Spain: Reading Hemingway in the Land of Contradiction
By Evan Thoreau Heigert

The train out of Barcelona leaves at a quarter to noon. On the wall of the station, the iron clock reads 11:23. I turn to the line of dusty travelers in front of me. This is going to be close.

I reach the window and the attendant feigns not to speak Spanish, let alone English. He regards me instead in the lispy drawl of Catalan. I’ve been through this before. I write my destination on the back of a receipt and hand it to him, ignoring the incessant ticking of the clock behind me. He reads it and motions to his watch in disbelief. I nod voraciously, and he prints the ticket in the slow, careless Spanish way that is charming when you don’t have a train to catch. I am off, lugging baggage, while I dodge children, nuns, and tourists. I find the platform, climb into a coach, and plop down in a raggedly upholstered bench as the train lurches into motion. How do you say ‘relieved’ in Catalan?

The ride across the northern width of Spain is spectacular. Each mile contradicts the one before. Thin streams cut deep gorges through farmland. Craggy outcroppings of sandstone burst from the prairie floor. Brown savannah stretches to the horizon, only interrupted by finger-like ranges of foothills reaching down from the northern Pyrenees. Suddenly we plunge into a tunnel only to emerge moments later on a high plateau, the Spanish call them mesatas – the sun-baked red clay contrasted against sapphire blue sky.

This is the land of contradiction, of Don Quixote and La Mancha – where nothing is quite as it seems and everything has the potential to surprise. It is mid-July, and the sun reigns. The air takes on a heavy feel, and by midday every living creature takes shelter for the siesta. My head bobs with the rhythm of the train, and I am eased into sleep.

I am on a pilgrimage of sorts. Snoozing sedately, a ragged, dog-eared book rests against my thigh. The Sun Also Rises – Ernest Hemingway. The novel chronicles the story of a war-scarred writer as he comes to terms with life and love while traveling the northern Basque hills. I first picked it up in sixth grade, rushing to finish a last minute English assignment. The book has haunted me ever since. The author has haunted me. Hemingway epitomizes Spain; his portraits of the fiestas, the grandeur, the dust, the tragedy – it all seemed other-worldly to a boy from suburban Chicago. So when in the midst of a summer-long trek through Europe a spare week presented itself, I jumped at the chance to follow Papa’s footsteps through the land of the bull.

I wake to the sun setting over lush green hills. Outside the air is crisp and surprisingly cold. It carries a familiar scent not present in the scorching heart of Spain. The sea.

The mountains here are old and weathered and wear a dense veil of vegetation. We follow alpine streams through gracious valleys, both flowing headlong towards the Atlantic.  This is the Basque Country – a chunk of earth so old, so mystical that its inhabitants speak of it as the original Eden.

And it very well could be. The Basque culture is one of the oldest surviving in the world, claiming direct descent from Cro-Magnon man. The Basque language of Euskera – curiously resembling more closely the ancient script of the Incas than present day Spanish – is the only remaining pre-Indo-European language on the continent. These are the people that survived the Romans, the Visigoths, the Moors, and French, even Franco’s fascist armies – and lived to relate the story in their own tongue.

We arrive in San Sebastián, Donostia in Basque, from above. The city lies along the slender strip of land between where the mountains end and the ocean begins. I can see the Parte Vieja nestled on a stocky peninsula stretching out into azure waters. It is there that the jewel of the city sparkles, la Bahía de la Concha, an emerald harbor outlined by one of the world’s most beautiful urban beaches. Far to the west the hot coal of the sun sizzles out in the waters of the Atlantic.

We descend into the valley and rumble through town. Long shadows stretch along exquisitely manicured boulevards where palm trees and fountains are as frequent as pedestrians. An idle river cuts through city center; baroque bridges stitch together the old and new town on either bank. This is not my preconception of Spain – dusty, hot, spicy. This is something closer to the old world of Northern Europe – serene, classical, elegant. At the station I step out into a chilly July night. I wonder for a moment if we didn’t turn a course north to Geneva or Luzern while I dozed.

The doubt is fleeting. I am soon overwhelmed by the smell of spicy grilled shrimp, the quirk chirp of Spanish, and a more guttural, ancient dialogue that must be Euskera. Outside the station I look around, unsure of where to find lodging. A man approaches in green slacks and a wool vest. He speaks Spanish, thank god. A clean room at a good price is more than my weary feet and empty stomach ask. I accept.

He directs me to an aging grey Land Rover and I hoist my pack in. As we drive, the city glows in the color of the dying sun. Wide avenues are set against linden trees and flower gardens. The buildings of the new town stand proudly at the same height, composed of granite from nearby quarries. They retain a type of architecture wholly unto the region. Unlike the colorful clay abodes of southern Spain, the style here has a more reposed, classical mood, similar to cosmopolitan northern cities, but with a distinct Spanish flair. On iron balconies, open French Doors offer fluttering curtains to the light sea breeze.

Hemingway came here on summer weekends away from Paris in the 1920s. He came south for the bullfighting season but had to appease his young wife by splitting time between the rough, steaming towns of Pamplona and Zaragoza and this fine old Dame by the sea. To my dismay I notice we are not heading further into the city, but out of it. My host and I wrestle with the language barrier, and I learn that his home sits atop one of the weathered green mountains that look down on the city. I am unsure, but he is kind and promises me “grandes riquezas de la belleza,” great wealths of beauty.

Up in the hills the air is even cooler. It takes on the fresh scent of fall even though we have barely reached July. We pull up to a heavy-timbered hunting lodge; wood smoke trickles out of the flagstone chimney. Inside it is dimly lit and smells of burnt oak. He shows me to a room that is clean and modern; twin doors open onto a small balcony. I step out and understand instantly of what he spoke. Below the hills stretch out in three directions, rich green turned charcoal in the approaching darkness. In the V of two slopes the little city pools against the black of the sea. Streetlamps and tavern lights flicker on like fireflies appearing in the night. The breeze is steady and carries the smell of the sea and the light sounds of a town at play.

A shower warms my weary bones, but my stomach has yet to come to peace. As I towel dry I am assaulted by a sultry smell. Throwing on light clothes, I walk down to the rustic dining room. Under candlelight a feast has been laid, and the aroma is simply intoxicating. Other guests trickle in, and soon everyone is seated. The innkeeper speaks a few words of prayer – provincial Spain is notoriously Catholic – and the food begins to be passed. Mussels, breads, fruits and nuts make the rounds. Spain’s national dish, paella, is the coup d’gras, a steaming cornucopia of seafood, saffron, rice, and vegetables. Wine bottles, empty and unlabeled, begin to collect on the table like a centerpiece to our pleasure. The chatter ranges from Spanish to Catalan, Euskera to French, English to German – truly a nod to a country that has witnessed the come and go of innumerable cultures. Full and sated, I retire to my room. I put on a sweater, pull out the old Hemingway, and lie across the bed. With the cool breeze and the careful, unhurried prose, sleep comes to me easily.

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