An evening in San Sebastian

The rail platform at San Sebastian, Spain, wore a deserted look on a hot summer afternoon, save for the “group of four,” seated on a non-descript bench.

The rail platform at San Sebastian, Spain, wore a deserted look on a hot summer afternoon, save for the “group of four,” seated on a non-descript bench. No sooner had the train ground to a screeching halt and I stepped out, than the bespectacled Xavier was up from his seat, the rest following suit soon after. Fermin had laughter written all over his kind face, and his amiable wife Anna, along with Aracelli were all waiting in turn to give me a warm Spanish greeting and a hug. “Hola, Que tal, Hektoor,” [Hello, this Hektoor] Fermin said. “Bien” [Alright] was all I could think of at the moment. “Y ustedes” [and you] never came to mind! I had still not mastered the language -reportedly the language of the Gods, as reported in “Culture Shock – Spain.” Missing from the group was Marissa who was involved in a car accident and had damaged her spine.

On that warm September afternoon, when sunbathing was “de rigueur,” [fashionable] and roadside cafes were still very much open, serving “tapas” [appetizers] and “cafe con leche,” [coffee with milk] I was to be hosted as guest by the foursome. How did this reversal of roles take place? I have to take you back in time to India, where two years prior, I received a phone call from the head of a Spanish institution that looks after paraplegics asked me to come over, as they had a group of visitors from Spain who wished to travel across India. The caller was none other than Sister Pushpa who had left Spain more than 35 years ago on a journey to become a religious missionary. Now in her sixties, Pushpa spoke in a language that was a mixture of Spanish, English, and Hindi. It was always hard to comprehend what she spoke. She sounded like a runaway train whose brakes had failed! Nothing much would deter her, either. Often I would see her riding a two wheeler, and at the other extreme she would be driving an ambulance, as nursing the sick was her passion. She seemed like someone possessed, and we hit it off very well.

We made travel plans and finalized the arrangement, and all seemed well until I was introduced to the group. I was asked to guide the group as well. To my amazement I realized the group didn’t speak English, and as for me, no Spanish sprung from my lips. How does one lead a group for seven days with no common language? The thought bothered us all. The group sat grim faced and crestfallen, myself perturbed and concerned. Sometimes, two simple words do wonders. “No problem,” I said, and they all somewhat reluctantly agreed – not that they had much choice!

Armed with my backpack and an English-Spanish language dictionary, we started an eventful journey that began with a bus ride to Goa. The mode of communication was going to be “Spanlish,” with lots of miming and smiling, and finally some authentic Spanish-speaking guides for the monuments. At a restaurant in a resort in Goa, the musicians came up with “Vive le Espana,” [long live Spain] while at a local restaurant, they were served tortillas and jamon.

Our whistle stop tour proved to be livelier than expected, with Delhi, Agra, and Jaipur far exceeding their expectations. “Que bonitas,” [how beautiful] was all they could exclaim on seeing the Taj Mahal. Dinners were spent “discussing” philosophy, and the richness of Indian culture and its paradoxes. Over dessert, the group would record the day’s events on a dictaphone. They would laugh and joke and pass crazy remarks, and they couldn’t help but make fun of the house astrologer, while looking in disbelief at street-life happenings. They were more than interested in knowing what the Spanish-speaking guide had to say about Kundalini Yoga and the awakening of the senses. All in all, the trip proved to be a tremendous success. They extended me an invitation to visit Spain.

So here I was in San Sebastian more by accident and less by design. The total time at our disposal was seven hours, since the train from San Sebastian left for Paris late at night, while the train that brought me from Madrid to this fanciful destination in the Basque region had arrived at three in the afternoon. We walked alongside the promenade, watched fishermen display their catch, while sunbathers basked in the Mediterranean sun for the perfect tan. Moving closer to town, the streets were packed with tourists and locals alike, the spires of the baroque cathedral almost disappearing into the evening sky, while down below both taverns and ice cream parlors did a roaring business. They made me understand that since I was their guest and “amigo,” [friend] I would not be spending a single peseta, and they would buy whatever souvenirs I desired. Now did I hear this line before? A moving gesture, I thought.

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Over homemade dinner, “vino del blanca,” [white wine] and a pocketful of souvenirs, I bid the rest adieu. “Adios,” [bye] they said. “Hasta la Vista” [so long]. “Muchas Gracias y Adios,” [thank you and goodbye] I replied. “No se preocupe,” [do not worry] they said and smiled. I woke up in Paris early the next morning, walked past turnstiles, and changed trains for the last leg of the journey to Stuttgart. As the south of France whizzed by me in a blur of mesmerizing greens and vibrant blues, I imagined there are some things a peregrinator could treasure all his life. Like soul-stirring memories, while on the road, for instance. When these come interlaced with kindness and a human touch, they last one complete lifetime.

About the author

Avatar of Linda Hohnholz

Linda Hohnholz

Editor in chief for eTurboNews based in the eTN HQ.

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