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Patrick Ross was the most interesting of my various, all to brief aquaintences. A burnt-out violin prodigy , with an oversized goatee. He teaches music in Vermont, and is, from my observations a borderline alcoholic. He disapeared sometime on a friday night, after babbling drunkenly in french canadian (which he speaks fluently) for an hour. As expected, I didn´t see him again.

Euskal Herreria

James Taylor
2006-08-23 12:34:20

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letting out a wild manical laugh in response. The satanic resemblence was immediately confirmed. Continuing his disturbing laughter, he began to become physical, not violent, but uncomfortably clingy. We left swiftly.

The following evening, strolling down the central street, we heard an instantly recognisable laugh. The devil had found us. He was probably putting the laugh on for our amusement, so we would recognise him. It didn't sound like that. As we quicklyy walked away, his cackles grew more intense, and it sounded like he was laughing because there was no escape. The Devil was laughing, because we would shortly be joining him in Hell for all eternity

San Sebastian is a lively place at night. While out with a Bostonian from my hostel, I saw a guy wearing a cardigan within an England Flag embroidered on the breast.I commented on it, and we started talking. He was Spanish, but had lived in London for a while. He wasn´t Basque, but had lived in San Sebastian for most if his life. We talked about his home town, we talked about Xabi Alonso, and we talked about the Basque language. I struggled to hear him. The music was at ear damaging levels, and consequently teh talking rose above it. He and his friends left soon after. He disliked the bar, It was much too quiet.

I was disapointed in the Basque country. That is to say I was disapointed at its lack of Basqueness. The Basque people are , so I am told, the original inhabitants of Europe. Their language is older than any other european language, and it has completley different roots from the standard Latin/Germanic language tree. I can´t think of any other nation who deserves their own country, mainly because their culture is so much older.

Yet somehow, it didn´t seem like it. Green, Red and White flags were displayed in every window and the bars and shops had unpronouceable names. In places there were vague shows of independence, a cautiously flown Spanish flag had been recently pelted with paint. But these displays of nationalism seemed largely contrived.

Bayonne, just over the French border from San Sebastian, was, despite the red an green painted houses, unmistakeably French. The cutely decorated shuttersm, couldn´t hide the Boulangeries and many designer clothes shops. Conversly almost everyone in San Sebastian seemed to speak Spanish.

I was in the Basque country shortly after ETA had called for a peacefull solution to the separatist debate. Their commitment to a non-violent solution is to be applauded. But I can´t help thinking that maybe they have just given up. From my short stay, there seemed to be no unique, cohesive culture to fight for any more.