Debasque Vu
Trip Start
Apr 27, 2006
1
32
110
Trip End
Apr 01, 2008
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Bayonne,
France
Tuesday, August 8, 2006
The Fetes De Bayonne should be named "San Fermin Light," but in a good way, kind of like cutting off the gross fat from a nice prime rib to leave just the bloody, succulent middle. Same bat outfits, same bat food, same back cheap-ass sangria and Coca-Cola y vinos, but better. Mellower, yet still raging and fun.
As best as I can figure out, every town in Spain has its own feria, the Basques just do it bigger. Bayonne is on the other side of the French border from Pamplona, Bilbao and San Sebastian, but they (like the Spanish Basques) consider themselves Basque first, French second. Thus, the Basque flag and colors were everywhere and the red and white uniform is identical (except for the bandanna might have a local Bayonne imprint, rather than a Pamplona or San Sebastian imprint), the food, the drink, and everything else was virtually idential to San Fermin, except without the disgusting edge.
There were more people of all ages, and many more women, prevalent at all hours. And, although there were your fair share of passed out people, and dudes peeing in alleyways, it didnīt reach the level of gross-out, I-am-not-walking-through-that-ness, mass stumbling bodily fluiddom, that San Fermin had. Maybe that was becasue there were very few tourists. San Fermin is on the global party map, like Octoberfest and Mardi Gras. Fetes de Bayonne attracts something over a million people, but they donīt seem to come from much more than 100 kilometers away.
Castle Pizza
Otherwise, it is pretty much the same - eat and drink, and make merry. So I will tell a tale of several titties.My first day, I found a nice, quiet, inside restaurant that served a version of the traditional fete meal (cured ham and melon, bull steak, and dessert), but not nearly as mass produced as the outside dine-a-thons (see picture), with a much better wine than I would have got otherwise. I then wandered out into the streets, grabbing take-away beers (many of the bars donīt even let people inside, serving only outside) listening to street bands and trying to figure out why people would sit down in rows and jump on each other (see picture). Along the way, I met Sonya and Kelly, two British girls (if 27 years old counts) who, like me, had quit their jobs, borrowed an uncles converted van, and were driving around Europe living in it.
One bar led to another, and we ended up at a quasi-outside disco, with music blaring into the street and people dancing on windows (see picture). It also rained and soaked us through, but that was part of the fun. Sonya seduced me, while Kelly charmed her way (via one of the bartenders) behind the bar and poured us free drinks, and I supect many other people failed to pay too, and we stayed there until the wee hours (I really have no idea because my phone, which is my watch, got soaked and didnīt work for about 12 hours). They then invited me back to the van (sound familiar Dorf?), after Kelly exacted a promise that there would be no "hanky-panky," and we stripped off our wet clothes and lay down to sleep.
City By Night
Well, the van was small for two, let alone three, and although I was doing my Boy Scout best, Sonya was, um, amourous, leading Kelly to pitch a fit that would have done a jealous bull-dyke proud, and my off-hand suggestion that she could join was not well accepted. Taxi!When I dropped Sonya off the next morning, intending to arrange to meet her later, Kelly was still fuming and she made it evident that they would be leaving. Que sera sera, so I spent a mellow day and saw a band at an Irish bar that night. http://mark-brennan.com . Mark Brennan was the lead singer and bassist (very good, actually), an Englishman who had lived in France for 11 years, fronting three born froggies, and playing a bizarre mixture of cover songs that ranged from ska to Paul Simon. I watched all three sets, chatting with Brennan in between, and some drunk French kids during, while watching one of the most surreal courtships occur on the dance floor between a very self-assured guy with long-hair and a hot chick bundled into tight t-shirt who kept coming together, then parting and ignoring each other, and then coming together again, etc. They left together, though, so goodie for them.
I caught the bus and grabbed a seat next to a cute blond, who (by the time I got off the bus) had asked for my number in case she went to the fete again the next day. So Iīm thinking "Score!", and she does in fact text message me, but my reply gets no response. So I try calling her. The number appearing on my phone has something like 15 digits and it doesnīt work, so I try variations of adding zeros and deleting country codes, but I canīt make it work. That night (Friday) was my last night in Bayonne. I was meant to have booked through Saturday night, but I screwed up the on-line reservation and got my departure date wrong by a day. I did the wander-the-fete thing again with nothing terribly exciting to report, other than being told I would have lots of friends if I learned French. Yeah, sure. If I were to learn a new language at this point in life, I would not choose one that is dying. It makes far more sense to learn Spanish. At least I could then speak to the busboys at Jade. Of course, Elsa (the blond from the bus), called me on Saturday (while I was on the train to Madrid) to say she was going to the fete that night, and did I want to meet? Doh!
Lessons learned: (1) when it rains, it pours; (2) double check your on-line confirmation dates; and (3) reccomend the Fete de Bayonne to friends over San Fermin - they may not having running bulls, but they do have cow races and horny chicks.
Moving on, as noted, to Madrid.
