Sunny San Sebastian

There comes a moment when the summer is drawing to a close and one begins to hyperventilate from withdrawals. Reality of a daily work schedule begins to set in, and the summer free-for-all fun is rapidly fading, like the contents of my bank account at the olympic gift shop.

In my case, however, my kind and telepathic CS (couchsurfing) friends Laura and Corentin heard the little whiny voices in my head plee for one last getaway.

The night I met the couple, at my first Toulouse CS meeting last April, Laura had told me her dream was to drive a big truck. I burst out laughing thinking she was joking. I quickly swallowed my giggles when Corentin turned his serious eyes on me and clarified the 'big truck' was actually a camping van.


Well there it was, they had bought the adorable little red camping car of dreams at the beginning of the summer, and it was finally my turn to try out the overhead sleeping space.

And off we went to the pays basque, to glorious San Sebastian, or 'Donostia'.




After parking on the cliffs, we meandered past the port through the old city, admiring 'un vrai coin' of Spain.

Dating from 1912

My quick search for touristy no-misses led us around Playa de la Concha (my rough translation--sparkling golden beach of perfection) to ride the old world funicular railcart up Monte Igueldo to the attraction park and some of the best known spanish views.

Corentin and I convinced Laura to accompany us fear-seekers on an adorable rickety rollercoaster ride, thinking the scare level was for itsy bitsy little ones. The pictures Corentin took prove otherwise..






The other rides proved slightly less intimidating, poor Laura should have began with the bumper boats. She growled at us after, thinking we had done it on purpose...why I never..

The old look-out tower

Did I say a good view? I meant terrifying drop.

A walk around the bottom of Monte Igueldo found iron art sculptures with a background of temultous waves. We watched a bride and groom nearly get soaked as they had their pictures taken, and I continually hid behind Corentin to avoid the splashes.

Isle de Santa Clara

As the sun began to shimmy on down, I took it in hand and demanded (with my ultra-practiced pleading eyes) that we go to Santa Clara island, only a little boat ride away from the beach.



Once there, we hiked up the trails and found perfect grassy nooks for yoga, naps, or...well..whatever comes to mind. From the island actually were my favorite views. Or maybe I was just getting a Robinson Crusoe vibe, and felt like everything was especially brilliant.

At that moment, San Sebastian seemed the perfect place
to retire to play card games with friends day after day.

And the boat ride back provided an relaxed ambience with the striking sunset.
Everyone on the boat gazed back at the island,
sighing in admiration and snapping a quick photo.

As on any other trip to a country known for its delicacies (which is...every?), we went in search of the best tastes. I'm not a huge fan of paella, mostly because shellfish make my skin crawl, but I found a dish of stuffed red peppers and sweet sangria which gave me a satisfied grin. Laura and Corentin had their paella, and I'll just say that perhaps I made a better decision.

On the walk back to the van we breathed in the sea air as the waves were still crashing against the port, and the calm glow of the tranquil city lit our path.

You know those machines with the sounds to help you sleep better? I always loved the wave setting. During the night I woke often to the sound of the water slamming against the concrete, and I shivered in delight. However sleepy I was in the morning, I didn't mind!

We had originally planned to go hiking in the country the second day, but the beach was calling. We gladly answered. Vamos a la playa, right? We brought a classic french picnic-tomatoes, cheese, bread and munched happily in the sand. I then decided a snooze was in order, and pretended to sleep through corentin dripping cold water on my toes.

At San Sabastian, similarly to Rio,
a large lone white statue of Christ guards the highest point. 

For our final tour of paradise, we scouted the trails up Monte Urgell and thoroughly delighted in the castle, in which a history museum sneakily hid. A few rooms displayed pictures and video presentations of San Sebastian culture over the century. One stone room was set up as a genuine silent film theater with plush cinema seats. I could snuggle up to that every day.


Around the castle sprinkled little cells, I suppose the spanish were into torture? I'm not sure what causes my fascination, but I think I climbed inside each of them. At least the view through their little barred windows was breathtaking.

Saying goodbye to Donostia was more difficult than we had imagined. But we danced our way down the hill and vowed to return.

Hughenden and Dignified Men

Coming back to Wendover from visiting my uncle and family in Greystones, I instantly demanded that my kind Grandpa amuse me. Well, it didn't quite go like that, but if you asked him, he would undoubtedly use those exact words.

So he took me to Hughenden Manor, the old mansion of the coolest prime minister of whom I've heard, Mr. Benjamin Disraeli. First of all unexpectedly elected during the victorian age because of his Jewish heredity (I stared blankly at the woman after she told me this. I thought the English were on the other side during that war?). But secondly he drew comics, and third, he flirted unabashedly with the queen.
He earns my respect.

