A Day for Elbows and Insults

The Spanish town of San Sebastian is a collision between modern colors and history, all packaged in an incredibly clean, breezy coastal setting from which one can see a surprisingly calm Atlantic on one side and the protective Pyrenees on the other. Bright blues, reds, and greens swirl like progressive frescoes around white marble statues and greenbelts. Eerie, twisted carvings adorn the upper stories, threatening to come alive like a weird Gothic Disney parade. And throughout, the air is electrified with the smells of sea water and grilled meat.

I had only a few hours, so I played the "sensory game," in the hopes of finding some tapas. If I heard someone chanting or singing, I followed the sound. If I smelled something delicious, I went in that direction. I followed visual clues that made no sense. Sure enough, my nose and ears led me to what I later learned was the Old Quarter, a gridlike sector filled wall-to-wall with shops and tapas bars.

Tapas (or pintxos) in Basque is an unexpected experience. I walked into a half dozen establishments before I gained the courage to ask a bartender how one gains access to the dozens of dishes lining the bar, filled with mouth-watering morsels, yet seemingly without any order or system. As it turned out, there *is* no order or system. With a grin, the bartender - who looked more like a pirate than a bartender - shoved an empty plate and a large glass of red wine into my hands, pointed at the pintxos platters and told me in an unconcerned melange of Basque, broken French, and arbitrary English to eat what I want, pay later.

That obstacle hurdled, I set my eyes on the next one: physically reaching the bar, which was guarded by a wall of singing, eating, smoking, and chattering Spaniards. The only way I saw, well, Straight In. I clutched my plate and red wine firmly, began flying my elbows around, and started inching up to the bar step by step. A couple swarthy men shouted angrily at me in Spanish from down the bar, which I returned loudly in French, with an exaggerated hand wave for emphasis. Two women a few groups down joined in yelling at the men. We stood and hurled insults at each other for a few seconds. Suddenly the men cheered, toasted me with their beers, and returned to their cigarettes.


I'm at the bar! Marinated anchovy, grilled over some kind of rice. Squid cooked in its own ink. Spiced crab. A thick slice of manchego. Red peppers stuffed with something that looked like noodles but may have been a mass of immature fish. Grilled ham with some kind of pickle. I loaded my plate with hard-won savories, which I downed in rapid order with whatever red wine I had managed not to spill on my struggle to the bar.

After eating my fill, I joined in the shouting once more, this time directed at a young couple who were elbowing their way to the bar with practiced gusto. They shouted back and once again, a volley of insults passed through the smoky air. The bartender yelled at everyone to shut up (at least that's what I assumed he yelled.) He then asked if I was done, I said oui/si/yes, and he charged me 6 euros. It was a shockingly miniscule amount for having vacumned my fill in food and wine. I happily elbowed my way through the crowd again until I was chased out the door by another barrage of incomprehensible insults.

Outside, a group of young Spaniards were serenading the world at the top of their lungs, gathered around a half-empty bottle of a suspiciously clear liquid. A moment of surrealism, frozen in time.