Reid & Robie

San Sebastian is what Walt Disney might have created if he’d been God instead of an ambitious American.

– Let’s Go: Spain, Portugal and Morocco 1988

The nightmares started soon after Robie booked our flight to Spain.

In the dream I’m bundled in a wool coat trudging down a busy sidewalk desperate to reach my destination though I can’t seem to recall where it is I’m going. All I feel is an overwhelming sense of urgency as I dodge oncoming pedestrians because wherever I’m headed, I’m late. And very cold. The grey sky casts only muted hints of sunlight peeking through thick clouds and a relentless, biting wind chaps my cheeks pushing me ever backwards. Each step takes an incredible amount of effort until eventually I can no longer move my legs. Looking down, I notice my boots are frozen to the concrete. Then in that surreal segue only possible in dreamland or a Salvador Dalí painting, the freezing wind abates, replaced by a burning, barren landscape where even the shade withers and dies. As I shield my eyes searching for relief on the distant horizon, I find none in sight.

The dream – so vivid when I first awoke – quickly drifted from my consciousness like ephemeral wisps of smoke only to reappear a few nights later. Uncertain what my subconscious was trying to tell me, I focused my waking hours on filling one half of our upcoming two weeks in Spain. Because with the airfare finally reserved, Robie and I divvied up the time allotting each of us creative control for six nights. And as soon as Robie decided to spend his week touring around Granada, I finally remembered what I feared most about a potential move to Spain.

Much like the visions in my nightmare, on the high, flat plateau of the Iberian Peninsula there are only two seasons. Spain bakes under a relentless summer sun until thick clouds shroud the blistering rays and a constant, penetrating gale sweeps across the plain. Only a brief few weeks in between the extremes are mild and temperate, but those blissful days are as fleeting as our dreams when we wake.

During the long-ago summer I spent with my sister in Europe I wrote entire entries in my journal about the intense sun that beat down on our seats at Madrid’s corrida de toros. I documented the oppressive heat that hung around Toledo and equated the city’s massive stone cathedral to entering an air-conditioned movie theater in August. I mentioned a visit to the Royal Palace restroom just to wash the sweat off my face and arms and noted the scent of garlic mixed with body odor emanating from my fellow passengers on the train to Barcelona. When I returned to Spain a few years later, the white-hot summer was gone, replaced by a bleak, grey sky and a cold, endless wind that cut me to the bone.

Not every part of Spain experiences the same weather. The Mediterranean coast gets blown by a cool breeze in summer, but it’s also notoriously overrun with sunseekers in winter. Andalucía keeps warm in cold months only to hit triple digits in the long, hot ones. And despite the chill in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, satellite photos revealed a brown, cakey region tinged orange from Saharan dust following two years without snow or rain. But when those same aerial pictures revealed a narrow strip of lush, green landscape hovering between the Atlantic Ocean and Cantabrian Mountains, I discovered Spain’s northern coast remains a wet and constant 50-60 degrees Fahrenheit year-round.

After finding this seeming paradise, I checked in with Robie to see how his plans for Granada were coming. “Good. Why do you ask?” he responded.

“No reason. I just wanted to see if you needed any help.”

“I know that tone,” he said setting down his morning coffee to look at me. “You want something. What is it?”

“I do not have a tone.”

“You have several actually. And this one says, ‘You have something I want.’ So, out with it. What do you want?”

“A divorce,” I declared. Because clearly, we’d been together too long.

Determined to wait until Robie was more pliable, I sensed an opening following his weekly golf outing and began by listing all the places we could visit in northern Spain ranging from prehistoric cave paintings in Altamira to modern art at the Guggenheim in Bilbao, from gorging on tapas in San Sebastian to sipping wines in Logroño, from hiking the Picos de Europa to making a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela.

“Great, so what’s the problem?” Robie asked detecting there was more to the exchange than casual conversation.

I assured him there was no problem, merely an abundance of opportunities. But when he suggested we spend the two weeks in northern Spain, I baulked, unwilling to waste the hours he’d spent planning our trip through Andalucía. And that’s when Robie confessed he hadn’t done any research.

“Why didn’t you just say that the other day?” I demanded.

“Because it was more fun waiting for you to hint around about wanting both weeks,” he smirked.

For half a second, I reconsidered that divorce until Robie reminded me I’d gotten exactly what I wanted. But even after getting my way, planning the trip didn’t get easier. I spent a month surrounded by maps, railway schedules and books paring down the itinerary into something manageable. And when Robie fell in love with the first Spanish town we visited, he rendered that research moot.

