Bilbaínos

MMC :: in November 12, 2022 :: in Spain :: 1 comment

Today we go to the Guggenheim, and to dinner at Nerua, the restaurant that sits underneath it, in keeping with our general travel philosophy of doing one-ish thing a day.

I had seen a bakery during our afternoon wanderings, and want to start the day with breakfast there. We walk over and order, madeleines for Ryan and a baguette-looking local bread called barra berezi for me. I bite the tip and Ryan says I’m strange. Ryan does not share my appreciation for a good bit of eating bread. I make him take a selfie for Catherine, and then make him come with me back to where he got his SIM yesterday so I can get one for myself, for sending selfies to Catherine.

We resolve to get coffee somewhere, and head in a direction up a hill to do so. We get coffee at a place called La Viña on Calle de San Francisco, then want to get coffee somewhere else as well. We head into another rock-and-roll-looking place, Bihotz, that aesthetic having been treating us well this trip. I am pretty happy here in this café and make Ryan uncomfortable by chatting people up and taking pictures, the transitory property of his anxiety, projecting his discomfort onto others and telling me I am making them uncomfortable. I apologise to him for making him uncomfortable, but I don’t stop being myself. They have pour-overs here, a rarity, and we order two and play 45s. A man shouts, ‘What’s up motherfuckers!?’ from the street and then enters with his bike. He is wearing excellent avocado socks, and I look up the word for socks so I can tell him that I like them. Calcetines, a word that gives me some trouble, although he says I pronounce is perfectly. I ask to take a picture of his socks.

We decide to walk across town and make our way back over wine and pintxos. There is a nice sense of community in this city: Drivers are courteous, pedestrians are courteous, people are friendly, there are children and dogs everywhere it seems. We enjoy wandering around and hanging out. We even pass a protest, separatist Bilbaínos marching and chanting for Basque independence from Spain. This is not Spain. I am always in favour of separatist movements. I like a little chaos, and self-determination.

Our walk takes us past the Guggenheim, ironically, and I fall in love with Maman, the giant spider statue. I had forgotten this was here, and I love it so much I exclaim, ‘I love it!’ when I see it, drawing a judgemental glare from another tourist. ‘Do you think they’ll let me have it?’ I ask Ryan. ‘Maybe if you have billions of dollars and agree to keep it here,’ he answers, then corrects himself, ‘Maybe not a billion, but millions.’ Clearly Ryan needs to continue practicing his entitlement. At Maman, a man is lying on the ground underneath taking pictures, and I join him. He turns to me and smiles, glad to have someone else sharing his perspective. He tells me in Spanish that the view is better from down here, and I laugh and agree with him. He’s right.

At the first place we stop for pinxtos, Ryan asks what the barista recommends. ‘Pintxos,’ she answers simply, gesturing to the display. I tell her I’m vegetarian and she smiles and says, ‘Nada,’ there being no vegetarian pintxos here. There is a small chorizo pig-in-a-blanket with a pepper on top that I try to convince Ryan to get, along with the pulpo, grilled octopus with vinegar. He gets anxious about something, and asks me not to push him, so we get only wine and go outside to the terrace to drink it. People come and go, and eventually a group of women settles next to us. One has excellent earrings, and I look up the word for earrings. Pendientes. Ryan explains that he was feeling anxious because he thought it might be too early for pintxos. Everyone else on the terrace is having only wine, and cigarettes. People gather in the street and stand on the sidewalk, holding a glass of wine or beer. It’s a beautiful day.

‘I feel like if you’re hungry, it’s not too early for pintxos,’ I tell him. He says he’ll watch what the women next to us do and follow their lead. One returns with drinks and what seems to be the most common pintxo, skewered olives and hot peppers. Pintxos are always served atop bread. ‘I think I need to stop asking for recommendations and just order what looks good,’ Ryan says. ‘I think so too, friend!’ I encourage him.

Speaking of, I walk over to the women and ask what they’re drinking. It looks like some vermouth drink, with an orange peel and an olive. ‘Marianitos,’ they answer. I am correct. I notice this place, La Negra, is advertised as a vermutería, a vermouth place. I ask Ryan to order me a marianito along with the kalimotxo he is getting for himself, with his pintxos. My marianito is better than his kalimotxo, and we are both pleased with ourselves. Life’s better when you just order what looks good, and stop worrying.

