Pais Vasco
Why visit Guernica? Based on the maps, its just another town in between the big cities. Few people remember their high school war history, and even if they did the Spanish ‘Civil’ War is really only a footnote. In fact, the primary reason the Spanish Revolution is discussed at all is because the fascists bombed Gernika to all hell using German planes and German pilots. Gernika is taught to Canadians because it is one of many collective “Oh shit. Fascists.” moments that are the prelude to World War II. I wanted to visit it expecting maybe a small memorial. I never intended it to be more than a sidebar but some research showed me that there was actually a lot going on with the town. In addition to some extensive material deriving from the towns experience being bombed, Guernica is historically the seat of Basque autonomy. So my train arrived in the stop before Gernika proper and the first thing I do is delay an old man getting off by asking him if this was the right stop. He gets off one sentence and then turns to go and I watch in horror as the doors close. His wife is on the other side looking at him and I think her face said “What the fuck is wrong with these foreigners.” The guy didn’t seem to care too much and just waved and her and said something I couldn’t catch.
Once I really get off the train, I feel like I am in a ghost town again. I have learned a little bit from my experience in Laredo so this does not faze me. It is the siesta, and the siesta is a real thing. When they talk about the siesta in spanish classes everyone is thinking that this is just a code word for ‘we nap over our lunch break’ or even ‘in addition to our lunch break we take a short nap.’ Nothing can compare to coming into full contact with the siesta. *Everything* is closed. For at least three hours, if not four. *Everything.* In Bilbao, Eugenia told me she tried phoning a consulate to find out when they were open and they said “8-1 then siesta… then… well, we don’t know if we can make it in after siesta.” I am told no one actually sleeps during the siesta, but it is not some minor quaint thing about Spanish culture. It is the block of time in which nothing you want will be within walking distance and open.
So I have some time to kill. I make my way up the hill to the Park of the People which is this very tidy park that reminds me of a miniature Devonian. Theoretically this park is intended to showcase unique ecology of the Basque region (something about four types of trees), but nothing is marked. When I first read about the park I was very ‘meh’ on the entire thing: “Four trees of the Basque region. Oh man! Somebody get me postcards to send to all my friends!” However, on the train in I could see forests of trees that were definitely not familiar and certainly looked cool. Sadly, they don’t mark any of the trees or plants like you would expect so I am not significantly more educated on the uniqueness of the Basque eco-region. On one end of the park are two giant sculptures commissioned to commemorate the bombing. I take some photos and then set up in the park to read a book for awhile.
Eventually its time to go investigate my housing options for the night. The buzzing unsurety of where I am sleeping on a given night is particularly bad at this point. I am not precisely sure how homeless people remain at all humane given that they deal with stress an order of magnitude worse every single day. This last thought is particularly pressing when I find that the pension is still not open. I head over to the tourist office to kill time since I *am* fifteen minutes early for the end of the siesta. I end up having a nice chat with an Austrialian guy out for a walk with his little boy. I was surprised to find out he had been living here for ten years, and would have enjoyed talking longer except for the drunk who interrupted us with his one english phrase. I maybe got a bit over-paranoid here, but I recognized the Basque flag on his hat and was concerned that I was aggravating some nationalist pride (that this region definitely has got). I didn’t want to be responsible for outting the Australian as a gringo to a bunch of drunk Basques (though I don’t even think they use the term gringo here), so I wished him well and picked up some maps in the tourist centre.
The pension was still closed. Finally I gave up on it and went next door to a hotel that didn’t have free internet (an important component of my downtime/relaxation plans). At this point I’m still not sure if I just don’t understand how pensions are different from hotels or if the famous Spanish lacksadaisacal-ness just conflicted with my frantic impatience. I imagine a bit of both.
The next day I sleep in really late so I don’t really explore all that much. I go down to the bridge that the fascists were ‘targetting’ when they bombed, but it is so normal that it isn’t even worth a photo. It’s just some bridge that got caught in the middle of a war and watched as it’s town burned around it. But I cross to the other side and walk back towards the city centre and find more graffiti on the way. So I keep following, the walls and walls of the stuff until suddenly I’m in a neighbourhood that reminds me way too much of the poorer areas in Lima. There is still more to be seen, but I am now literally on the wrong side of the tracks and hurry back with my tail between my legs. Finally I check out most of the Museo del Paz. Here there were a few interesting pieces, but it feels weird to take a photo of a photo of a poster from the revolution. Overall it was a pretty good presentation, there is this entire section on what is peace, what it is rooted in, and so on. It balances aggravating quotes like “The most unjust peace is preferable to the most just war” with a pronounced assessment that equality and living conditions are a necessity as well. The section on the bombing is a little bit blood-curdling, but there is a heavy sentiment of reconciliation. The museum closed before I got to see the final bit which was all about how to merge the first and second sections of the museum. So I went hunting for some food, found a chinese joint that was open and then ate in front of the reproduction of Picasso’s “Bombing of Guernica” mural. I go to bed, with an alarm to wake me so I can phone my family. Then I sleep through it because I have to get up early the next day anyways. Which, of course, I do not.