Arriving in San Sebastian in the rain after dark, we barely registered the beautiful Belle Époque architecture of the Hotel María Cristina hidden behind our umbrellas. Passing the swank resort renowned for hosting Hollywood A-listers and European royalty, we scurried across the bridge to our tiny second floor room a stone’s throw away. But we were soon propelled back out into the wet night by the ravenous hunger that comes after a long day’s travel across time zones and oceans.

In contrast to the recent recurring nightmares about Spanish weather, I’d dreamt for years about Spain’s platters of thinly sliced serrano ham next to a wedge of aged Manchego, plates of fluffy potato and onion omelets, saucers of briny, green olives or salty Marcona almonds, cups of steaming, rich, thick hot chocolate next to crispy fried churros, bowls of hearty bean stews and pans of steaming saffron rice topped with squid and shrimp. But of the many contributions Spain has made to the culinary world, their most significant innovation has yet to be exported: a mealtime dedicated to elegant snacks.

Spaniards eat a light breakfast followed by a large lunch. But since dinner isn’t served until ten at night, they’ve elevated snacks into artful creations to keep the annoying hunger pains away. In San Sebastian, those small plates aren’t tapas, they’re pintxos (PEEN-chōz). And at every bar and restaurant in northern Spain, Robie and I found a visual smorgasbord of freshly sliced baguettes topped with plump pink shrimp, crispy fried cod, airy whipped tuna with capers, roasted red peppers stuffed with cheese, salmon with tiny fried eggs, pickled baby eels, garlicky mushrooms, lemony artichokes, tomatoes with brie, and bit-sized skewers of anchovies with olives. Because throughout Spain, snacks are a feast for the eyes as well as the stomach.

Despite our late arrival after the American dinner hour, it was still too early for Spain as we noted the standing room only crowd visible through the windows of an upscale restaurant across from the Good Shepherd Cathedral. But around the corner Robie spotted a place overlooked by the throngs, and we soon descended elegant marble steps hoping no one noticed the puddles trailing from our umbrellas. Before the maître d’ could inquire about our lack of reservations, Robie asked to sit at the bar where we started to unmold coats and scarves until a skinny, young waiter waved us down a spiraling staircase and stopped beside an intimate table for two.

With Edu as guide, Robie and I sat back and enjoyed the crisp Godello wine as our waiter brought out a progressive meal made entirely from pintxos. His selection started with briny, fresh oysters followed by crunchy lobster croquettes and chewy octopus paired with creamy borlotti beans served beside a basket of fresh bread we used to mop the plate of paprika-spiced aioli. Then to indicate the end of our feast before the onslaught of hungry Spanish diners, Edu brought out two slices of airy, crustless, burnt Basque cheesecake. Licking our plates clean, Robie and I leaned against the velvet-covered booth contented and weary.

That’s when Robie coolly informed Edu we were moving to San Sebastian and would dine with him once a week.

There was no discussion. Robie and I didn’t weigh the pros and cons. And regardless of prepaid railway tickets, non-refundable hotel reservations and plans to visit three other cities across twelve more days, Robie’s mind was made up. For the rest of our two weeks in Spain, every city would be measured against San Sebastian.

But I didn’t argue. During a brief visit to the Basque city in college, my memories of San Sebastian seemed like something out of a fairytale, a medieval old town with narrow pedestrian streets built at the foothill of an imposing headland where an old fortress guarded the town’s windswept beaches and manicured gardens. And when I found a poster that perfectly captured the magic of the city at dusk, I tacked it up in every apartment I called home from Atlanta to Denver. But over the years and many moves, the poster eventually lost its corners, victims of repeated attacks from nails and pins until it was replaced in our living room by a painting of Santorini.

Following the deep, dreamless sleep that enveloped us after dinner with Edu, I noted in my journal:

Day 1: Robie fell in love with San Sebastian.

Day 2: Heading out to learn about the place we will soon call home.

For two days we walked around residential communities, explored regional shops, patronized neighborhood bars and poked around local grocery stores. We talked to sailors hanging out at the marina, chatted with denizens at the cafés and attended an evening church service. Then on our final day in San Sebastian, Robie and I hiked Mount Igeldo for a view of the coastal city. As we reached the top, the sun disappeared behind distant rainclouds shrouding the bay beneath our feet as sailboats rocked in the water and streetlamps shimmered along the Malecón. Beyond the glittering shoreline, the city stretched out toward green, rolling hills framed by low-lying, distant mountains.

For long moments, Robie and I stood transfixed by the panoramic scene. Then before we turned and raced down the headland vainly attempting to stay dry in the encroaching shower, I felt those recurring nightmares wash away, swept into the sea by the falling rain and set adrift on the outgoing tide.