Welcome to my log of visits to the Iberian Peninsula.

My husband and I have been exploring Portugal and Spain since 2006. On each trip, I keep a journal of where we go and what we do, sharing via email with family and close friends. I am gradually putting those accounts into this blog. Click the labels above to isolate a specific trip; otherwise, the posts will appear in batches of seven, most recent first.

Catalunya, France, Asturias

Fall 2015: A trip starting in the upper northeast corner of Catalunya (Barcelona, Girona, and Begur) before crossing to the Atlantic on the northern side of the Pyrenees through southern France, then returning to Pechón, Asturias on the northern Spanish coast before ending our trip in Bilbao, Viscaya.

Sept. 11: Girona, Catalunya

Jerome and I are off on another visit to Spain, although this time with a hop over to Sardinia for a few days. But more on that later. This is the first of my journal entries; may you enjoy them! I'll add photos as I can. I am writing, this trip, on a Kindle Fire with a remote keyboard, and I am taking photos with my cell phone, so I'm not certain how everything will work. But my suitcase is lighter without my Chromebook!

We left Salt Lake City late Wednesday afternoon on Delta's direct overnight flight to Paris, which has become our favorite method of crossing the Atlantic. A change at Charles de Gaulle airport on Thursday took us to Barcelona by midafternoon, and a brief train ride from the airport terminal delivered us four blocks from our lodging, the Praktik Bakery Hotel, which, yes, houses an excellent bakery on the street level. We were pretty jet-lagged. (Interesting aside: I asked our tapas bar waiter, who wondered why we didn't want to eat more dinner, how to say "jet lag" in Spanish, and he answered that Spaniards just say "jet lag" with a Spanish accent, because within Spain one can't have jet lag: The country is all on the same time zone.)

Knowing from experience that the trick was to stay awake until "normal" bedtime, local time, we set down our bags in our very comfortable hotel room, and hit the streets. The hotel is located just off a main thoroughfare, around the corner from one of Antoni Gaudi's famous wavy buildings. Popularly known as "La Pedrera", its official name is "Casa Milo" and it was the last civil work designed by the architect, whose "Sagrada Familia" cathedral, his most famous structure, is still being built almost a century after his death. But I digress.

We walked the streets close to the hotel in a rather foggy state, but the weather was perfect and the crowds interesting. We stopped at an attractive tapas bar-cum-upscale hamburger restaurant and enjoyed some croquettes caseras and patatas bravas (carbs appealed at that point), then wandered some more until we stumbled on a second interesting wine bar with tapas (no hamburgers, though we had watched a small child eat an ENORMOUS gourmet hamburger with great delight at the first place). Another wine, some smoked salmon on toast, some olives, and (yes) some more potatoes (french fries this time). NIght had fallen by the time we finished and we decided we had done our duty to time adjustment, so we went home and collapsed.

I've taken a long time to describe a few hours, and this morning was even more special, because after a delicious breakfast at our hotel's bakery, we headed to the museum of the Antoni Tapies Foundation, to see an exhibit of Tapies' works combined with a room of other artists' works that he himself had collected. (Tapies is one of my heroes, and this was all deeply meaningful to me.) If you are interested in knowing more about the exhibit, go to http://fundaciotapies.org/site/spip.php?rubrique1394. Suffice it to say that, if I can get today's photos to you, many of them will show Tapies' work.

This barely brushed the surface of Barcelona, but we were ready to get out of the big city, so around noon we checked out of our hotel, caught the metro to the train station, and took a high-speed train to Girona, one of our Spanish homes-away-from home, whence I write. Our hotel is in an ancient building, once a private home, in the "Jewish quarter" adjacent to Girona's cathedral. The juxtaposition of cultures is classically Spanish. We had a wonderful "comida", the main meal of the day here, just around the corner, then walked around and reoriented ourselves to this lovely small city. Now Jerome is napping, I am writing, and I am about to see if I can find and send my photos from this morning. They may come separately. More tomorrow, hope everyone is well, and write back if you feel like it!

