even tighter and falling asleep again. And Tomas knew that Tereza was looking out of the round window of an airplane flying high above the stars. (Kundera, 240)

Hoy, acabé de leer La insoportable levedad de ser. Es un libro del año 1984, del escritor checo Milan Kundera. Es uno de los libros que conoces, por lo menos en inglés, aunque probablamente no sabes mucho de él. Lo tenía conmigo en el colegio el lunes, y uno de las profesores con quien me lleva bien, Eva, me preguntó que leía. Intenté a traducir el titulo — “Es la Insoportable … ligereza … de ser?” Supe que ligereza no era la palabra, pero ella me entendió. No entiendo completamente la diferencia entre ligereza y levedad, todavía.

De todos modos, me preguntó, “No es muy pesado?” Pero no, no es, en ninguna manera. Sabía antes de empezarme que era un libro filosófico, y lo es. Pero no es pesado, no es deprimido, no me da el sentimiento que estoy trabajando. Terminé con las ultimas 50 paginas en una hora, hoy, esperando el la oficina del medico. Esto no es el tipo de cosa que puedes hacer con todos los libros. Es filosófico sin ser difícil. Se trata del amor, y el sexo, y el muerto. Es gráfico, y franco. Por eso es interesante; por eso es divertido.

Estoy contento que finalmente lo leí.

Abajo son unas citas que me gustó. Marqué párrafos en todo el libro; estos son los más cortos. Hay muchos pasajes maravillosos. Aquí hago unas traducciones para divertirme — obviamente, ya traduzco de una traducción de checo. Las traducciones en inglés están arriba.

Tomás no se dió cuenta en este momento que las metáforas son peligrosas. No debe jugar con las metáforas. Una metáfora sola puede engendrar el amor. (Kundera, 11)

Esta composición simétrica–la misma tema aparece al principio y al final–puede parecer bastante novelistica a sí, y estoy dispuesto a aceptar, pero solo si Ud. se abstene de presumir las ideas de “ficcional,” “fabricado,” y “inreal en aspecto a la vida” en la palabra “novelistica.” Porque las vidas humanas son compuestos en exactamente esta manera. (Kundera, 52)

Ahora, quizás, estamos en una posición mejor a entender el abismo que separa Sabina y Franz: él escuchó con entusiasmo a la historia de su vida, y ella con entusiasmo igual escuchó a la suya, pero aunque los dos entendieron con claridad los sentidos logicos de las palabras que intercambiaron, ellos fracasaron a escuchar el susurro semántico del río fluyendo entre sus mismos. (Kundera, 88, joder pero la ultima linea es maravillosa)

   Sabía que en vez de despertarla, debe calmarla a dormir otra vez, y así intentó a inventar una respuesta que plantaría la imagen de un sueño nuevo en su mente.
   ”Miro a las estrellas,” dijo.
   ”No digas que mires a las estrellas. Es una mentira. Tú miras abajo.”
   ”Eso es porque estamos en un avión. Las estrellas están abajos.”
   ”O, en un avión,” dijo Tereza, apretando la mano de Tomás aun más, y se dormió otra vez. Y Tomás sabía que Tereza miraba fuera de la ventana redonda de un avión, volando muy arriba de las estrellas. (Kundera, 240)

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what a withering end

Posted by admin @ 13:26 pm categories: Uncategorized • mental states

I’m kidding, mostly, in the title. But it’s a shame to be sick and feel weak on the day before the last day of school; it’s a shame not to get to see my friends here in Madrid before we leave. I spent the morning in bed, and I’ve spent the afternoon thus far trying to figure out what would make me feel better. The only bright spot is that when I’m sick I get to make myself mint-lemon-ginger sweet tea, which is possibly the best of all infusions. (In a tea strainer, add 2 teaspoons of dried mint, some gratings or slices of ginger, and 2 teaspoons of sugar. Add the juice of half a lemon (or a full lemon), and pour almost-boiling water over the mixture. Steep for at least five minutes. Adjust sugar if you want it sweeter.)(I’m not a big honey fan, for whatever reason, but this would be fine with honey or agave nectar instead of sugar.)

I got my stitches out of my lip today, which is good. I’m looking forward to my lip healing entirely.

You know, I rarely post on here like I used to — like I used to five years ago, I mean. This sort of thing — each paragraph treating a different topic, loosely connected perhaps but perhaps not at all. Also there were entries that were numbered because they were so completely unrelated. Sometimes I like looking back and reading something I wrote, say, five years ago. Things have changed a lot; they also have changed very little. (It should be noted that these old posts aren’t here on this website.)

