Euskal Herria

People ask me why I keep going back to the same places (Basque Country, Germany, Europe in general), our for that matter, why travel? I think my reasoning breakdown looks like this: 40% friends (old and new!), 40% food, 20% culture, history, and all that good stuff.

Last Friday morning I flew to Euskal Herria (the Basque Country), one of my favorite places on the planet.  From Bilbao I took the next bus to Donostia, what some maps call San Sebastian. The two younger Amonarriz Zubeldia girls met me at the bus station and we drove home to Tolosa. Our timing was great; 3:00 pm is lunchtime.
Now I know the French are famous for their baguette. However, if you want really good baguette, you have to go to Spain. If you want really good baguette, you have to spend the night in the corner of the bay of Biscay, wake up in the morning, and walk to the nearest Ogia Ondo. The name means good bread in Euskera, and good bread they have. A chunk of this crusty goodness is as necessary at the table as a napkin or knife, and usually occupies your left hand as you sweep up the last bit of whatever tasty dish you have just been served.
I really think the table is an amazing place to take in culture, whether you're eating baguette in Euskal Herria or meatballs and lingonberry jam in Sweden or a dish whose name translates to "maw bags" in Swabia or chili dogs in a backyard in the US of A. How people gather, who they gather with, where, how they sit... They're all expressions of culture that have normalized and evolved over generations.

The park where we hung out for the afternoon. Photo courtesy of Jone!

Anyways, I find myself again in a culinary paradise with wonderful people. Jone was a culture exchange student two different summers with our famil. Since then each of us has stayed with the Amonarriz Zubeldia family at least once in Tolosa. When Emily and I were in Sevilla last summer, home joined us for 3 days of exploring, tapas, sangria, and gelato.
My first afternoon back in Tolosa we relaxed with several of Jone's friends at a park below the tallest mountain on Gipuzkoa. It was beautiful out and I nearly fell asleep in the sunshine and clover. After dinner we walked to a neighborhood festival nearby. Jone's quadrille's garage was there, and after saying hi to people we watched the beginning of the festivities (they didn't start until near 11).

I don't really know how to describe the feeling of a Basque fiesta. It is entirely unique. There are throngs of people, the music is loud, alcohol and cigarette smoke are everywhere, and the vibes are entirely positive. In the words of a friend I met in Donostia a few days later, "there's nothing like it in the world."
We just stayed to see the parade of drummers and musicians go by, young and old, big and small, all wearing white shirts and red neckerchiefs, many wearing Basque txapel hats.