Sept. 12: Girona

After a good night's sleep (we are in the historic part of Girona, a pedestrians-only zone, and it was *very* quiet), we returned this morning to our favorite bakery on the other side of the Onyar River, which runs through town. Three pedestrian bridges cross the river between the old part of town and the "new", so there is easy access. We had our coffees and croissants, and then roamed Girona in the quiet of the morning. Stores open about 10, and the tourism buses arrive about the same time, so it was nice to be out and about earlier.

We walked down the river a bit, then turned in toward the cathedral, which has lovely grounds of its own, plus it gives access to a walkway along the top of the old medieval city wall. The archaeological museum is in that area, too. Our plans were thwarted, however, by barricades and municipal police, and even the museum was closed. Apparently Season 6 of HBO's "Games of Thrones" is being filmed here, and the public is strictly barred from the active area. Some 2,400 extras were cast from here in Spain, and everyone is present right now, since they are mid-way through the two weeks of filming. I can't say that we've seen anyone in medieval costume roaming the streets, so I guess the cast are restricted to the set. I've never watched the series, but I might have to tune in once or twice next season! See the website if you'd like an insight into the whole affair.

With time to spare, we wended our way back to our hotel. I stopped in a handmade clothing store (beautiful textiles shaped into lovely, drapy tops and dresses) while Jerome waited patiently outside, observing the street scene. We got back to the hotel only to find the housekeeper at work. Chatting with her, we found out that the original Jewish house, which predates the three-story structure in which we are housed, still exists, and is open to hotel guests. So we went exploring, down flights of stairs into intertwined rooms at basement and sub-basement levels. It was magical, like being in our own museum. Photos are included in today's album.

We regrouped, then headed for a midday meal at Vintages, a tiny high-end restaurant with an owner-chef trained in Madrid and specializing in French-style Spanish cuisine. This turned out to be so special that I'm calling it Jerome's birthday meal #1 (ten days early: I think there will be another one or two along the way). We were there for almost two hours, a delightful experience in all ways.  I am going to write it up in a separate message, for all you foodies who care about the details.

It is now late afternoon, and we are recovering. We also are realizing how unappealing a prospect it is to pack up everything tomorrow morning and get on another airplane (Ryan Air) for Sardinia. So we are cancelling those plans and staying in Spain. We are waiting to hear about changes in reservations, etc., for hotels and such, but are revising our plans to be more in sync with our energy levels. A sure sign of aging, I suppose, but we'll try for Sardinia another time.

This is long enough for now; a description of our Vintages experience will follow later, plus an update to our travel plans! Hope you are all well, and find this interesting.

Sept. 13: Girona

First, our meal yesterday at Vintages. Photos ​a​re in the album sent last night.

Jerome's first plate was a salad of sliced fresh buffalo mozzarella, halved fresh cherry tomatoes, and halved fresh figs, with a sprinkling of sundried tomatoes and mint leaves, and a single anchovy. Drizzled with olive oil. Yum. My "first" was thinly sliced cecina (like Spain's famous jamon, but beef rather than pork) on a bed of sweet baby arugula with shaved parmesan on top, drizzled with (what else?) olive oil. Delicious enough as such, but hidden underneath, in the middle, was a dollop of a sweet tomato marmalade, and every now and then a little zing of its sweetness would rise up with the fork. Double yum.

Jerome's second plate was a broiled merluza drizzled with olive oil and sprinkled lightly with sweet pimenton and fresh parsley flakes, served with what seemed to be thin potato crepes rolled around minced vegetables and baked to crispness, then drizzled with balsamic vinegar. I had fresh red piquillo peppers (which are sweet, not hot) stuffed with a vegetable coulis and garnished with a sun-dried tomato sauce, with olive oil and minced fresh parsley drizzled on.

Our wine was a Languedoc, recommended by the chef, from Domaine des Schistes. Dry and delicious. For dessert, an almond torte, very moist, with powdered sugar pressed onto the top and a small scoop of coffee gelato on the side. It was a memorable meal.