I’ve been following the World Cup, which means that for the first time since the last World Cup (when I rooted for France), I’m watching entire association football matches. It’s fun; it also means that I’ve had more conversations with my roommates than ever, since we can talk about sports for once. It’s kind of fun, although I still don’t know most of the players. I’m rooting for the US, and for Spain. If it comes to it, I’ll transfer allegiances to Argentina, or perhaps Brazil. But we’ll see what happens. I’m watching Argentina play Greece right now.

Now to break some rules, and follow some others;

Sometimes he receives notes from the past,
short in their wording and direct in their import;
they break out of the seas like bubbles
and hold him to a forgotten wall.
When they come to him,
they are like fireflies below a waning moon
and he closes his eyes before them
in a movement of shame.
The words are always written in a heavy hand,
script more indentation than outline,
the black ink sometimes faded.
They are always unavoidable.
When he dines with his girlfriend
or transfers lines in the depths of the subway,
he has been known to see reflections,
or embossed words
in the wrinkles on her face,
in the plastic boxes that house advertisements.
Once, in frustration, she called him late at night
and asked him to explain his distractions.
“I can’t,” he said into the receiver,
“and I don’t know if I want to.”
The present is not inescapable
any more than the past is incapable of forgetting;
his dreams will not leave him alone,
because he has not yet given them up.

I think this is a good example of why I haven’t written a poem in quite some time. But that doesn’t [necessarily] mean that it’s bad.

I made Madeleine’s pumpkin pasta last night, and am eating its leftovers with some bacon to give it a different flavor. I made the dish in the first place because I found a can of pumpkin I bought last November, and then forgot about; it’s a great recipe.

When I first started living here, in October, I disliked cooking for just myself, since I was so used to always cooking for three or four. But I’m not averse to leftovers, so I’ve been enjoying the idea of cooking for myself one night and eating it for three or four. As I’ve mentioned before, I try generally to spruce up leftovers — it’s a lot more fun to eat the same thing when it’s not quite the same thing. Roasted chicken turns into roasted chicken tacos. Spicy peanut sauce and pasta turns into pasta with pan-seared chicken and a creamy spicy peanut sauce. Pumpkin pasta becomes pumpkin-bacon pasta. The other day, I made a vegetable dal, with a gigantic cauliflower and some pepper and other veggies. Without meaning to, I made a huge amount, and literally ate it for five meals (lunches included); it was good since I couldn’t chew as well as normal. By the last day, I was tired of it, though; I turned it into more of a soup than it usually is by adding water and small pasta, and a bouillon cube. The flavor transformed — it was the same, but varied.

I’m going to miss living in Spain. But I don’t think I’ll miss it that much, somehow.

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21 June 2010

the next month

Posted by admin @ 8:51 am categories: traveling

So I’ve been back in Madrid for a short while, and I’m finally finishing up with teaching. (More on that soon, if I ever get around to feeling introspective.) But I’m not heading back to the States yet — I’ve actually got more than a month left.

I’m partially writing this down to gloat about my good planning and pleasant immediate-future, but mostly I just want to have it on record what my plans were before I left — in part so I can compare them to how they ended up. So: my plans for the coming weeks follow.

On Wednesday, school ends. It’s over already, in many ways, but Wednesday’s the last day the kids have to be there, and it’s the last day I’ll be going in. That evening, I head off to Galicia, with my friends Emily and Ashley and Mateo (who’s grandmother’s house we’re staying at). We’ll be in La Coruña for four days, for a summer festival/Feast of Saint John — but also just to see Galicia, explore, and so forth. I’m excited; it’s one of three places that I’ve really not yet been to in Spain, but care to. (The others are Valencia and the Picos de Europa, which I’m going to miss this time around. Another time! Also maybe the beaches on the southern coast, but beaches aren’t as exciting.)

Then I’ll be back in Madrid for either a few days or a week. I haven’t yet decided. Surely, I’ll be in Madrid for a few days, beginning on Saturday. I have a few plane tickets, though, so let’s see: I’ll be heading to Berlin, Germany, for a while, where I’ll get to see my friend Karina. Thence, I’ll probably stop off in Dresden, Germany, for a day or two, before heading out to Prague, Czech Republic, which I really need to see now that I’m almost finished with The Unbearable Lightness of Being (which, by the way, is so much more enjoyable than I feared; it’s wonderful; in case it’s not obvious, it takes place primarily in Prague).

From Prague, I’m flying north to Copenhagen, Denmark, which I admit is a bit unnecessary, but which should be fun; I’ll be there for only a few days, and also hopefully in Lund, Sweden, where a friend, Hana, lives. Afterwards, I take flight again, now for Paris, France. I’ll get to hang out with some friends there, including my high school friend Reshma, and hopefully a French kid I met last year, Benoit. I’ll be there only briefly as well, before heading south to Flavigny-sur-Ozerain, where a friend and former professor, Maud, has offered me a night or two at her house. (This is one of the main places where they filmed the 2000 film Chocolat, although not apparently where the river in the film is.) I’ll fly out of Paris, heading through Rome to Umbertide, Italy — in the Umbrian countryside, where my friend Jacob and his family will put me up for a few days.

