A Stopover in Bilbao — Adam + Tori

We took a Veuling flight from Sevilla that left just before 9:00am—on four hours of sleep in true Spanish fashion.

The flight to Bilbao on the northern coast is just under an hour. Shortly after we lifted off, the moorish palaces and bustling streets of Andalusia quickly faded into vast deserts and mountain ranges—the occasional highway or small town here and there but not much more. It reminded me of the desolate expanses in the American southwest. On the descent, clouds began to form, and in an instant, the mountains erupted with lush forests spilling over granite cliffs into the valleys below. Villages of red-tiled houses punctuated the landscape with the question: why weren’t we staying here longer?

Stepping off the plane in Bilbao reminded me of our first month in Portland: the evergreen forests, jagged peaks in the distance, scenes rushing by out of a light rail window. The city is ripe with imagination from the historic nineteenth-century buildings to the minds of Frank Gehry and other contemporary architects who have left their mark on the urban landscape. It’s a stunning mix of old and new.

We had only planned to stay in the city for one night before an early train ride to France the next morning; I had pieced together the stopover just a few days after booking our flights to Europe as a means of avoiding more expensive direct flights and as a way to see more of the country. In mid-August, France implemented the pass sanitaire, a national means of verifying vaccination status for citizens and residents. However, the means to register as a visitor were more complicated. The week before we left Spain, the French foreign ministry set up an email address to allow Americans and other foreign nationals in Europe without a French social security number to be able to apply. We submitted our paperwork, but the night before leaving Sevilla, we still hadn’t received anything back. I was hearing mixed reports of Americans being turned away from cafes and airports with only their CDC cards, so we decided to stay an extra night in Bilbao in case we needed to get tested in order to use a temporary health pass to board the French train. I suppose this was technically our first “disruption” of the trip, but given where we were, it hardly seemed so.

In the early Spring, I locked in a good rate at a property in Marriott’s “Autograph Collection,” their more curated collection of independent hotels. When I messaged the front desk from the airport Saturday morning to say I had added another night, they were more than happy to combine the reservations and check us in early. The girl at the counter insisted on upgrading our room to a suite and seemed quite proud of herself when she did. Though, I wasn’t quite sure what to do with an extra “sitting room” at first.

For me, there’s a point where all the energy and excitement of a city starts to blend into noise. A soul can only go so long without some wide-open spaces, and for me, that seems to be a little less than most. After a month of navigating a foreign city of 1.5 million, I was ready for some fresh air. Thumbing through the maps, I followed the L1 metro line from a station near our hotel all the way out to a string of costal towns—none of which had names I could pronounce. From the satellite view, it looked like there was a trail along the cliff line for several miles that stretched within reasonable walking distance of two of those names. A 25-minute train ride toward a town that started with the letter “P” and a 1,30€ each later, we stepped off into the suburban streets of the coastal Basque Country.

We found the walking trail at a old windmill overlooking the inlet and shipping port. Hundreds of people flocked to the beaches below, but we stayed perched on the cliffs—content to walk along in the cool air and gaze at the expanse. Near a glider port, we found a bench tucked away from the path overlooking the coastline below. I stretched out in the sun, listening to the waves crashing below and the occasional paraglider whooshing by overhead. Staying so focused on logistics, it’s pretty rare for me to find those fleeting, spontaneous moments to relax. But there, on the edge of the Atlantic in an unfamiliar hemisphere, I had nowhere to be except in the moment, with my girl, by the sea. It was pure bliss.

The next morning, I managed to outsmart the espresso machine and made use of the sitting room to catch up on some writing—a couple hours sipping on my coffee and listening to music in the morning light while Tori slept. On these busier stretches, I’m finding quiet moments like these to relax and recharge are invaluable.

Tori and I spent our extra afternoon exploring the city. I strung together a loose itinerary of things that looked interesting and made a loop out of it. The wide, uncrowded streets start from a flower-filled plaza in the center of the city and stretch out in every direction—most finding their way to the river banks before reaching across. This makes it easy to fan out in whatever direction you like and easily cut through to another section of town. There are scores of bike lanes and walkways and tram lines; it’s delightfully easy to move about on foot.

We made our way to the funicular and caught a ride to the top of the hill overlooking the city for around 4,50€ each. The century-old red car creaked and groaned its way up the incline another time, and the rooftops and single skyscraper quickly diminished beneath our feet. The overlook at the top was obviously a little touristy, but the views were sweeping nonetheless.

We meandered with the river along the perimeter of the Guggenheim—it’s metal facade catching sun rays like sails in the wind. Neither of us are much for post-modern art, so we were content to admire the building itself—and the giant floral dog keeping watch out front.