We walk back to our hotel to change for dinner, and the museum. I can make more responsible outfit decisions, but I don’t want to, so I wear the romper Ryan told me was too bright when I was packing, and heels. It’s an excellent outfit. My feet will be fine. There’s always tomorrow for sneakers.

Ryan asks how long I’d like to spend in the museum, and I’m not sure. I haven’t bothered to look up what you’re supposed to be sure not to miss at the Guggenheim, but if I need to I can always do so while we’re there. I tell Ryan we can just head over and figure it out from there, and we do.

We enjoy the Guggenheim. Ryan sums it up nicely after we leave: It’s the perfect amount of art, because just when you’re over looking at exhibits, there aren’t any more left and you’re done. When we enter, a room catches my eye, but Ryan wants to look at something else first, so we head in the direction of the lights that he wants to see. I know I’ll get to go into that room that is calling me eventually. Like so much in this city, the Guggenheim is also welcoming, and family-friendly. There are kids running around everywhere, and we experience the exhibits along with them. We walk through Ryan’s LED light exhibit and watch some children in awe do so too. Next we head to the room that caught my eye, and Ryan gets excited as we do. ‘Ah, these steel sculptures! I wanted to see these!’ I like excited Ryan.

I am glad I was drawn to this exhibit. We walk by one giant curved steel panel, and I run my fingers across it. My least favourite thing about museums is the fact that I want to touch everything and am not allowed to. It’s why I bought myself a painting on the street in Barcelona so many years ago, a textured oil painting that I can touch all I want. As we walk along, I notice a break in a panel, and I go inside. It’s an entrance into another of the sculptures, and suddenly I understand. We are invited to explore.

So we do. Along with all the children, the families. Some sculptures are simply open to the inside, whereas others have concentric curves that create dark passageways towards the middle. ‘Sculptures are under constant surveillance,’ Ryan reads. We have the same thought, or variations of it. ‘No sex in the sculptures,’ he says. ‘Nah,’ I disagree, ‘Think of how long it would take them to get to you. You could definitely have sex inside,’ I point out, logistically speaking. I wouldn’t want to for the children’s sake, though.

As we continue exploring, we come upon rows and rows of steel. ‘Guess what we’re going to do!’ I tell Ryan. ‘No, Meaghan, please…’ he pleads, worrying about time or something. We have enough time, though, and I certainly haven’t come to the Guggenheim not to explore all of it, so I refuse to compromise on this one for Ryan’s sake. I walk along each of the rows, avoiding children, greeting strangers, and running my hands along the steel.

When I finish, Ryan says, ‘That didn’t take as long as I was expecting,’ and I smile, knowing teasing him won’t make anything better.

Just to call it out on its own, this one from Survival Series—which resonated with me overall—served as a particularly poignant reminder:

Later, in another exhibit, I move a wooden panel and Ryan reacts, worried that I’m going to get us yelled at. ‘I won’t,’ I reassure him, ‘There’s no tape on the floor indicating not to stand here. We can touch this.’

I jot down a note for myself as we walk. ‘What are you writing?’ he asks, intuiting that it is about him, but guessing incorrectly that I have written that I’m bored. ‘I was writing “Box,”’ I answer truthfully, but don’t add context. ‘I am definitely not bored!’

It is this sentiment: I do love Ryan, but I am too much for him. My existence, my way of moving through the world exacerbates Ryan’s anxiety. It’s neither of our faults, really, and all it means is that I have to notice when he is feeling anxious, and call it out so we can talk about it. I am generally aware of this, and I’m even considerate most of the time and change my behaviour so as not to make Ryan uncomfortable, even though I disagree with his logic, even though it means I have to compromise myself around him. I am too much for him. When I ask about my romper when I’m packing, it’s too bright. When I ask about it when I put it on this afternoon, it’s too short—Ryan would have me wear something longer. It’s odd to him that I eat the tip of my bread, that I eat bread on the street for breakfast at all. That I want to touch art, explore exhibits and follow my intuition where it leads me, even if that is somewhere that could get me into trouble. I am too much for Ryan. (He asks if I’m writing captions yet while I’m writing this, the last paragraph I’m writing in this post because I think putting it in might make him sad. But this is my blog, my life. I tell him, ’No, I’m writing something I think might make you sad,’ and explain it to him. It doesn’t make him sad. ‘You are too much for me sometimes,’ he tells me truthfully. And this is why we can be best friends.) Ryan is not alone in that. I have always been too much for everyone.