Then I’ll finally fly out of Rome, spend a day or two more in Madrid, do anything I forgot to do, collect my things, and head home.

I am really excited. And curious to see how this will play out. I’m moving around more than I would really like to be, and flying more than I’d like, but it is as it is, and frankly air travel is often cheaper than train travel. If I manage to spend my money carefully, and don’t stress things too much, I think this will end up being a lot of fun.

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17 June 2010

an odd thought

Posted by admin @ 11:55 am categories: mental states

This has been happening for a while, but it hadn’t occurred to me until today to note it: I’m now embarrassed of the way I looked when my hair was long.

Embarrassed is unfair, really. There were points where I really liked it; I like the way I look here, for example. But nowadays I use “I used to have long hair” as an “imagine that!” I liked it a lot my freshman year. But post-then… I dunno. I guess it’s a good thing, to think of it this way. Better than missing the long hair.

For those curious: my lip is curing. It’s itchy now more than anything.

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16 June 2010

a word; a song

Posted by admin @ 12:47 pm categories: Spanish • music

So I had some small oral surgery a few days ago, on Monday. (You can see a picture of the later-that-evening me.) Anyway, I got to make good use of a word that rather makes sense: swollen.

As always, words used in Spanish have mouseover text for the definitions in English — just put your cursor over the words in itallics.

The word for swollen in Spanish is hinchado. There’s no good reason that I should know this word, except for the song below. The band is an Argentine one, called Onda Vaga.
Onda Vaga – Así
(note that the last half-minute is applause)

When I was in Bilbao, I stayed with a really nice girl named Ashley, who had the lyrics from this song painted on the wall above her bed. The song hasn’t got much in the way of lyrics:

Yo dormiría así, detrás de la montaña;
y tendría mil arañas colgadas,
hipopotamos rosados hinchados,
yo dormiría así de plastico fantastico

There’s another bit that’s a play on the words olé, olor, and oler. Anyway, it’s got ridiculous lyrics. Which I’m okay with.

Point is this: I remembered the word hinchado because it’s so ridiculous in this context. (Swollen pink hippos!) And then it came in handy.

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tips to a poet

Posted by admin @ 8:52 am categories: teaching • writing

First, an explanation: A few months ago, a friend of mine told me that he was beginning to write poetry, and asked me for any tips I might give him. I flubbed the response — essentially contradicting myself and being unhelpful. That’s okay; I’m sure he didn’t really need my advice. That said, I thought some on the subject, and figured I would try and do a better job. Am I qualified to give advice on writing poetry? I think so. Depends on what qualifications are necessary.

When I was in Bilbao, then, I spent some time sitting down and trying to think of some tips I should’ve given him. They are still contradictory; that’s part of the fun. I think, with this kind of thing, you need to pick and choose. Every so often, I come across an article — in a magazine or newspaper, usually — with tips for writers, from well-known authors. Half of them are always complete shit. Some of them are actually pretty good. Sometimes they’re ridiculous; sometimes they’re way too detailed. And sometimes one of them will ring true. So maybe I’ll put down something along those lines, here. None of these are new; they’re just the pieces of advice that have stuck to me. They’re not particularly in order. Some of them are more exercises than advice; some are more encouragement than anything else.

Read books of poetry by a single author, and then try to emulate the style — or try to write nothing like it at all.
Play with structure. Write something following a strict form, and then write something formless. See what fits. There are many good forms to play with.
Don’t ask anyone to read your poetry until you feel like it. When you do, take it to someone who’s actually going to critique it, and then take their criticism with a thick skin. Sycophants might make you feel good, but they’re not actually going to help all too much.
You don’t need to finish every poem you begin. It’s okay to throw something away.
Be daring.
Re-use something that didn’t work.
Don’t write poetry when you’re drunk.
Don’t force a rhyme. Don’t use feminine rhyme (rhyme using more than one syllable) unless you’re a rapper.
It is, however, okay to rhyme. But realize that it doesn’t always sound good — so be aware of when your poetry is being shaped by a need to rhyme. If your couplet is being formed based more on the rhyme than on the thread of thought, scrap it. Rhymes should feel natural.
Rewrite. If you feel like it.
It is rarely enjoyable to read a poem written entirely in metaphorical language.
Describe in actions, not just in adjectives.
Avoid flowery language or language that feels like nothing new. Phrases like “silent scream,” “void,” and breathless descriptions of darkness are generally to be avoided. A poem about sadness or inner confusion needs to be really good for anyone other than you to want to read it.
Show action and emotion — not just description.
Pay close attention to line breaks.
Learn how to read poetry well. Hint: You shouldn’t pause at the end of a line if there’s no punctuation, unless there’s a rhyme or something necessary. Spoken poetry is not the same as read-on-the-page poetry, and you shouldn’t try to make it so.
Listen to (recordings of) poets reading their work. Read along.
Learn how to end a poem. It’s not always easy.

