Nothing Whatsoever in Lekeitio

We essentially did nothing today, which was exactly the reason we were in Lekeitio in the first place. Tourism, as I'm sure you're aware, is often a tiring pain in the ass. You slog through forums and cathedrals and cemeteries and asture monasteries, take photos, listen to interpretive audio programs, and pretty soon you are convinced you will kill a man if you're forced to take in any more culture. You want to experience a wonderful day where there is no culture in your lives at all. This is why God invented the beach, where you can sit outside on a balcony with a glass of wine and some snack food and do nothing whatsoever, and best of all, you won't feel guilty. We in fact picked Lekeitio expressly because of its lack of monuments. We are clever people.


Our hotel and roughly a million small children. More on that soon.

My parents spent a healthy majority of the day sitting on the balcony and doing nothing whatsoever, but I succumbed to my wandering urge and decided to go walk around. It's a charming Basque town, and it feels totally, completely distinct from Castile and Leon, not Spanish or French but something different entirely.



I found a little trail behind an apartment building on the hill and followed it, finding myself on a winding path between locals personal vegetable gardens. It was beautiful, lonely, and slightly creepy, as I kept on anticipating some old gentleman with a beret and a musket to barrel out of the bushes and shout at me. This did not happen.

I came out onto the road again and walked by the ocean, pausing occasionally to look down at the ocean and scare myself with the thought of just how much it would hurt if I toppled over the edge. There are hordes of seagulls nesting here in summer, and they scream and mew like children, a constant back-beat to the sound of the waves. I kept on squinting my eyes and hoping to see a whale, or at least a manta-ray, but no such luck. The ever-skillful Basque fisherman took care of the whales long ago.


The delightfully weathered Gothic cathedral next to our hotel. Kids like to play soccer against the walls here.

One observation about the Basque: they love mullets. Men, women, and children all sport carefully coiffed mullets, with no apparent embarrassment or remorse. Basque experts: is this some sort of traditional haircut, a tradition whose origin is lost in the sands of deep time, a hairstyle cultivated among the primordial pine-woods of pre-Roman Euskadi? Or do they all really have a thing for Joe Dirt?


The island in the bay.

Second: I have never seen more children in my life then in Lekeitio. I suspect the Basque tactic for gaining notoriety and independence may actually be outbreeding the rest of Spain. Every couple had a stroller with a baby in it, hordes of sandy kids roamed the streets and hunted for crabs, teenagers carried around surf boards and drank beer, and everyone seemed exceedingly, well, fecund. Lekeitio certainly seems like a magnificent, near-ideal place to be a kid. You've got the shore, fishing, boats to play around in, giant extended families to buy you ice cream, lenient liquor laws - it's hard to imagine anything nicer when you're underage and frustrated about it.

Lekeitio is not a restaurant mecca, and I only spotted a few actual restaurants during my wanderings around town that day. Most Basques subsist on pinxtos, the bar snacks that have been elevated to impressive gastronomic heights in this part of the world. Unlike tapas, pinxtos are set out on the bar as a sort of casual buffet for drinkers, and almost always are served on top of a piece of bread. Pinxtos apparantly are haute gastronomic delights in places like San Sebastian and Bilbao, but Lekeitio's pinxtos were definitely working class: fried egg, mayonnaise, sausage, and ham seemed to feature in almost all of them. Needless to say they taste very good. Since these snacks are free in unlimited quantity with the purchase of a drink, it seems many Basques take the economical route for their evening meal. So for lunch, we ate at a very underwhelming restaurant by the water.


We wanted paella, but they sold the very last dish of paella they had to a small child (who did devour it all,) so we had to choose other things off the set menu. I went for the peppers stuffed with cod and was not happy to find it came in cream sauce, which is just Not my Deal. It did taste exactly like pimento cheese (attention Southerners). I switched with my dad and just wolfed down some roast chicken.

For dinner, we decided to head back to the hotel restaurant, which had pleased us the night before.



We started with the lobster salad, which was very attractive and nicely composed. One thing I like about Spain is how dishes are often prepared with a lot of care to appearance and composition, even in restaurants that are off the beaten track a bit. The flavor was also spot-on here: tender lobster, fish roe, and a Crab Louie-like mayonnaise sauce dressing. There is not enough lobster in my life.