Enough of the culinary, at least until another day. There is one anecdote I'd like to share, about the photo from yesterday of a sculpture of a sandaled foot. This sits in a tiny square in the historic district, and commemorates the spot where, according to Girona legend, the town's patron saint was fleeing the Romans, who were almost on him. He reached this plaza and made a desperate turn, and God in his miraculous way made an imprint of the saint's foot in the stone of the road, headed in the other direction. The Romans followed the footprint, and the fleeing saint-to-be was saved.

We spent last evening in an Irish pub drinking Guinness, sharing an American-style hamburger, and watching two of Spain's best soccer teams play a match (Barcelona won over Atletico Madrid 2-1, to the delight of the locals). We had a long conversation with a British couple whose son is a pilot for Ryan Air based here in Girona. They come visit him regularly (not bad!). It was a rather multinational few hours.

Today we are taking it easy, enjoying the quietness of a Sunday. As we passed the cathedral on our way back from breakfast, the film crew was setting up for a scene on the broad hill of steps leading up to the church entrance, no doubt some crowd scene to be shot this afternoon. We are going to have to take the back way home after lunch, since they were already about to block off the most direct route.

​Photos from this morning can be found at https://goo.gl/photos/a9SxZctPuhto2qzd7​

Sept.14: Begur, Catalunya

Begur, Catalunya, Spain

One last breakfast at our favorite bakery in Girona (Jerome had a freshly baked croissant; I a small toasted baguette with fresh tomato scraped across it, followed by a sprinkling of ​salt and a drizzle of olive oil (try it some time); fresh orange juice and cafe con leche for both of us), one last walk around town, then check-out from our hotel and a taxi ride to the train station, where our rental Peugeot waited for us.

We headed out of town after a stop at a sporting goods store to buy a cheap exercise mat, then drove via back roads to a cape on the Mediterranean Sea almost due east of Girona. Here lies Begur, a town of about 4,000 residents. We will be here for four days, with plenty of time to get to know the place and its nearby beaches and coves. Begur has a medieval castle, and other remains that go farther back in time, but we don't know much about that yet. We do know that, in addition to the fabulous coastline, it is the home of numerous Indiano houses built by locals who emigrated to Cuba and came back with their wealth to impress their neighbors by building large though not always tasteful homes. This is one of Jerome's favorite research themes, and is a good part of the reason for our visit here.

All I can say so far is that this is a charming smallish town, with a tourism infrastructure in place that makes it welcoming and accommodating. The big annual event, a Cuban Indiano festival, took place two weeks ago, so things are pretty quiet. We had a lovely lunch of fresh steamed mussels (Jerome), onion soup (moi), goat cheese ravioli in pesto (Jerome) and grilled fresh dorada (bream, a mild freshwater fish) with skinny green beans and mushrooms on the side (moi)​. ​After we had​ rested and recovered from that, we took a late-afternoon stroll around town. We are staying at the Hotel Hanoi, originally an Indiano house that was purchased by a Vietnamese man from Hanoi, then later became the barracks for the Guardia Civil under Franco and who knows what else. It is now a lovely small B&B, and we are in a spacious room with a view over the town.

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Photos can be found at https://goo.gl/photos/7TvS62kbGcnxv5hM7​

More adventures, ​and more photos, tomorrow. We hope you are all well.

Sept. 15: Begur

Begur, Catalunya

After a lovely buffet breakfast here in our little hotel, (nine rooms on three upper floors, reception and breakfast room on the first), we drove five miles to Palafrugell, the nearest provisioning town (kind of a Richfield, for Torrey), to leave our laundry to be washed. Then we drove back through Begur to access the northernmost of the three sets of coves on the cape. This sheltered beach, Sa Riera, is a Spanish Sausalito, with houses climbing up the steep hills on either side, densely populated but nicely spaced out, trees and gardens hiding many of the structures. Probably many vacation/weekend homes (it is not that far from either Barcelona or France); no sign of any working-class neighborhood.

Arriving back in town a little early for lunch, we walked up to the castle ruins to find a panoramic view, especially to the north up the coast. Indeed, the farthest cape visible is that of Cadaques, where we landed at the end of a trip some four or five years ago. An artful weather vane turned in the breeze as we gazed around. Along the way to the castle we noted a second seemingly unused round tower in the town. This one had a plaque that identified it as an 18th-century refuge for the townspeople when pirates were sighted off the coast. There are no doors: The residents climbed ladders to the upper levels, then the ladders were pulled up, making the place fairly unassailable.

