 |
| Giant spider heads for nest in large bent tin can |
I made for the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, an hour and a half west, parking in a lot near the museum: I don’t know what
the surface of this underground lot was, but it made the most peculiar
squealing sound under tires. I suspect people enjoyed this, because several
drivers drove in circles round the lot, squealing madly.
The
Guggenheim was impressive—the beautiful building, completed in 1997,
revitalized the former industrial port of Bilbao and initiated a modern
building revolution that’s a treat for the eyes. This museum holds extra-large
artwork, including pieces from one of my favorite series, “The Matter of Time”
by Richard Serra. The Serra works are monumental, as big as two-story houses,
made of structural steel curving into ovals and other shapes, inviting the
viewer to walk through and experience the changing light--i saw other pieces
from this series in upstate New York and had the same amazed, spacey-visceral
reaction.
 |
| Light patterns inside one of Serra's works |
The Guggenheim is all about monumental works, including a Jeff Koons
15-foot-tall “Puppy” covered in seasonal plants out front.
On to the
village of Puente Viesge and El Castillo cave--the GPS went weird here, and I
turned off Beauty, tired of her political persuasions (“Turn left ahead. Why
left? Left is better! Ask the communists!”), and moved on to bland Susan. I was
led down a series of dead-end roads--at one point, I had to back up 500 feet on
a narrow roadway, only to come to a complete block--a one-ton granite block in
fact--at the other end. There was a metal post standing upright on one side of
the road, and faced with the prospect of backing up again for a quarter mile, I
got out of the car, uprooted the post, laid it by the side of the road and
pulled around the granite block. I didn't replace the post—take that, powers of
darkness! I figured the block would discourage the less-disgusted just fine.
 |
Flag mannikins pump their arm up and down
along the roads to warn of hazards |
Got back to
the main road, and into the village of Vargas, once again resorting to the
ask-a-human method. I stopped at
Bar Charles (named for the singer Charles Aznavour) at the crossroads of N634 and N623, and the very pretty bartender took me outside and indicated the
direction I was to go in with her perfectly lacquered red nails. It was all so
uncomplicated, I cursed the GPS and shut it off. Early for my tour time of the
cave, I had a bocadilla at a nearby tavern. This bocadilla, a baguette sandwich made with various
fillings, was the size of a small raft; the filling consisted of a layer of
potato pancake a half-inch thick covered with my beloved Serrano ham. I downed
some of it, then rushed up the hill to park, and walked the remaining few
hundred feet to the ticket office for my tour. It was then I found I was an
hour late. I had been relying on the car clock, which was set in the previous
time zone where I had picked it up. Modern machines failed me.
I returned
to Vargas and tried to buy a map in several places with no luck. I followed the
road back to Santander and finally found a gas station with a hideously
expensive (priceless to me) Michelin map of Catalan, this part of Spain.
Everything became clear, and I backtracked east to the hotel I had booked.
The Hostería El
Laurel (Barrio Solegrario, 26, Hoz de Anero) is REALLY in the
country, set amidst verdant farms. The area is beautiful and peaceful, and the
clouds are fantastic. If you want to get away from it all, finish your novel,
or spend some quiet time, this is the place. The "hotel" is really a
home-stay, and an unmarked one at that. There is no address--I drove around for
half an hour trying to locate "Barrio Solegrario" (this is not a
street, but a small group of houses on unmarked roads, two meters west of Hoz
de Anero, a crossroads), and another half hour quizzing locals as to the house
(no number). Once you find it, it's easy--it's the big white driveway door,
second house west past the road marked "vente marin". Finally, I
reached the gate and was let in to be greeted by a large black dog, a nervous
chihuahua, a pony and her foal, and the lady who lived there. I was led into the office--the smell of mold
was so strong I got dizzy--and hauled my suitcase up a flight of stairs. The
room itself was modern and pleasant, with a private balcony that looked over
the peaceful fields. There are no restaurants or any other services
nearby--this place is only reachable by car. My biggest difficulty was the
musty smell that permeated the entire house (this part of Spain is extremely
humid—almost Hawaii-like tropical during the day and chilly at night). Though
the guest rooms were completely modern and very clean, the rest of the house
has spent decades in the damp climate of that part of Spain--not for folks with
respiratory challenges. The isolation was also a problem--not ideal for the
solo traveler. The owners couldn't have been more gracious, however.
I took my
shower n the cold bathroom (during the day, the humidity was so high I sweat
through everything--at night it was windy and cool) and went to bed early after
finishing the remains of my bocadilla (glad I saved it!). A few hours later I
awoke to the most god-awful smell of mold. It was everywhere: in the mattress,
in the room; it had seeped up from the office below, and soaked into everything.
I opened the door, and felt relieved enough to fall asleep until the door
closed and the odor woke me up again. I was finding it hard to breathe. I knew
I couldn't spend another night there--the smell was the worst, and I was so far
from everything I wanted to see. The sheer beauty of the place-so green it hurt
your eyes, shrouded in magnificent clouds--wasn't enough. I explained through
my iPhone translator that I would be sick if I stayed the next night as I
planned and payed them an extra five euros for their trouble. The husband
kindly wanted to make sure I had complete directions into Santander and the
hotel I had researched as a possible option that we sat in his office for 15
minutes while he drew me diagrams and printed maps out. It was really quite
sweet.
 |
| Clouds near Hoz de Anero |
Later, I
came back to the area of my hostel—the neighborhood known as Eixample (after
one metro misdirection--wrong train) and met my friend Patti and her bro for
the best tapas lunch ever, at Catalana (236 Mallorca Street). The joint was packed, so we had a 15-minute wait, but so
worth it. We ordered a bunch of tapas, and the favorite was a fried egg mixed
into crispy potatoes and carrots (the veges were deep fried); it was
spectacular. 
Clowns are
not my favorite thing, and to be greeted by a life-size plaster one in the
doorway was a little disconcerting--however, I recognize that the hotel wanted
to distinguish itself in some way. The peculiar mismatched artwork everywhere—a
Tahitian scene next to a Parisian flower shop painting--was obviously purchased
from the Spanish equivalent of garage sales, but it was amusing rather than
off-putting. The room was fine and somewhat noisy, facing the street --plenty
of traffic, with an active construction site across the way. Parking, though free
for the night, was a couple of blocks away. The most disconcerting thing,
however, was when I stepped out onto my balcony: on the balcony to my left was
a human-sized blow-up rabbit, and to my right, another plaster clown. And there
I was, stuck in the middle. I hoped I didn’t fit in.
The
location was excellent, near public transportation, shopping and restaurants in
a good part of Barcelona close to everything. The staff couldn't have been
nicer or more helpful. However, I discovered very quickly that there are dozens
of hotels in this area that cost just a little more money and offer a lot more.
