the north by night

Ah yes, the myriad fabulously mouthwatering posts on food porn and K. and my travels through the lands of the iberos will sadly have to wait, and indeed the (already written by hand) account of the dramatic close to our Portuguese stay, as I am dashing in and out of a cyber café in San Sebastián (first access in over a week, it seems I may be cured of my addiction?) after a morning in Bilbao at an emergency four star hotel. It seems, in Spain, in August, no one will take a reservation for a room after 9, and as we have been arriving at our destinations on the cusp of darkness every night, we are, as they say, shit out of luck. In fact this was only a problem once, when I tried to book a room in Bilbao two days in advance, and was lectured that those who travel at night have problems. K. spent half an hour of our time at the Guggenheim (dearly missed as it closed at 8 and not 9 as we had thought) trying to obtain lodging for the hours following. We finally got a room at a Pension not far from the Casco viejo, but when we finally left the museum, congratulating ourselves on finally getting to a town in daylight and having a place to stay, we discovered that the hotel was in an area that seemed seedy by day and only promised to be scarier by night. (Prostitutes on the corner and men lazily scattered about shelling nuts, drinking liquor and staring you down as you drive in, minor indicators).
So both being of the Bobo upbringing that we are, or perhaps having learned our lessons in life about car theft, loss and the importance of protecting oneself from bodily harm, we tried desperately to get my dad on the phone to book us a room at a Sheraton (he was unavailable). Sigh, we were forced to charge it to her mom´s gold card at the Husa. Oh well, we tried, and if it means anything, we are back at a dumpy (overpriced) pension in the bowels of the Casco Viejo here tonight, in which the proprietor actually acted as if it was a grand imposition that I should ask for two sets of clean towels for bathing (in a communal shower nonetheless -- oddly enough komuna means bathroom in euskara). So.

My dear readers and friends, there will be posts forthcoming, filled with the wry wit and keen observation to which you have become accustomed (ha ha), but that will have to wait until either A) we have Barcelona firmly under our belts (we´ll at least have a few nights in one place) or B) I am in Madrid next week. Until then, much love, and kisses. Au revoir.