Our meal turned out to be another unforgettable repast, in a restaurant recommended by the young woman who checked us into the hotel yesterday. My vegetable "cannelloni" were not in pasta tubes but in something more like crisp egg-roll wraps. The red pepper sauce was exceptional. Jerome's salad must have been harvested this morning, it was so fresh and sweet. His main meal was like a chicken-and-rabbit paella, but with short thin pasta noodles instead of rice. My seared tuna sat on a bed of tomato slices and potato puree and was topped with fresh arugula. Jerome's birthday meal #2? He did learn that ordering coffee with a shot of brandy in it is called a carajillo. Handy addition to his growing Spanish vocabulary.

We have been resting and reading as the afternoon ages, and a brief squall has moved through. Off for more exploration! Photos are at https://goo.gl/photos/ZeLpsRzvZdB4YLfq9

Sept. 16: Begur

Begur, Catalunya

Yesterday evening brought us one of those chance adventures that we so love about travelling. We left the hotel about 6, thinking to go see if the town library and archives were open. Along the way, we passed the ayuntamiento (city hall), which Jerome remembered being recommended as an interesting faux-Indiano building. The patio gate was open, and the front door ajar, so we went in. All the offices  were closed, but we could see that the foyer and staircase were indeed in the Indiano style. A fellow came in behind us, and we hastened to assure him that we were just looking around at the Indiano influence, and he invited us upstairs to see more. As we chatted lightly about the building, I asked him if he was from Begur, and he said yes, then modestly admitted to being the mayor. Well, what followed was a delightful tour of the building (constructed by the son of an Indiano but not the Indiano emigre himself) and a lengthy discussion of the history of Begur, its Indianos, and other interesting Indiano towns nearby, including the port from which they sailed to Cuba, ten miles down the coast.

Begur's 19th-century economic base was fishing and wine production. Phylloxera wiped out the vineyards late in the century and left the town devastated. Five families set sail to seek a living in Cuba,  and in a classic case of chain migration, half the town eventually followed. Sugar, tobacco, textiles, cork, grocery stores, bakeries, and general business made them wealthy, and they returned to Begur to build their mansions and contribute to the town. Fourteen Indiano homes still stand, and are still in private hands. ​ We learned that a major difference between Catalunya's Indianos and those of Asturias is that the latter's ostentation was outward, in the magnificent exteriors and gardens that we saw last year there, while here in Catalunya the richness is inside the mansions (and we have seen some amazing photos of interiors​).

We saw a third and fourth defensive tower today, and learned that there were eleven total in Begur for 16th-century protection from the pirates. Only six remain, two of them hidden within private grounds.

This morning we tried again to visit the archives, only to be told to come back tomorrow. Wednesday is market day in Begur, so the plazas ​around the church were full of stalls of clothing on one side and, on the other, ​of ​gorgeous vegetables. It was a very windy but beautiful morning, and we decided to go see the port whence sailed the Begurianos to Cuba. San Feliu de Guixols is today a tourist town, but the harbor is still beautiful, and historic plaques give a sense of the history of the port. The town's medieval monastery houses an art museum: The current exhibit is "D'Urgell a O'Keeffe". Urgell (1839-1919) was a neo-Romantic Catalunyan painter who knew Courbet and taught Miro. O'Keeffe is, well, our own Georgia (1887-1986). The show tracks the "evolution of the representation of the city from Romanticism to the Avant-Garde", with Barcelona, Paris, and New York being the cities represented. Not bad for a little beach town on the edge of Spain.

