While I was in Biarritz last week, me, Marla and Larry took a drive down to Spain to have some dinner. It took us about 20 minutes to get there. We sailed under an overpass and stopped to pay a toll as we exited the freeway. Larry said, "You're in Spain now!" No border crossing. No border guards. No passport control. This whole EU thing makes traveling in Europe much easier.
It reminded me of all the times I drove across the Arizona, California or Texas border into Mexico. The Mexican side had two or three traffic lanes with little border crossing booths and gates. In the early days, there would be a couple of sleepy guys in dusty uniforms sitting in those little booths. They never really asked you anything; they just waved you in. Then they just kind of gave up on all that formality. They kept the booths there, but permanently lifted the gates and there was no sign of a border guard anywhere. I would still slow down as I passed the booth, being that I am a rule follower, and there was always a chance I might run over a chicken or a pig if I wasn't too careful.
You'd think that the Mexicans didn't care who came into their country. That is, until you drove a little bit farther south on their highways. Then, in the middle of nowhere, there'd be a road block, and nine guys with machine guns would wave you down to stop. Gulp. They just kind of shifted their guns to rest across their backs, and bent down on either side of the car to peek in the window at all our cheerful, hopeful, please don't arrest us and put us in a dark wet cell until we rot faces. Then, they'd just let us go through their barrier. I guess me and my friends didn't look like Cheech, or Chong for that matter (well, at least that week), so we always got a pass. Or maybe we just didn't look like international arms dealers. We were told that the flow of illegal traffic went thusly: guns south, drugs north. But I wouldn't know anything about that.
I remember how our American Tourister sandals-with-socks nerdy smiles continued to be plastered on our faces, as if those guys with the guns were still watching us, and would run after us shooting if we let down our guard.
Last week in Spain, as we drove into the border town of Irun, it reminded me of Mexico, only cleaner. Larry helpfully pointed out that if I wanted to buy cheap alcohol or cigarettes, there were many gaudy little stores right at the border where I could do so. In just a short period of time, he somehow knows that I am the type of person who goes for cheap alcohol and cigarettes. Astute, that Larry.
I didn't see any signs of a velvet Elvis, nor any red, yellow and green statues of a sandal-footed, sombrero-wearing guy, sleeping while propped up against a cactus (and no doubt, according to Loud Dobbs [ha! That was a typo, but I let it stand], avoiding work). No barefoot street urchin stepped forward to clean our windshield or offer us Chiclets, and no Indio woman walked in between lanes of cars with a basket of churros on her head. Instead, this is Basque country, where bomb-fabricating separatists meet in shadowy txiribogas to plot their next strike.
This might sound romantic, but all I really wanted was some cheap wine and tapas.
Although, having some steamy sex in a dark Spanish frontier hotel room with a Basque separatist might make for an exciting blog post. I could talk about ripping off his balaclava to free his dark tendrils, and the sound each curl made as they fell softly to his shoulders. Or his searing eyes, as they took every inch of me in, almost as seriously as they perused themselves in the mirror behind me. I could talk about how big his gun was, as it stood lonely against the door jamb, waiting for its turn to be carried away.
Or, not.
We parked the car and walked a few blocks into the older part of town - wrought iron balconies on old buildings, cobbled streets. There was zero dog poop, or man pee, I might add. This is a big deal for those of us living in Paris.
It was a Sunday night in a Catholic country, so things were pretty quiet. There was a boisterous and happy crowd standing outside a bar, just a few steps down the street from the corner where we stood. Marla and I were attracted to it. We lingered at the corner, going slightly up on our tippy toes, to see what we could see. You know, bright lights, bad men. But Larry pulled Marla's elbow and led us instead into a bar that he and Marla had been to before. It was, um, a British pub. Okee dokee. I can do authentic later, maybe.
Here's a blurry version of me and my chipmunk cheeks, safely surrounded by faux Britishness. As you can clearly see, there isn't a hot Basque separatist in the joint. But the food was incredible. We had rich risotto and grilled lobster on a stick. I had the best Chardonnay I've had in a long time, at 1.50 Euro per glass.
Sometimes a safe bet is just that, a safe bet. And anyway, I've recently decided I'm too damn old for danger.
Or, not.
Life is good, on the other side of the fenceless frontier.