We began in the garden of apple trees and herbs. I grabbed a bit of mint to chew on but left the knobbly apples. After taking a photo, a friendly English couple asked me if I was Canadian. Err..what? Was this French influence on my accent? I walked a bit indignantly back to Grandpa and we went in search of the actual manor.

Hughenden was also known for housing the RAF (Royal Air Force) during WWII. The basement was modeled after typical bomb shelters and a sweet 40s living room. I walked in and stopped, startled. With the radio going and the yellowed flowery wallpaper, I honestly felt like I had walked into the age of air raids and food rations, and half expected Churchill's booming voice to come soothingly into the room.


Grandpa waited in the sunny parlor upstairs, reading about Disraeli and doing some flirting of his own. Alright, maybe not, but I'd like to think the lady who lent him the magazine was sneakily winking a bit.


We then went walkabouts the gardens. Grandpa decided he wasn't 25 anymore and sat on a bench, waiting for me to explore the wooded area. I finally found him again quietly snuggled in a hedge. He then found a new bag and I a new cup at the giftshop, and we went cheerfully home for a cup of tea.

Isn't he sweet?

The hills of Scotland indeed sing, but the lyrics baffle me

Towards Monifieth from Dundee

I had the chance to meet THE Nessie of Scotland at my french summer camp in July. Well, so we fondly called her. Rachel/Nessie was so good as to welcome me to her cozy town of Monifieth outside Dundee for a weekend.

I took the national express bus from the victoria station for an 11 hour bus ride up north. Surprisingly it passed brilliantly quickly. I amused myself writing, reading, and continually shooting dazzled looks outside at the fairytale rivers, shining fields spotted with cows and sheep, and perfect wee villages with perfect wee gardens. The bus driver cautioned us as we began, and my stomach filled with confused butterflies--wait. Was that my language? I often asked Nessie to repeat herself, but he wasn't even intelligible. I shrugged and hoped it wasn't too critical. If I could survive a year in France understanding if best the bare minimum, this should be doable. A few hours later I worked up the nerve to peep up at the guy sitting next to me.
It went a bit like this:

Me: "Gawd, it's hot in here, isn't it?"
Nice Scottish guy: "Bjiwe orklp kenr ejre je zej hot wiem ekler....kjre ehir box. eirheiwor heo box." (with a gesture towards the ceiling)
Me: "Ah...Yeah." (awkwardly clears throat, nodding, and returns to kindle)

On arrival I instantly felt at home, her mother had made a deeeeelicious soup and the family chatted on as if I had always been there. If I focused I could keep up. The friendly bickering continued as Nessie and I made a beeline for Dundee to celebrate her birthday with her buddies. As we paraded about town, I was fortunately very rarely lost in the conversation. I think her friendly pals made a bit of an effort speaking slowly, bless their hearts.

The next day we scrambled to make the bus to Edinburgh (ah ha, I spelled it right!) for the Fringe Festival. I've been to various carnivals and festivals with strange costumes and people eating indigestible objects, you know the like, but this was the first of its sort.






Not only did we see aliens casually ambling the streets, we were asked if we had a moment for a poetry reading (which is now my new favorite request from strangers), if we had seen a real space monkey, then if we were interested in "a one night stand". At the last question, we hesitated (who wouldn't?) before realizing it was the name of a comedy show.
We also bumped into Yoda and a scarily realistic golden mermaid.

He was actually hovering!

Yes, there you have it,
THE William Wallace.

Scottish humor? 

Again...the humor

Standing in the very spot of the international military Tattoo spectacle made me grin two weeks later while watching it on the telly with my grandpa. I only then truly got the pride of the Scots, and the original beauty of their traditions.

The question of the entire weekend became, "Well, do you have a kilt then?" Unless you're tooting the pipes on the corner for change, you're meant to wait until someone is tying the knot to bring it back out of the dusty corner of your wardrobe. Pity.

Edinburgh Castle

Overwhelmed by the various options of entertainment, we ran away. We found ourselves on the rolling hills outside the castle and spread out on the softest greenest grass known to man, or woman. Nessie did her best to show me how to roll down appropriately.

Music everywhere!

To make up for not sticking around the festival long enough for much scottish music or *cough* a one night stand, on returning, Rachel's bro Steve played his guitar as we had a nice cup of tea.

The following day I set out early to the beach for a lone promenade. Rachel's mum thought I was a bit kookoo, but it was well worth the photos. I cuddled up to my ipod with some classic snow patrol and breathed in the intoxicating views.

That afternoon Jess and Steve, the extraordinarily friendly and helpful siblings of Nessie helped us continue the nature exploration at Crombie Country Park. I learned some scottish slang (some of which my mouth refused to pronounce), what Irn Bru was, and the doggies learned some professional jumping.

They'll be famous soon enough.