I wanted to share some photos from the actual Camino so you guys can get an idea of what this rainy, seafood blessed land looks like. It really seems more like Ireland than Spain, full of light haired, blue eye Gallego speaking farmers. I highly recommend the trip to anyone; you live out of a backpack for anywhere from 2 weeks to 2 months, share amazing times with amazing people and I guarantee you'll never forget it.
A typical trail. Normally we were being pelted with rain--our running jokes was that there is no happiness in Gallicia, only rain--but this was a rare 20 minutes without the wet stuff.
Ancient bridges allowed us access to towns full of ancient people.
¡Que Vistas!
This is La Catedral, the main pilgrim destination in Santiago. It looks amazing at night, but whenever I saw it lit up I was either too focused on getting to a restaurant, or too happy, full and tipsy afterwards to take a photo.
These shells speckle the entire trail. They tell pilgrims where to go and say how many kilometers are left in the trail. This lovely little shell reads "00.000 km." That's right, the end of the world.
I returned a few days ago from a 220-kilometer pilgrimage in the Northwestern Spanish province of Galicia. The pilgrimage is called Camino a Santiago de Compostela and is the oldest known religious pilgrimage in the world. You can start from just about anywhere since there are routes that run to Santiago—the capital of Galicia and the end destination of all the Caminos—from Portugal, various parts in Spain and even France. I met some grizzled old Germans who had been walking for over a month and heard of a man who started from Berlin and ended in Santiago 4 months later…wow.My four friends and I decided to undertake the Camino Portuguese, a short hike that runs 114 kilometers from Tui—a small town on the border of Spain and Portugal—to Santiago. After reaching Santiago, 2 of the girls flew to Valencia to head on various trips. The three of us that remained made the grueling and far more beautiful 100-plus kilometer journey from Santiago to Finesterra—a coast town whose name translates to “the end of the earth”. So what does this holy trek have to do with food? Well, the province of Galicia is renown for its seafood. It is the only place in the world with Pulperias—restaurants and bars devoted to serving the provincial staple food, pulpo or octopus. Despite this glorious food tradition, I didn’t indulge myself every day. The life of a pilgrim is a tough one. We soon discovered that the only thing separating pilgrims from bums is three euros a day. That’s it…three euros. Why three euros? Well, that is the price of the albergues, little refuges set up every 15-30 kilometers on the trail for pilgrims to rest their aching feet, clean their filthy clothes and wash their dirty bodies in low pressured, frigid showers. The albergues vary in quality but they look like huge dorms full of bunk beds and grimy pilgrims from all over Europe.For most of the trip we ate bum food. I’m not saying this out of ignorance but because on several occasion we saw actual bums buying the same food as us—loaves of bread, slices of cheese, a jar or two of veggies and some cheap booze. While drinking isn’t the best way to sustain your weary body on a grueling pilgrimage, it’s probably one of the best ways to pass the time and meet crazy foreigners. Despite one killer hangover I encountered after cooking a feast of mussels accompanied by a bottle of wine, 4 bottles of cider and a twelve pack of beer, cheap booze remained a staple of the Camino.Despite the bum lifestyle, we did allow ourselves some delicious celebrations. Like I said, Galicia is famous for seafood and once we reached Santiago, we stayed for three days eating, drinking and partying with some ridiculous Spaniards we met along the way. Every restaurant in Santiago has a large window displaying their fresh fish and all are ridiculously cheap for the quality. It goes without saying that in Santiago I overcompensated for all the supermarket bread and canned sardines I ate on the way there.And now the photos:
The famous pulpo. This place cooked the stuff outside to order in a huge cauldron. Not the best I had all trip, but probably the freshest. The first warm piece hit my tongue approximately 30 seconds after the woman fished the octopus out of its boiling bath.
Fun with food that, for some reason, makes a lot people squeamish.
Wine in Galicia is nowhere as good as its seafood. However, it’s customarily drunk from a bowl. The best wine is a white called Abariño. We met a jolly ol’ Galician drunk in Santiago who happily demonstrated the pleasure of drinking bowl after bowl of Galician wine.
The end of a delicious plate of mariscos varios.
Pulpo con patatas, another delightful treat.
No need for this photo, I just like to stare at the eight-armed goodness.
The whole spread from left to right: pulpo, mejillones picantes (spicy mussels), gambas a la planca (pan fried shrimp), queso de pais, pimientos de Padron (small green peppers fried and topped with course-salt), ensalada. 
Galicia has a ton of specialty licors and sweets. This here is my delicious afternoon snack of café solo and a slice of Tarta de Santiago, a light and cakey almond pastry. To make them even better each cake is dusted with powered sugar and stamped with a giant cross. Ahh, Jesus pastries.