My dad had a rustic lentil soup. Lentil soups seem to be ubiquitous across cultures, and this was a good, meaty example of the genre. It's the perfect dish for a cold, cold night. As it was raining that evening and the temperature was rather chilly, it was apropo.



I had monkfish with crab, which was excellent - pan sauteed with some butter and herbs. I have gained true respect for the monkfish during my time in Spain. The monkfish is the most hideously ugly fish in the world, the kind of beast you would expect to lurk in the shallows and lop off the legs of innocent women in bikinis, the kind of hideous monster you would expect to emerge from primordial slime when the moon is high. Despite its appearance, it tastes delicious if properly prepared, with a unique texture and a delicate flavor - indeed, it's often called the "poor man's lobster". I also enjoyed the crab claws that came with it. The kitchen cracked them ahead of time. You would not believe how many times I have ordered a dish like this with uncracked crab claws, forcing me to engage in disgusting behaviors to get at the delicious meat because I sure as hell am not wasting it. Have a heart, chefs. Crack the damn crab legs.



My dad had a mixed seafood grill, which was about the same as the pan-sauteed seafood we'd had the night before, if in variety. Tasty and simple, if not particularly flashy. That's what you get for ordering set menus! (But they are a killer deal).



My mom ordered prawns a la plancha, a classic Spanish preparation. Reminiscent of China's beloved salt and pepper shrimps, the little beasties are grilled and salted, leaving the shells cracker-crisp and delicious and the insides sweet like butter. Basque prawns are the best I have ever had. I ended up eating all of her left over heads and tails. I don't care if I am disgusting. I have no shame, I have no remorse, when it comes to suckin' on shrimp heads. I am not repentent.

We headed to bed. The next day we would head to Asador Etxebarri, the food highlight of our trip.

Day 21: Full day in Venice, Doge's Palace, the Basilica, Winged Lions A Plenty

It was my first (and only) full day in Venice, and I decided to wake up early to make the best of it. This meant awakening at 7:00 AM and attempting to do my morning thumping-arounds as quietly as possible to avoid awakening the other hostel-dwellers - more difficult then it sounds. Thankfully they made some distressed moanings but stayed vertical, and I was able to get out the door.


Venetians are deadly serious about baked goods.

It was Sunday morning and there was almost no one on the street - Venice doesn't possess much in the way of natives - and I made my way to a sweet shop to have a cappuccino and re-align myself. I ended up befriending the owner, who spoke good English and apparantly made a mint off of American college students in his discoteque upstairs. Whatever works, good sir, whatever works.


A detail from the Basilica.


More details, more lions. Playing Spot the Goddamn Winged Lion is a pretty fun game in Venice.




This is a tower with a flag by it.


This is a tower without a flag by it.


This is the base of a tower.

The grocery store opened up and I wolfed down some yogurt and cherries, then headed to St. Mark's square for some intensive touristing. I am allergic to lines and would not wait in a line for, I dunno, the heavenly chorus, so my heart fell when I saw a big ol' morning line for the basilica.


Passageway into the Square. Note the Winged Lion. Can someone tell me what the guys up there with the bell symbolize? The clock below is comprised of the Zodiac symbols.


Another view of Lion + Mysterious Naked Bell Ringers.


St. Marks is of mild popularity on Sunday mornings.


A side door into the basilica.

But the line wasn't quite as long as it initially appeared, so I girded my loins (does that sound mildly dirty to you) and decided to wait. I had to put on a Holy Wrap Skirt around my legs, but then I was in. The basilica is gorgeous and Byzantine style, covered in gold gilt, elaborate mosiac work, and amazing relics and statues collected from the world over. The Basilica was originally not a church but instead the private chapel of the Doge of Venice, who presumably could have the whole damn thing to himself whenever the mood struck him. However, being a Doge of Venice wasn't actually as great at it sounds - indeed, the Doge's powers were almost entirely symbolic, rendering him an impotent vice-president of a ruler.


The Square. Believe these are old parliamentary and administrative buildings.


St. Marks from behind: pointy. Like many other historical monuments in Europe. Pointy. Pointillism. I should stop.


A gorgeous gold-gilt mosaic on the Basilica. Note the horses above.