The next morning we reluctantly said goodbye to our luxurious home for two nights and caught an Uber to the train station. The night before, I had stayed up late reworking our travel day trying to simplify it as much as I could. Still no health passes in hand, we would have to test for a temporary ones. But, the connection I had planned three months before was during the lunch breaks for most pharmacies within walking distance. I had exhausted all other options: we couldn’t fly, there were very few buses going that direction, and car rentals across int’l borders started at a lovely $1800. I opted to rebook us onto later trains and line up our connection with the business hours of a phramacie across the street.

We almost missed the first train. I thought half an hour would be plenty of time to get from downtown across the river. With the sheer number of crosswalks and strange intersections, it was tight. We arrived with three minutes to spare. I didn’t realize until the night before that the Euskotren, or Basque regional train, used the same type car as the metro—which, in hindsight, made sense as to why the trip to San Sebastian takes almost three hours. There wasn’t a luggage hold, so we piled everything into two benches facing each other and camped out. Luckily, there weren’t too many other people making the trip. The ride felt like taking the MAX from downtown Portland to Cannon Beach and then down the coast. The tracks followed a river bed through gorges and valleys cutting its way through the mountains stopping at each village along the way. We gradually made our way toward the coastline where the Atlantic emerged into full view—crowded beaches passing behind stone buildings as we moved through the scene.

The connection in San Sebastian was five minutes—enough time to walk to the next platform and board an identical train to the French border town of Hendaye. When the railways were built, the French and Spanish neglected to agree on a track width resulting in the need to transfer, and it seems the Basques do their own thing. After crossing the bridge into France, the Euskotren terminates at its humble station right next to the much more ornate French Gare de Hendaye. French border officials were checking the documentation of everyone arriving from Spain, so with all the confidence of it having worked before, I walked up, said “Bonjour,” and handed him my CDC card. He looked confused for a moment, and the other two officials leaned in and scrutinized it. He asked for my passport, and after comparing all of our documents, waived us in. Tori and I glanced at each other and quickly made our way across the street to the pharmacie.

There’s nothing like a little government-related bureaucracy on a time crunch to push you out of the nest linguistically. Knowing that the French language is a little more formal than Spanish and having neglected practicing any since leaving Sevilla, I was a little nervous. All that faded when I walked through the door to the pharmacie. I had looked up some COVID-related vocabulary on the train and went for it. I explained that we needed antigens tests for the pass sanitaire and discussed the price. But, before filling out the form, I mentioned that we were American and were already vaccinated. The girl at the counter disappeared and brought back another who asked if we wanted the pass sanitaire. Surprised, I handed her my CDC card and asked if they could do that. She said yes, jotted a few things down, and came back minutes later with a print out of our permanent passes—good for the entire EU. Immensely relieved, I graciously thanked her, and we made our way to the train station.

The rest of the day was all very straightforward. With the huge question mark out of my mind, I sunk into my seat—free to take in the world around me. Even though we hadn’t traveled far geographically, the world around us had changed. Even though it was completely foreign, for me, there was a familiarity about it. It was a place I had studied for most of my life that was suddenly off-the-page. The conversations igniting around me sent sparks through my mind; I caught phrases here and there. It’s equally exciting and distracting. This is what it must have been like for Tori in Spain, I thought to myself. It was a relief to be on a regional train with cushioned seats and a luggage hold. I listened to the automated announcements and read the overhead marquee along the way: it’s a little more my speed. We made one final connection in Dax before catching our fourth train of the day to our final destination, a city near the foothills called Pau.

A funicular carried us from the Gare de Pau up the hill to the main streets. A French flag in front of a Haussmann-style building came into view. The cool summer air filled the quiet streets. On the walk to the Airbnb, I noticed we didn’t stand out too much. The mannerisms, the attire, the overall demeanor, was different, but seemed more familiar. Maybe it’s the cooler climate? Maybe it’s the smaller city? Who knows? But, we’d have a month to explore this quiet corner of the continent.

Experience Bilbao for Yourself

Coastal Walk — Take the Metro de Bilbao L1 line from the city to Bidezabal. Follow the coastline north and then east to Playa de Sophelana. Pick up the metro back to town from the Larrabasterra station. Check out any of the beaches along the way or the hang gliding port.
Zubizuri Bridge — a good photo spot. Walk along either side of the river.
Guggenheim Museum — check out the art scene if that’s your thing or walk the surround grounds and parks.
Funicular de Artxanda — Cars depart every 15 minutes (4,50€). The light on the city will be better in the morning hours.
Playa de la Arena — You can rent electric bikes in the city. Make a day out of it and ride the 21km to the coast. (We didn’t have time this trip; let us know if you try it out!)