Having arrived in SS, it was cold, grey and wet. We hadn't been to Spain before, let alone SS, so we found a big map and made our way to the tourist office (where the nice people would speak English...hopefully). However, we were quickly dipped into the realisation about Spanish culture, discovering that everything was closed for a 24-hour lunch break. We still had two hours until the office opened again, so Ted and I trudged down the dramatic (and bloody freezing) sea front until we couldn't feel our legs anymore. I purchased us some small Pepsis in exchange for one of my kidneys, and I could understand why this used to be the most popular holiday destination of the Spanish aristocracy. Nevertheless, we returned to the tourist office, and persuaded them to find us somewhere to stay.
A ten-minute walk into the middle of town, and we arrived at the Pension Urkea. It was absolutely marvelous, as for 25 Euros between the two of us per night, we were supplied with an immaculate room with TV, balcony and bathroom. The only thing that we were still missing was sunshine.
Then, as if God himself had heard of our plight, the clouds parted, and San Sebastian was bathed in golden light, the people came out from their hiding places, and the town came alive.
We went out to explore, and it became obvious in the sunshine that SS was a truly beautiful place. The golden statue of Christ stood on a hill, looking down over the breathtaking crescent-shaped golden beach.
So, after a very cheap internet surf and a trip to the supermarket for supper, we made a quick phone call home. After pleasantries had been exchanged with Pinochet and Nesser, we recanted our tale of the day and lied about how much fruit we'd been eating. We exited the phone box to find that the most beautiful woman ever to set foot on the earth was running towards us. We stood with our jaws hanging low and salivating excessively, until I came to my senses and sank to my knees, thanking God for bringing us to this truly great country. However, she was just too fast, and she had shaken us off after ten metres. This experience had exhausted us, and it was therefore time for bed, accompanied by a cheap bottle of red, some Pringles and a Spanish version of Jackie Chan's 'Supercop' on the TV. Yes, we were truly living it up. We were still in a country about which we knew nothing: I didn't now how Tapas works.
We awoke after a great night's sleep to glorious sunshine. Our first priority was to return to the Tourist Office to get a new map, because ours was shite.
"Excuse me," said Ted "Can we have a new map, 'cos ours is shite"
"And how does Tapas work?" I added inquisitively. The woman behind the desk looked slightly bemused, but still handed Ted his map, and then tried to explain the ins and outs of advanced Tapas theory. To this day I'm still not sure that I'd pass my GCSE Tapas exam.
We found Uncle Mac's Meat Manufacturing Boutique and ate our fair share of McTapas and Mcfood in general, and then decided that some exercise would do us good. So we started our assault on Monte Urgull about five minutes later, and discovered we had been a bit rash in our decision. After stepping out of McD's I was already sweating profusely and waving my favourite white flag, as only English people seem to do in 20-degree heat.
After about half an hour's gurning and laughing our way to the top I decided to look more like an Englishman on holiday by rolling up my tracky-bums past my knees and posing for strange photos. Ted's minor cardiac arrest at the top of the hill was quickly followed by the purchasing of a tennis ball and playing cricket on the beach. The Aquarium also beckoned to us, as my sun-starved skin was turning an unhealthy pink, we paid our student rates (even though neither of us are students) and went in to escape the good weather.
That evening, we decided that our introduction to Spain had been so good that we would eat out to celebrate. We wandered about town looking at local delicacies, but there was a recurring dish that kept us greatly amused. Obviously it is considered 'de rigueur' in San Sebastian to eat rice and ketchup. Classy. In the end, we decided to ignore the invitation to join Spanish high society in the consuming of vast quantities of rice and ketchup, and go somewhere the food's quality matched its price. The cheapest thing in the town (apart Big Donny Mac's) was steak and chips for 9 Euros, cunningly disguised by being re-named 'succulent side of field beast accompanied by potato goodies'.
The waiter, clearly seeing we were English by the puzzled looks on our faces, took our order. About 30 seconds later he returned with cold, green chips and a rubber steak. This was possibly one of the most uncomfortable restaurants I had ever been in, with a lack of music, decor, customers or atmosphere of any kind. Well, there were some other customers, but that was an American girl explaining to her parents why it was necessary to speak 'Spain-like' in a foreign country, such as Spain.
Finishing quickly, we looked around the town for any sign of a kicking pub or club, but alas, none could be found. We returned to the pension for a good night's sleep in preparation for the next day's 7-hour train journey to Madrid.
"What time is it?"
"6:45"
"Oh...bollocks."
And so the morning's conversation continued in this vein.
Starved of sleep and sad to be leaving, we hopped on the train. We had been given separate seats, so the likelihood of being showered with inane jibbering babble was increased. Interspersed with bad films, and even worse smells, the journey seemed to last an age.
At Valladolid, a rather strange sight greeted us. A six-strong English family (a mother and her 5 children) boarded the train, along with their hideous mullets. They looked like white trash, but their accents betrayed their middle class English background. Their continuing screaming and wailing brings a painful ringing in my ears, so I'll stop writing about them now.