Back to Begur for a light lunch and, for me, a visit to a physical therapist to try to undo some of the knots in my back. I'm feeling much better, and we are planning our next moves. Photos from tapas last night to San Feliu today are at​https://goo.gl/photos/EsP78RUANha2d6PaA​

Sept. 17: Begur

We knew, in coming to Begur, that we were still in the province of Girona. What we hadn't realized was that we were coming into the county ("comarca", county being the closest governmental parallel in the U.S.) of Baix ("low") Empordá. North of here is Alt ("high") Empordá​, and sure enough, both comarcas were once just Empord​á​. The name derives from Empuries, the Greek (6th century b.c.), then Roman (2d century b.c.), settlements about thirty kilometers north of Begur. Both paleolithic and megalithic ruins found in Empord​á​ predate those settlements, as do Iberian remains that are scattered around​ the​ area. This is old country.

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The Visigoths inhabited the region after the fall of the Roman Empire, and the comarca of Empordá​ was briefly taken by the Moors in the 8th century (the farthest northern ​reach of their hold on the Iberian Peninsula).​ But the Franks under Charlemagne expelled them in short order, and divided the comarca into Alt and Baix, the latter being mostly swampland that was meant to serve as a no-man's-land between the Moors and the Franks.

But today we focused on later history, visiting some local towns with still-intact medieval structures. The most spectacular -- and least real -- of these was Peratallada, which is beautifully preserved but seems to have no contemporary life to it beyond small hotels, restaurants, and tourist shops. Still, we were there before the crowds and enjoyed wandering around. The name Peratallada derives from the concept of worked (tallada) stone (petra), and the town indeed sits on a huge rock hill​. A defensive moat more than twenty feet deep was excavated around its perimeter, an amazing feat given the tools of the age, and the rock is the visible foundation for many of the structures in the town.

We enjoyed the back roads of Baix Empord​á between Peratallada and Empuries, today a mostly agricultural region dotted with small towns, many with their medieval castle or church ​still ​

perched on top of the hill. We saw no swamps, nor vineyards (evidence of the Phylloxera rampage of the past century), but hundreds of hectares of apple orchards. We had intended to visit the museum at the Empuries ruins -- we visited the latter but not their museum on a previous trip -- but were distracted by the beauty of the day and the glory of the Mediterranean Sea at our feet. So we left the museum for another time, soaked up some sun at L'Estrada​, and then ​headed back to Begur for a second lunch at Can Nasi. (​Jerome had calamari stuffed with a vegetable coulis, and I had a delicious veal in gravy.) I guess we had had enough history for one day.​

Tomorrow we will bid farewell to ​Begur and ​Baix Empordá and, temporarily, to Spain, and will head north to​ spend four days in southern France, in order to view the Pyrenees from their northern side and to explore Languedoc before heading west​ to Asturias and the beautiful northern coast there.

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​Photos are at https://goo.gl/photos/4ZWxKDTUHa9nNSpL6​

Sept. 18: Mirepoix, France

Our planned four hours of driving turned into nine, but we are safely ensconced in the Auberge du Balestrie, a country inn in the northern foothills of the Pyrenees near the town of Mirepoix, France. We deliberately took back roads in from the coast after we crossed the border, and we saw some very beautiful country while avoiding the pre-weekend traffic on the major freeways. The Pyrenees tumble down precipitately on the French side, and what had looked like a mild-mannered country road took us instead up a narrow defile along a tumbling river. We were quickly in the mountains, so we turned north and headed down into the foothills and into easier country. It was a lovely day, just longer than we had expected.

Our first stop after leaving Begur was in Portbou, on the coast at the French border but still in Spain. Portbou is known for its railway station, a huge building that is also the entrance to a long tunnel southward through the coastal hills into Spain. For trains, it is the border check between the two countries, or it was in pre-EU days. In cars, one climbs a very steep hill heading north out of town, and at the very summit, high above the water, a sign announces "France", followed by a now-abandoned border station.

Portbou is also the town where Walter Benjamin died. Born in 1892 in Munich, Benjamin had an original and brilliant approach to modern philosophy and social critique. Of Jewish heritage, he was associated with the Frankfurt School of social theory and philosophy, and influenced or was influenced by such thinkers as Adorno, Baudelaire, Marx, Kafka, Arendt, Derrida, and Sontag. His essay “The work of art in the age of mechanical reproduction” permanently changed my thinking.