More detail shots. I like them.


Another shot of administrative buildings.

The stairs up to the basilica museum were very steep, and I was afraid of tumbling backwards and causing a horrible tourist disaster. This did not happen. The actual church was shut - it was Sunday morning - but from the museum nestled around the actual sanctum, you could hear the up-and-down tones of the priest's singing and the chorus. It was beautiful and extremely atmospheric. I wonder what you have to do to get into a Sunday service at St. Marks? Have an incurable cancer or be exceptionally holy or something of that nature?


The Square from above - note the pillars. Executions used to be held in between them back in the good old days!

I headed out onto the walkway, which allows an excellent view of the Square and the teeming zillions of tourist below.


Replicas of the Four Tetrarchs.

The walkway puts you right beneath the impressive testicles of the Four Tetrarchs, a group of monumental horse statues captured from the Hippodrome of Roman Constantinople. Doge Enrico Dandolo captured the horses in
1204 after the sacking of Constantinople, and they were put on St Marks around 1254. Napoleon did remove the horses to Paris for a stint - he used them in the design of the Arc de Triomphe du Carrousel - but they were returned in 1814 and here they have remained. The horses on display are replicas, and the real deal is on display inside the museum. They really are magnificent works, all rippling muscle and flaring nostrils and that other stuff that makes people all sentimental about horses. The mostly-copper skins of the horses were scratched up so that they might better absorb light (in case you were curious, and you were, weren't you?



As for the museum - no photos allowed, so sowwy. I particularly enjoyed the displays of incredibly antiquated mosiacs - it is always amazing to witness what our forebears could do with tiles of colored clay and glass. The staring and round eyes of the older Bynzantine art was particularly arresting. I am an agnostic and have no formal religion, but I enjoy visiting places of worship the entire world over - Buddhist, Catholic, Islamic, whatever, I enjoy it. I think religious sites get at some essential human truth that reverbates with us all - I don't neccesarily believe in an omnipotent deity, but I do recognize that humanity has been seeking out answers in religion for a few millenia now and the impulse is worthy of study and interest.


A canal near the Arsenal, complete with posing gondolier.


Another shot of same because I'm silly like that. WHICH ONE IS BETTER?!?




Another view of same.



After the museum, I decided do some more exploring, as well as hunt down a decent place to eat lunch. I walked alongside the lagoon for a while, enjoying the perfect weather and the site of huge luxury yachts and tiny little skiffs weaving in and out of one another. I prowled through the back alleys for a while, avoiding pushy gondoliers (80 euro is too damn steep for a glorified boat ride, says I). I ended up near the old Venetian Arsenal.




why yes it is a winged lion so terrifically unusual i know

The Venetian Arsenal used to be one of the biggest-deals in Venice, hosting the city's world renowned ship building activities. It's said to have been built in 1104 (though no one really knows,) and the place is even mentioned in Dante's Inferno. The Venetians were badass ship builders and could, at the height of their powers, turn out one ship a day, a precursor to the incredible volumes of the Industrial Revolution. The Arsenal's innovators also made many excellent improvements to handguns and firearms, finally unseating the crossbow as everyone's favorite weapon of death and destruction. The lions around the entrance are especially impressive - they come from all over, including a couple from Greece and one with 11th century Scandinavian graffiti on it. (Does anyone else like ancient graffiti as much as I do? Getting proof that elder generations were just as dorky as we are fills me with delight).



I found a nice row of restaurants by the Arsenal, and stopped in at a small seafood-specializing place for a plate of seafood antipasto. Venice is, not surprisingly, renowned for its seafood, and this was a really delicious specimen of such. I particularly enjoyed the crunchy-chewy octopus salad and the delicious fried sardines in cold cream sauce. Cold seafood antipasto is about the perfect thing to have for lunch on a bitch-hot Venice day, as it was shaping up to become.


Canal - gondola- taxi pileup OH NO.


Same thing. Don't worry, everyone lived!

After lunch, I figured it would be wise to check out the Doge's Palace, which everyone says is unmissable and all that junk. I wandered over and bought a ticket using my student ID (yes!), then headed inside. The scale of the place is immense: I was particularly impressed by the tremendous staircase up to the Doge's personal apartments, which is almost disgustingly classical and heroic in design. (It is a gothic palace to be entirely accurate). The palace also contained "Lion's Mouths," decorated slots that were literally complaint booths - if you had an issue with the government or wanted to tattle on your neighbor, you could slip a piece of paper in the slot with the assurance that the authorities would read it. Handy.


