San Sebastian Pier at sunset
The sun sets over the bells of the Basilica of Santa Maria. The worn paving of Campanario Street listens to the first whispers of the morning (the wheels of a bicycle, the brush of the broom, the leather of some shoes, the hooves of a greyhound), a dawn where everything smells of humidity, mystery and Renaissance. Wake up San Sebastian.
One cannot be very far from Donosti as it cannot be far from a couple of bottles of Chardonnay (from the Côte de Beaune), a woman's neck or the silence that accompanies breakfast coffee. Donosti is elegance, respect, civility and the belief (faith, rather) that it's still worth whispering "good morning" to a stranger. That there is a world where things are (still are) as we always imagined they should be. That world exists and hides in this Camelot in front of the Bay of Biscay and Mount Igueldo.
The waves of Zurriola wake me up after the Kursaal (I like nights in the Gros area), the waves of that Cantabrian that falls in love with fishermen, notaries and surfers alike. That sea that is home to bonito, hake, anchovies, turbot and cod hidden under essential blues; of silence and the sound of water. The same ones that lie behind the nets of the barges road to the bars of the Old where (once again) we will reconcile with the world in front of a bar.
It's vermouth time at Paco Bueno's house , after leisurely crossing -there is no rush here- the María Cristina bridge over the Urumea. We arrive at the Old, the neighborhood where the pintxo is religion and conversation an inalterable art in the face of today's tweets and communities packed with sad avatars.
An art (that of conversation) that permeates each tavern and each corillo in front of an old barrel and three chacolís. The same group that meets every noon at the ** Bar Néstor waiting for the best potato omelette on the planet **. The same one who indulges in the pleasure of endless conversation at the ** Txepeta bar, the anchovy temple**. the temple of Gilda , the legendary tribute cover to Glenn Ford's slap in the face of Rita Hayworth. Poor Ford, with his sad pachón dog eyes, who told you to climb Margarita Carmen Cansino's skirt; It is clear that in your house they did not strictly follow that basic rule of the Colonel: never sleep with a woman whose problems are more serious than yours . Good. Neither in mine.
Anchovies as a way of life
conversations. A friend asserts that the ability to converse not only distinguishes man from animal, but fundamentally separates "civilized man from barbarian man." Drink to that with a Taittinger at the Atari (excellent sparkling wine menu) and also at the bar of my main bar in Lo Viejo: Borda Berri . And it is here that part of the San Telmo team borders on excellence in each pintxo with jewels such as veal cheeks in red wine, grilled scallops with vine peach jam or mushroom risotto with Idiazabal.
Night falls on Calle Mayor, where lovers still go hand in hand and the pooches don't bother. In the distance the waves of La Concha still whisper and the saltpeter floods every corner of this impossible city with beauty. I think it was Manuel Vicent who said that about "A man is finished when beauty makes him sad".
How not to love San Sebastian?
San Sebastian, one of our favorite destinations