I believe this bar is where I sat with some haggard cunt before traipsing across a street full of traffic, billowing wind and pattering rain to see Radiohead. The only comment I’ll make on the haggard cunt is that my current location elicits only disgust for her. All else here is fantastic, but no memory combining her and San Sebastian is pleasant.
So I sit at a table sipping Cafe con Leche. A pintxo of bageta + jamon serrano sit before me waiting to be consumed. If I did not feel I have a slight fever and my bowels are constantly threatening to explode forth gauts of prujem, I’d say it’s a fantastically pleasant morning.
I attempted to skirt Urgull in hopes of standing beneath one of the monstrous yet sublime sculptures by the Basque artist whose name I forget. A type of undisclosed mountain destruction thwarted me. I did get within a hundred metres of the thing, however, before turning back and clambering among cobblestones around a higher layer of the perimeter of the mount in order to get back to Parte Viejo. I found a souvenier shop to fulfill my part of my friendship with Michal then. Yup, a shot glass from San Sebastian.
Just outside the front of this bar/cafe, I see the sprawl of the Atlantic Ocean. Just out of sight to the left is Kursaal, where Radiohead played. It is a beautifully unsightly structure. Eleven fucking years ago, I used to sit on the contrete outcropping that marks the beginning of the Surf Beach (Zurriola) drinking cheap wine from a Lidl that no longer exists. Oh, and also smoking cigarettes. During the month of September, 2002, I performed this task innumerable times. My mind conjures up a gypsy like figure (he was surely not) who stopped by on his bicycle many times as I sat, contemplating the ocean and my drink. I’d always share wine with him. He’d either put a swig in the cap of the bottle or pour from the bottle into this maw without actually touching his lips with it. This is clear. At least, my mind thinks it is clear. For all I know, it is an illusion from a dream sometime during the interim. I hope not, though.
Bundled peasants (tourists?) pass by on the pavement beyond the glass which protects my shittypie from the elements. A jogger trots a weaving path across the street. Shittypie should be as resillient to the elements as the Basque folk.
Firstly, I shall return to the hostel (ex-hostel?) to retrieve the Harvard shot glass from my black bag. I want to mail both to Michal from here. And speaking of Michal, I enjoyed very much when he and Christian called the other night when I was still in Cihuri. Both were intoxicated. I don’t recall talking to Sing, but surely I said at least tergiversation to her.