Benjamin lived by his writings, which were published in various French and German newspapers. As Hitler rose to power, Benjamin left Germany and moved around Europe essentially in exile. In poor health and with little money, he was in Paris in 1940 when the German Armed Forces moved in. He and his sister fled south to Lourdes, where he obtained a travel visa to the U.S. He was on his way to embark from Portugal, and arrived on the train in Portbou to find that Franco had temporarily closed the border and ordered guards to turn back any Jewish refugees. In despair at the idea of falling into the Gestapo’s hands, Benjamin committed suicide by overdosing on morphine tablets in the hotel there. He was 48 years old.

It is a dramatic story, and one that we knew. We also knew that a memorial had been constructed in Portbou to Benjamin’s memory. It is a steep tunnel that heads down off a cliff to the rocky water. The impact of actually seeing it was strong, and we were further moved by a solitary gentleman who was visiting it at the same time, clearly moved himself by what the tunnel represented. It was the most powerful moment of the day.

Pictures, including that of our lunchnext to the beach at Banyuls-sur-Mers, are at https://goo.gl/photos/RjPLvmmtc8xDK22w8. Jerome had moules et frites (steamed mussels and french fries), to his great delight.

More from France tomorrow,

Sept. 21: Pou, France

On Saturday we visited the medieval town center of Mirepoix, then took a long drive around the Languedoc countryside, enjoying the rolling hills and vineyards and the beautiful autumn weather. Back at the auberge, we took a long walk along one of the many paths that crisscross the region.

We ate at the auberge on both Friday and Saturday evenings, because we found that the owner, Alex, is a top-notch chef. He keeps to a limited menu, with fresh, local foods, and turns out wonderful dishes. We had cassoulet, chicken wrapped in jamon with a light roquefort cream sauce, grilled salmon, and quail stuffed with foix gras over the course of the two meals. Yum!

The drive westward from Mirepoix to Pau (pronounced PO) again took us along back roads, through lovely small towns, across clear rivers, with the Pyrenees always to our left. We stopped at a sandwich shop for lunch, and arrived in town in the late afternoon. The center of town was filled with people, including many children playing with inventive percussion instruments in the courtyard of the chateau.

We are in a very comfortable modern hotel just outside the historic quarter, and have spent most of the time here just walking the streets and seeing the sights. We had dinner last night at La Brochetterie, where all the meats were all cooked over a wood-fired grill and served on skewers. My French completely failed us, and we ordered without really knowing what we were going to get. It was all good, though I *still* don't know some of what we had.

We have been blessed with beautiful weather, which I hope the photos will show. They can be found at https://goo.gl/photos/3LsgWVtnWbFnv8rP9 and https://goo.gl/photos/NNqpXLecmMAC3qW48

Tomorrow will see us back in Spain, where we will be able to talk to the people we meet! We hope you are all well.

Sept. 23: Pechón, Asturias

I probably should preface this entry by acknowledging that I am just returned from the most satisfying dining experience I can remember, and am feeling at peace with both myself and the world. We drove five hours yesterday from Pau in France across the Spanish border close to Biarritz, past San Sebastian and Bilbao, to our fondly remembered Tinas de Pechon hotel on the northern coast of Spain, on the Bay of Biscay, where Cantabria meets Asturias. The same two women who treated us so hospitably last year greeted us as we arrived, and we have settled in for a five-night stay in this peaceful little village on this beautiful Cantabrian headland. The extra beneficience with which I am viewing life at this particular moment comes as a result of our return to the restaurant El Arbidel in Ribadesella to the west of here, for Jerome's third birthday dinner, and one of the culminations of our trip to Spain. The quality of the food, its pacing and presentation, its contrasts of textures and tastes, the attention of the staff, the intimacy of the room, all combined once again (our third visit) to make it a most memorable event. All was done elegantly yet without pretention. We are already talking about a future visit.

