The subterranean traveller and Trandi Romantic went overground to some towns along the northern limits of Castilla and onto the Atlantic coast. Their first stop was Logroño, the neat yet somewhat bourgeois capital of La Rioja wine region. They had tapas and drinks in overcrowded bars and went to bed early, exhausted from the long drive, the subterranean also from the fast intake of alcohol the door to door bite glass routine apparently asked for. Next day they moved on Burgos, where they admired the fresh air and well-kept houses. It is clear why people vote PP here, Trandi remarked, the system seems to be working well for them. In León, where impressions were quite similar, though an active graffiti movement advertised the slogan León solo, they had lunch and then they headed for that day's final destination, Gijon. The road took them past mountains full of dying coalmine communities where the occasional passing of La Vuelta a España was the only visible trace of excitement. Gijon itself was a relief.
Recommended as ugly but fun, the city in fact harbours an amazing treasure. A fair number of its semi-high rise centric buildings are from the 1920s and 30s, in daring modernist and art deco style, movements which never gained much ground in modernista overgrown Barcelona. Here they were all around for those who bothered to look up. The subterranean traveller, not in the least interested in shopping, always looks up.
The beliefs in beauty and in logic, which managed to merge in the most lasting examples, after close to a century still evoke the powerful strife for a better world the people of Spain enthused about before it was all taken away from them. Gijon is a gem of a town, with a wild, disappearing beach where everybody hovers on the last hook of sand, drinking their treasured sidra which they drop from great height before swallowing, to give it a champaign touch.
In the meantime they visited the medieval centre of Oviedo to buy some strongly recommended cheese and then it was on to the Oscar Niemeyer centre in dirty Aviles, for a quick look before moving on to the next stop over, Santiago de Compostela. After a beautiful drive over minor roads, with lunch in a farmers' town, passing hordes of hikers on byways, Trandi and the traveller arrived at their hotel and immediately went for the cathedral, where they had booked a heavily recommended tour of the roofs. Indeed, the views of the old town, almost half covered with churches and the like, were enlightening, and the guide was at her most dryly best. There's nothing but good old catholicism for you here, the subterranean whispered into Trandi's ear, she a certified apostate and never repenting. I've seen some shops on the way, his companion assured him. They had dinner outside and felt how the cold suddenly set in. At night they heard the shouts of the young hikers, many americans among them, who celebrated their arrival in the empty streets.
The next morning the traveller drove them to Fisterra, once considered the end of the world, with Trandi checking their progress on her i-phone, over ever smaller and wobblier roads until they landed in somebody's backyard from which they espaced (escaped) through the carport, getting finally onto a signalled way. The place was nothing special, just tourists pretending to enjoy themselves, but the sea was titillating refreshing. Back in town there was music on a square, an all girl guitar band from Spain and a French Marc Bolan type in White Stripes set up called Ko Ko Mo, all pretty decent and ricocheting nicely off the rocky enclosure of pavement and walls.
On their way back they took an inland road first, leading them to Pontevedra, where they had lunch in the shadows of a giant Templars' castle and then on to Astorga for a visit of the Gaudí designed bishop's palace and a taste of the local specialty, chocolate. That night they listened to thunder storms beating the streets. They had been lucky with the weather so far. The following day they turned north to the coast once more, this time to Santander where the well-off citizenry of Castilla were taking in the last rays of the sun before it was time to head back to work and school. The ocean here was decidedly warmer than out west, though not nearly as hot as the pissy pond that passes for sea in their hometown. They had good food for little money and concluded that Barcelona was much dirtier and noisier and certainly more expensive than what they had seen of the northern half of the country, though the sense of living in a city had nowhere been near to what they were used to.
It definitely pays to politely succumb to Madrid's rule, Trandi confirmed earlier remarks. We seem to get severely punished for wanting to have things our own way.
As you may remember from Bilbao, being financially independent also works miracles, the subterranean traveller compounded. Isn't it time this globalised mini-empire broke up into a relevant number of independent regions, say five, with Madrid taking care of itself?
Trandi smiled. That's easy for you to say, guíri. But we have loyalties over those borders, and too many of us are afraid to lose them. So they choose the stick.
They do not see themselves capable of building up amongst them what politics isn't able to care for? the subterranean showed surprise. I imagine the Spanish very capable of making the most of what has always been a horrible country.
That bad?
From the inquisition onwards you have suffered sadistic rule. There's no love from the centre for its subjects here. The Rajoy years have been unbearable. Let's pray they come to an end.
But we get by.
You sure do! That's why I love living in shite Spain.
Trandi Romantic found time for a kiss. The independence movement isn't helping either, she enhanced. At least Colau is doing something.
Though a break-up might get everybody to their senses. Will other regions join Catalunya's struggle and by doing so keep her inside, which would after all be the most practical solution?
You're a dreamer, Trandi said. You're from a small country in the north which is just in the right place to enjoy all the benefits of living in the west without feeling too bad about the implications of its life style. You think change is possible.
Sadism makes you realists, the traveller responded. Be sure it won't turn you into masochists.
