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We created a plan of attack to get out of Pamplona. Make a getaway during siesta hour when the roads would be a bit quieter, then look for the small side road off the superhighway, which would lead us up to the windy roads of the Great Pyrenees. We escaped from the great traffic circles of Pamplona, and made it safely to the quiet, windy roads of the Basque Country hillsides. Each time we survived the madness of Spanish traffic, it renewed our faith that we would survive the trip, all limbs intact. |
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It was clear we were in Basque Country. The colors of doors on residents houses had changed from Spanish Green to Red, the preferred Basque color. ETA (the militant Basque separatist movement) grafitti was everywhere. People were different looking with different manerisms. And reading roadside signs was impossible because it was an all new language. Without a doubt, the Basques deserve to have their own country, as they are a people entirely their own and different from the rest of Spain. The journey to Bilbao became arduous. Mountain villages metamorphosized into large industrial centres, and narrow roads became filled with huge, three-axel trucks. Car exhaust began to coat our faces as we carefully cruised at safer speeds while super fast Ducati riders whizzed past us. Jim looked to me for some kind of direction as we headed into the urban outskirts of Bilbao, but all I knew was look for the big shiny monument, El Museo de Guggenheim |
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We stopped in an upscale shopping district to get a map, gather our wits, and find a hotel. As we pulled into a parking area, we thought of Randy, our Otis Elevator Repair Man friend in San Francisco. Randy gets to drive a van. Look at what a Spanish Otis dude gets! |