When we leave the museum, it’s too early for our dinner reservation—which we knew would be the case anyways, as the museum closes at 19:00 and our reservation is for 20:30—so we head back towards the other two spots our concierge had recommended for pintxos and tapas (Calle de la Diputacíon y Calle Pedro Ibarretxe, along with Calle del Licenciado Poza where I discovered marianitos earlier). Along the way we pop into a plant shop just to smell how good it smells, that mix of botanicals and soil. We leave and Ryan remarks how night the light is coming from a nearby church.

‘If it’s open I’d like to go in,’ I say, surprising him. ‘OK,’ he says.

It’s open, as Catholic churches are supposed to be. I cross myself with the holy water from the stoup out of habit, and respect for Nana. Ryan, raised Protestant, is unfamiliar with Catholic customs. He will never understand Catholic aerobics. It’s quiet in the church. A few people are in the pews, praying. There are signs saying not to take pictures, no mobile phones. My heels break the silence, echoing across the stone floor. Heretical heels.

‘What are you looking for?’ Ryan whispers as I pass him, walking back-and-forth, heels still clacking. I am probably making him uncomfortable with my noise. ‘Candles,’ I answer, and just as I do I finally spot the votives. I walk over and Ryan follows, and I ask for some privacy. For just twenty euro cents I can ask for a favour from god. What a steal. I have to pay, although I would have anyway, because these votives are odd little electric candles, under a plastic cover—which is also why it took me a minute to find them, not having the usual flicker of flame. O, Spain.

I light a votive for Nana (the one that lights up is the third from the left, bottom row) and go to leave the church, assuming Ryan will hear my heels and follow. Amazingly he doesn’t, so I walk back towards him, sitting alone in a back pew, and nod towards the door. A woman crosses herself while she kneels before entering the pew in front of Ryan, and somehow I just know she is judging me for my heels, and Ryan for not having knelt and crossed himself. The familiarity of her judgement comforts me.

After we leave, Ryan says someone else had heels on, but I tell him no, that was only me. He remarks how he didn’t know what to do—not in a self-deprecating way, just in an observant way. I explain some of the traditions to him and he makes a joke about the abundance of holy water, and what would happen if the well runs dry. ‘It’s a mystery of faith,’ I say, Ryan—again being of Protestant inclination—not getting my joke, ‘Miraculously, all you need is enough money or prayers, and a priest can transform what otherwise seems like just your everyday water into holy water.’

We make it to the closer of the two small streets lined with pintxos places and terrace seating, and walk along until we find one that catches our eye. We hesitate to order, not being entirely sure if we’re supposed to go to the breaks in the counter or not. Our hesitation means that someone cuts us, and we end up chatting up this man and the woman with him. At first I think they’re a couple, but they’re ordering for a group outside. We tell them of our trip in broken Spanish, English, and German. The woman asks what we’re ordering and tells us she’ll order it for us along with her order. We’re both having a glass of the local white wine varietal, txakoli. Nana would have liked this wine.

The woman explains that she’s here because her cousin just had a baby, and the family is celebrating the…the… she searches for the word.

‘Christening,’ I tell her.

‘Christening,’ she repeats. She certainly understands Catholic aerobics.

Our drinks arrive and we toast to the baby, see if the woman needs help carrying anything. When we ask about paying she waves it off, saying it’s part of the celebration.

Thanks, Nana.