The stairs to the Doge's palace. For Triumphal Walking.

I walked up to the apartments, and was pleased by the huge map room, which contained a hilariously inaccurate 16th century rendering of California and an upside down and extremely stunted take on India. The actual living spaces were not particularly huge or ornate, although they did contain some excellent art, including some distressing works by the great (and greatly disturbed) Hieronymus Bosch, depicting writhing demons in hell or something of that nature.


Carpaccio's lion. Bro's just chilling.

I particularly liked Carpaccio's rendering of Venice's winged lion, which can be seen above. (The lion is standing half on the water and half on the land, to symbolize the city's dual interests). Why is Venice mad for winged lions? The story begins when some Venetian authorities decided it would be swell to steal the remains of St Mark from Egypt for internment in their own city. The moldering corpse was, apparently, covered in pork to deter the local Muslims from opening up the container they had placed the Saint in. St Mark's body was successfully taken to Venice, and St. Mark's traditional symbol, a winged and halo-wearing lion, was adopted for Venice's purposes.


The bridge of sighs is behind that blue thing. It's Under Construction.

Next was the Bridge of Sighs, as coined by Lord Byron - legend has it that people walking over the bridge to the prison would snatch one last look at the lagoon out of the gridded windows and sigh. Truth is the bridge was never used in this fashion, but it's a swell story and we're sticking to it. As Abroad is Always Under Construction, the bridge was covered up in sky blue wrapping and pictures of pissed-off looking Italian models, but you could still walk through - it's a twisty, turning, claustrophobic thing, although there is a bit of a view of the lagoon. The prison chambers were as dank and depressing as you could ask for. I enjoyed looking at the super-old graffiti within them. Unfortunately could not understand the Japanese tour smack dab in front of me.

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Ain't dat a purty sight?


Also purty.

After the palace, I wandered back to the hostel to sort out my train tickets back to Switzerland. At the hostel, I ran into one of my room-mates, who turned out to be from Tennessee and a nice guy. We ended up heading over to the train station together and chatting about barbeque, which is something us red blooded Americans seem to invariably miss when abroad (unless you are a vegan or some freaky shit like that). Along the way back to the hotel, a pigeon crapped on him, point blank. They say it's good luck. Well, it didn't crap on me so perhaps the old saying is true. I met the rest of the room-mates - a girl from Japan, an Australian guy, and the American guy's friend - and chatted for a while before heading out again.



I wanted to go back to the museums, but it was later then I realized, so I ended up hanging out on the dock to finish up my cherries, sip some pre-dinner grappa, and watch a gigantic Greek (?) cruise ship come out of the port.


People in gondola who I do not know. Hello!


My view from my dinner table. Poor long suffering me.

For dinner, I decided one one of the restaurants along the water, on the way to the Arsenal. Although this restaurant was a mere block further along the water then the other, more frequented waterside restaurants, it featured good prices and no annoying-ass touts trying to hurry my ass inside. Therefore I picked it, and selected a nice seat with a view of the sun going down. Yum. I really despise restaurants with touts aside, trying to get you to come in, especially as many of the Italian specimens decide that hitting on me is a great way to get me to come inside. No, I would not like a side of hot smokin' sexual harassment with my fritto misto, senor.




This was REALLY GOOD spinach. Just so you know.

I had seafood soup Venetian style which was downright delicious. Perfectly cooked shrimp, baby octopus, mussels and clams, a delicate saffron and garlic flavored broth - the ideal meal for a summer evening on the lagoon. With a side of spinach cooked in garlic and olive oil, it was a simple and good meal and a definite highlight.


Sundown. Hideous, I know. Rather like Detroit in flu season.

After dinner, I walked back to the hostell to try to find the others, who had gone out (and since they didn't have cell phones, no way to contact em'.) Not that there was much going on in the way of nightlife, anyway. Venice on Sunday nights is a veritable wasteland for sin and pleasure seekers. I ended up going to bed at an unseemly 11:00.