In a most contented frame of mind, then, and after the contrast of a few very pleasant days in France, I am wondering (not for the first time) about the source of my/our affiliation with and fondness for Spain. It is not just the obvious (my long history with the country since a junior semester here in 1972, our speaking the language, even the possible and more subtle relationship that comes from our both growing up in California with its partly Spanish heritage), though all that is certainly relevant. Put together, that background makes Spain seem to me to be at the same time comfortable and homelike, and exotic and foreign. The edginess of a place whose culture is unfamiliar (or known only through stereotypes), whose language is unintelligible at any but the most superficial level, and whose history is largely unknown to me, is both stimulating and uncomfortable, and I confess, at this point in my life, to preferring comfort and familiarity to edginess.

At the same time that Spain is comfortable, it also is a foreign culture, no question about it. Part of its exotic quality is the blend of Iberian, Roman, and Visigothic, Catholic, Jewish, and Moorish cultures and traditions that still manifest here, to a lesser or greater degree depending on the province and coastline. And the meseta, the heart of the peninsula, presents yet another history and personality that is distinct from the rest. And part of the charm of the nation is this very disparity of subcultures and regionalisms, not dissimilar to the United States (consider the Deep South in contrast to New England, or the West Coast in contrast to the Eastern Seaboard).

Added to the mix is the fact of the emergence of Spain from the Fascism of the Franco era, which closed its borders more than just politically, into the late 20th century and a world, if nothing else, lightyears ahead technologically speaking. There is a youthfulness and a hopefulness in Spain uniquely related to having doors and windows suddenly thrown open while at the same time regaining a sense of centuries of tradition that had been repressed. Spain is tumultuous, as witnessed by the restlessness of both the Basques and the Catalunyans to claim their own way in the world, and also by the flood of immigrants from North Africa into Andalucia in the south. Not to mention the economic woes brought on by the overspending encouraged by the EU upon Spain's membership in that community. But there is also a vivid horror of the memories of the Spanish Civil War that despite occasional exceptions causes a rejection of violence as a means to resolving differences.

And Spain endures, which is an important quality at the heart of its culture. And there is a sense of self-worth, and a recognition of the worth of others, that I continue to experience as I interact with the Spanish people. It's not that there aren't rich and poor (there most certainly are), but rather that the poorest street cleaner still estimates his own inherent value as on a par with that of the son of whatever hidalgo or prince. A gross generalization, yes, but there is a subtle sense of that here. In part, I think, because this is not a consumption-based, capitalist culture, at least not yet. Also, its roots go deep, and the superficiality of newer societies is mostly absent.

Am I romanticizing? Probably. But this is the closest I can come to reasoning out why I keep returning to Spain, out of all the possible destinations in the world. I count myself fortunate that Jerome shares my interest and is willing to keep returning here, too, for I am sure that this is not our last trip.

Sept. 27: Bilbao, Vizcaya

We are newly arrived in Bilbao, in Basque country, and have just finished Jerome's FOURTH (and, surely, last?) birthday dinner.

To back up one step: We arrived in Bilbao a little after 2 p.m. today, having driven eastward a few hours​ from Pechó​n. We thought we were lost in trying to find the right exit into the city​ from the freeway,​ but the gods were with us,​ and our mistake turned out to give us an even more direct route to the rental car office than we had planned. It is always a relief to drop off the rental car, and we happily climbed into a cab to get to our hotel here. Our room was not quite ready, so we left our baggage and walked the few blocks to our traditional welcome-to-Bilbao restaurant, Serantes II. As always (x4), the food was excellent (beef consomm​é with sherry, white asparagus tips and fresh tomatoes, grilled bonito tuna), and we have made our way back to the hotel afterward for the traditional afternoon rest.

To back up two steps: We spent a lovely four days in Cantabria, largely in R&R but also deepening our acquaintance with the region. Jerome spent a couple of mornings on more research into the Indianos, the national archives for which are in Colombres, a town just a few kilometers from Pechón. I stayed at the hotel, taking walks and sketching ideas for future paintings and prints. Most afternoons we took drives in the Cantabrian countryside, with its precipitous mountains tumbling down to the sea. On our last night at the hotel, we were joined by fifty-plus Brits on their 15th "annual amble" in vintage cars. They came over on the ferry from the UK to Santander, and are spending ten days driving slowly around Cantabria. The hotel estimated that the value of the thirty cars in their garage last night came to more than ​2 million euros. Pre-World War ​Jags, Astons, MGs, and I don't know what else. It was quite an event, and the whole village of Pechón came out to see them off this morning.