We sit outside to enjoy our wine before wandering up the street to another place, another glass of wine. The glasses are small here, and the pours are too, but the most expensive glass I’ve seen is 2,30€ which seems like how things are supposed to be. Two glasses of wine, two pintxos, and our two cocktails from earlier came to something like 12 or 13€. I have paid more for a single glass of wine back in Boston. I like that the setup here encourages stopping for a bit, in a noncommittal way. How long can it take to drink a small glass of wine and a few bites of pintxos? Would you like to stay for another, or move on? The smaller portions make it more affordable, too, so more people can participate. I like this better than the typical setup we have back home.

Eventually we have to head to dinner. The directions from where we are now make me smile: They are a perfect right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left to the Paseo Uribitarte, the walkway along the river that leads to the back entrance of the museum where the restaurant is. I get a bit lost in thought as we start to walk, but snap out of it.

Dinner is wonderful. It’s been a while since I’ve been to a fancy dinner, and I always appreciate the attentiveness of flawless service. It helps me relax, not feeling rushed or uncomfortable, just enjoying good food and good wine at the perfect pace. We ask for explanations in Spanish so we can practice. I order a Galacian red to accompany our tasting menus, Atlantic wine that I know from the wine bar last night will be light and minerally, and will go well with dishes from amuse-bouche through entrée. It’s quiet in here, though, hushed conversations. I am aware that the few times i burst out laughing, my laughter punctuates the dining room. A few tables over is a Polish couple; the table next to us is a Belgian family with two boys, as well as the girlfriend of one of the boys, who is from here and explaining things to them; the table to our left is French. They are all getting explanations in English. There are a few different waiters. Ryan thinks one of the women is cute, and she is. One of the chefs catches my eye. He stares at me a beat too long while searing anchovies for Ryan with individual coals, and I don’t look away. Always fun to acknowledge mutual vibes.

That chef returns at the end of our meal, which amuses me. We introduce ourselves; his name is Enzo. He asks what my favourite dish was. I surprise myself by realising that it was an extremely simple one: Leeks, in consommé. Seven sliced leek rounds, in vegetarian broth, garnished with seven individual micro green leaves. I could make it at home. I ask how they prepared it. ‘They are infused with basil,’ Enzo explains, ‘With basil and salt, in a bag.’ He tells me how they make so that I can understand and replicate it. I think of how I might change it. I wish I had a grill.

We sit around for a while finishing the sherries I wanted to order after dessert. We sit around long enough that it gets awkward. There are twelve tables in the dining room, all with the same seating time, and most of them have been brought their checks and left. We start chatting about the awkwardness and decide to get up and find someone to talk to.

We move back toward where we entered the restaurant, where the kitchen is. Enzo comes over, as well as the waitress Ryan thought was cute. ‘Can I buy the staff a round of drinks?’ I ask Enzo. He pauses, considering, staring at me again in curiosity, and says he’ll have to ask the head chef. The head chef comes over. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks, and I answer. ‘Is that customary in Boston?’ the head chef asks me. It isn’t, but I’ve done it before. I think that it would be nice if it were. ‘No,’ he starts to answer, ‘Because then we would all be…’ and he makes the gesture for drinking and we laugh. The waitress Ryan thinks is cute is embarrassed; apparently they miscommunicated about us paying and wouldn’t have noticed if we had just walked out. Paying for our meal seems like a fair compromise. I had done the math at the table, and am both astonished and not that two tasting menus, two glasses of vermouth, a bottle of wine, and two sherries here cost less than what it costs back in Boston for two people to go out for wine, with olives and a cheese board.

We walk back to the hotel. We walk 10 miles today, according to my phone, 4 of them in heels. They’re small heels though, kitten heels. And much of that walking was through steel sculptures.

Neither of us is tired—a bad sign for our morning selves that we acknowledge—but we decide to change and head out to a craft beer place Ryan wanted to try. We arrive, and Ryan orders. He gets me the wrong beer, not having noticed the one I want (a double IPA, because fuck it) and thinking that I’ve mispronounced another one. I don’t mind; we are just hanging out. The bee is fine, but it’s no Idle Hands. I try to text that to my bartender friend Ryan back home, but the message fails to send. That’s fine; he hates texting anyway. We stay for this round and then another, so that I can try the beer I wanted. Then it’s time to go home. Today has been a busy day, even though we have only done one-ish things.