Perhaps these thoughts are more useful to me than to anyone else. But I am curious: what advice would you give to someone writing poetry? It would be fun to hear some thoughts other than mine.

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10 June 2010

san sebastian

Posted by admin @ 17:40 pm categories: Food • Spain

San Sebastian: La Concha

Last weekend, Ashley and Mateo and I went to San Sebastian. We had a great time, which is to say that it’s a beautiful city and has amazing food. San Sebastian (Donastia) is a city in the north of Spain, in the Basque country–very close to France. It’s known for its food, its beach (La Concha), and not all too much else.

We essentially took San Sebastian as a place to relax. Which is as it should be. We got there on Thursday — I took the train up, and met the two of them on the beach. La Concha, The Shell, the only beach we really frequented, is a gorgeous ring-shape, and the water is pretty warm all things considered–which is to say, considerably warmer than the water off the Oregon coast, but not quite as warm as Miami beach water. (How’s that for a stupidly long sentence?) It was a fun beach to visit, and we spent a lot of time there, as well as walking up and around the city, seeing the fortifications, and so forth.

Island near San Sebastian

El Peine de los Vientos -- the Wind-Comb

But I’m going to focus on the part of the trip that’s most worth writing about: eating food. Mostly, we ate tapas, there called pintxos (pronounced, and spelled in the rest of Spain, as pinchos). Pintxos are just small dishes; the way we did it was we went from bar to bar, trying pintxos. In the south, tapas usually come with a drink. Not so here, so it’s not cheap. But that’s okay.

Thursday night we started at a place called La Cuchara de San Telmo, recommended by my friend Ade, where I started out adventurously with pretty excellent foie. I don’t remember exactly how it was prepared, but it was surprisingly tasty. Ashley wasn’t so pleased with her bacalao. Second, we went to Ganbara, an unimpressive bar where I had bacalao, but we also got our first taste of the Basque white wine txakoli, which all three of us really liked. Third, we went to Txepetxa, perhaps one of the better places of the night, essentially a bar that serves anchovies on bread prepared with different toppings — all of them delicious. At the recommendation of the NYTimes article posted on the wall, I tried the one that came with eggs of an erizo de mar. Fourth, we went to Zeruko, a fancier bar that had beautiful pintxos; I had the first morcilla I’ve ever liked, served with a fried quail egg. I’m glad I gave it a chance. Lastly, we went to Restaurante Munto, another rather good bar — at least I was pleased. There, I had a pintxo with goat cheese and caramelized onions on bread — traditional, but always delicious. A good night.

Friday afternoon, we splurged, and went for the Menu de Degustación at Bodegón Alejandro, which I’m so glad we did. Here’s the menu (and here’s a picture of it, in Basque):
0: An amouse bouche of this asparagus-cream drink, with bread crisps. both salty, both tasty.
First course: A chilled marinated anchovy lasagna, with the anchovies laid atop a ratatouille base. It was pretty great; we gave it an A.
Second course: Fried tomato stuffed with chipirones (squid), on a bed of risotto made with the squid ink. I don’t always like squid ink, but it worked well, the cheese sauce was great, and the entire thing was amazing. A+
Third course: Grilled hake (merluza) with mashed potatoes and a sauce of mussel “juice” — not amazing, but buttery and savory. B
Fourth course: Glazed veal cheek on a terrine of bacon and potato slices, with a roasted red pepper sauce. This was very good, although kind of gluttonous. A-/B+
This was the last savory dish. After we finished, they brought us small glasses of a sweet orange wine, which I really liked (but I like sweet fruit wines).
Fifth course: Torrija (Spanish French toast, hah) with a caramelized top and cheese ice cream. This — well, both desserts — was amazing. Mateo thought it too sweet, but I disagree. Both get A/A+ ratings.
Sixth and final course: Slightly spicy peach gnocchi, with coconut ice cream and a vanilla-lemon sauce.
As we finished, they gave us drinks of leche merengada, which was more like egg nog than a milkshake. Also soft almond biscuits. Yeah. Anyway, certainly we were stuffed.

After a few hours at the beach, and a few hours of walking around, we had a bit of dinner:
First, we went to Izazpi, where I got a goat cheese, honey, onion, and pepper pintxo, which was quite good. Second, to A Fuego Negro, which was disappointing — a shrug-inducing cup of shrimp soup. Third, some good but not great risotto at Txondorra. I ended with an anchovia pintxo at Txepetxa again.

I have nothing else to add, nor pictures of the food.

Waves at el Peine de los Vientos

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