Cantabria ranks 15th in size of the 17 autonomous communities in Spain. It may be small, but it holds some of the most ancient prehistoric cave art in the world, including the cave at ​Altamira. ​(We toured the much smaller and less touristy "Cueva del Pindal" on Friday, slipping down a mud path to see Paleolithic renditions of bison, mammoths, and fish​ on the cave walls.​)​ Much later, the Celts​ and Iberians​ established communities on the Cantabrian coast, and later still​ the Romans exploited the region's iron ore. The Moors occupied Cantabria for a while, and after their expulsion​ various small kingdoms of the Middle Ages vied for control. Cantabrias joined with Asturias, the autonomous community to the west, for a while, and actually only established ​itself in its modern identity in the late 20th century. It is a beautiful region, and the people are welcoming and friendly. (They also speak very clear, traditional Spanish, which we appreciated.) ​A melange of p​hotos can be found at https://goo.gl/photos/XuXRLytX6DKEP1fL8​

​So we are here in Bilbao for a few days, before our departure stateside on Wednesday evening. I'm sure I will write again: we have the Guggenheim museum, among other delights, to explore before leaving. I love Bilbao, and at this late stage of the trip, I appreciate the energy and​ urbanity of its city-ness. Plus, Bilbao plays San Sebastian in soccer tonight (an intra-Basque confrontation much like the SF-Oakland competitions, or the Yankees vs the Mets), and we are awaiting the results of the Catalunyan vote for or against independence from Spain taking place today. We can't leave yet!

Sept. 29: Bilbao

We have been soaking up the sights, sounds, and smells of Bilbao. Although it is the fifth largest city in Spain (around 940,000 residents), it feels smaller, perhaps because the encircling mountains preclude, or else hide, any surrounding suburban sprawl. And certainly it is densely populated. I've seen no single-family homes here at all, though the low height of the buildings (very few over seven floors) and the frequent traffic plazas prevent it from feeling like a labyrinth. It is an intimate city, with its river and its parks, its neighborhoods and its old city center. It is very walkable, though there is also good public transportation. Our hotel is in the very middle of town, yet the airport is only a few minutes away by car. Did I say how much I like Bilbao?

Our wanderings yesterday took us back to our favorite bakery for breakfast, downtown past a mime in a bridal dress (?), to the train station to check on the return of the rental car, then over to the old historic quarter with its Salamanca-like plaza lined with pintxo (tapas) bars, then to a Japanese restaurant, Miu, for lunch. Later in the evening we enjoyed some of those pintxos, as well as the last of the daylight. Photos can be found at https://goo.gl/photos/rdnN8gNvKyr78Kqj8

Today was our day for the Guggenheim museum where, in addition to the never-boring experience of Gehry's building and Serra's steel sculpture installation, we found an excellent exhibit of Jean-Michel Basquiat's work. (Wikipedia has a pretty good article about Basquiat at https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jean-Michel_Basquiat.) I was reminded why art museums are such good things to have around: although I vaguely was aware of Basquiat as an New York-based African-American artist, I knew very little about him, and in a little over an hour today I gained an admiration for and initial understanding of his life and work. The exhibition was very well done, and included cogent if terse explanations of the social, political, and racial contexts of Basquiat's art.

We stopped for a pintxo on our way back to the hotel, then rested until time for lunch at a Thai restaurant around the corner from yesterday's Miu. Now we are resting again (probably a bit of travel fatigue) while we contemplate how to spend our last evening in Spain. Tomorrow afternoon we will fly to Paris, stay at the invigorating hotel Citizen M (see https://www.citizenm.com/destinations/paris/paris-charles-de-gaulle-hotel), and board our flight home on Thursday morning.

I may have a few more pictures to send, so you may hear from me again before we get home. If not, or even if so, I hope these notes have been enjoyable. It has been a wonderful trip and I have enjoyed sharing it with you all.