Brock { Abroad }

My first reaction upon my arrival in Spain was: “Wow! I’m finally hot again!” My second reaction was:  “Wow! People are actually in walking in the streets past 10 p.m.!” I had arrived to San Sebastian, a laid-back resort city on the beach with grande glasses of wine gorged with tiny tapas by tourists that still existed well into November. I sat down in a swanky hotel bar near the bus station and helped myself to a copy of El Mundo, ordered a glass of rioja priced at slightly more than 1€, selected a pack of lucky strikes from the machine next to me at a cost of less than 3€, and sat down at the bar as I lit my cigarette, took a sip of the vino, and remembered just how good the Spanish life is.

My mentality on getting to my destination could be compared to an animal very dear to the Spanish: bullheaded. When I left the French countryside surrounding the provincial city of Rodez, I told myself: I will be in Bilbao by tonight. I don’t know why I held myself to such a standard. Perhaps it was just that crazy itch to move! And it was, and boy did I move! After receiving a few rides some short distances, I was left at a roundabout to enter the highway for over an hour. An old man approached and although I couldn’t understand exactly how far he was going, I was eager to keep moving, so I accepted the ride. We got on the freeway, and adrenaline pumping, I felt Spain coming even closer. Within five minutes, we were off the autoroute and within 15, we were well into French countryside and I felt Spain was a million miles away. Initially upset, I began to move the only way I could, with my own very feet, the only way I could bring Spain a little closer. To my luck and downright surprise, a young guy pulled up and saw my sign I had made from the cardboard of a Kronenburg 26 pack of beer. He asked me where I was going… after. I looked down at the logo, which had the name of the nearest city, two hours away, and after three repeats of his latest American hip-hop beats, we were in Bordeaux, a city much closer to the border, and it was raining.

Within forty minutes, I had a baguette stuffed with my favorite French cheese and three slices of ham, because it was on sale, and a ticket to the border. I was ready to say au revoir to France and hola to España! All seemed well on track, but the track I was on seemed to be bringing me to some sort of strange Spain, where my final ticket to cross the border was bought in Spanish, I took a coffee at a “Brasserie” called Casa Miguel, and was soon hurtling through mountains with sparse buildings and signs changing from French (and Basque) to Spanish (and Basque).

Related posts:

1. Back in Rotterdam
2. Day 1
3. On Imagination inMovement
4. Hoping for a life-changing experience-
5. the journey–