Café Licor, Café Crema and Licor con hierbas—just three of the endless local licors made from a strong, grappa like neutral spirit.
During the trip two of us actually graduated from college. To celebrate our time as unemployed college graduates, I ordered up a liter of a local dark lager. Later that day we bought a bottle of Cafe Crema, a Torta de Santiago and partied in the park to some live music. What a way to start “real life!”
After the beautiful disaster that was the sideria we all slept in and relaxed while checking out of the room. I packed up my bag and hung around in the kitchen chatting with the terrible, swamp creature-like scented but warm-hearted woman who ran the hostel. She was cooking some slender clam-ish things I never saw before and as soon as I inquired what they were, she heated up a pan and made me a large plate. She called them navajas. They resemble long, black mussels and taste similar to clams. When I finished these, she gave me some bread to soak up the tasty sea-creature juice and a plate of tomato salad. I offered to clean the dishes but she violently dismissed the idea and kicked me out of the kitchen.When we finally left San Sebastian, the five of us head over the border to Biarritz, a charming little French beach town. We were only there for a few hours, but in honor of my first time in France I ate a crepe and had a beer. 
Both were delicious and I once I stay in France for a little time (I’m off to Paris in a week) I’ll be able to comment on the food more in depth. Until then, ¡Buen Provecho!
The third day of my trip made me certain that San Sebastian was heaven. On our final night we decided that a trip to a sidreria was necessary. We were going to try and go the day before, but after returning from our hike and the bum beach it was too late to venture outside of the city to find one. Good thing, because a trip to the sideria is definitely the best way to say goodbye.The day started innocently enough; we woke up later than usual and went to the market. I searched in vain for the fresh market after questioning several people we ended up at the supermarket. Despite the setback (I wanted more blog fodder!) I picked up some necessary goodies to utilize in the hostel kitchen. An hour later, I was full of sandwiches and a bottle of wine and we headed out to the beach. Despite being world famous for the surfing, the beach at San Sebastian has amble room for casual swimmers as well. The water was freezing and the waves knocked me upside the head a few times, but it was well worth it. A few hours later after frying in the sun, freezing in the water and taking a nice food coma nap, we made our way back to the hostel to figure out the night’s plans.As I stated on Day 1, almost every town had a sidreria back in the day. Fortunately, a bunch of these lovely little establishments still exist. Even better for me, more than 10 of them are in a town 10 minutes outside of San Sebastian called Astigarraga. We decided to take the bus out to the fabled place around 8:30 and began washing the sand off of our scorched bodies.The basic concept behind a sidreria is thus:Pay one price.Drink as much cider as you want.Eat lots of delicious food served family style. Said food usually consists of four plates.
On paper, the sidreria sounded amazing. After wiping my drool off of the computer we left the hostel and caught a bus to Astigarraga. When we finally got there the search began; according to my pamphlet, there were 12 sidrerias in the town. I hopped into an open bar and asked a friendly Basque for directions. He promptly spit some Spanish fire and sent me down a long and bleak looking road. After 15 minutes we ended up in an industrial dead-zone so I ambled into another open bar and was greeted to a site that will never leave me: The place was filled with mustachioed men drinking beers and yelling at each other. Every few minutes a waitress would waltz over and plop down a plate of some delicious looking thing, each dish looking better than the last. I walked up to the counter and asked a pointy-white mustached man about the sideria. He started giving me directions in his thick accent when his friend—a smaller man with less of a mustache—started yelling and saying there was a much easier way. The two loudly disagreed with each other for several minutes before the second man pulled me outside to show me where to go. The excitement was building.After 15 more minutes of walking we finally found it—Rezola Sagardotegia. It was perched in a residential area on top or a large hill. We entered, were seated at a large wooden table and were each given two plates, silverware, and an empty cup. The waitress did not return.Confused, we contemplating what to do. My friend Joe went off in search of the bathroom and we sat befuddled, trying to figure out how to order. 15 minutes later another waitress walked by our table and I asked her how to order. She asked me if we wanted food, and informed me of the plates she would bring out (see above). She pointed to the glasses and said we could have as much sidra as we wanted. About this time Joe returned wide eyed with a smile on his face. He informed us that the bathroom is next to the barrel room. As he was walking around back there a group of locals pulled him aside and inquire where his cup was. They then proceeded to line up and fill their drinks from the barrel one by one, a sharp jet of cider shooting out of the barrel into a glass waiting 4 feet below. As soon as Joe shared his story we hustled to the back and were promptly introduced to the lovely world of Sidra.
I don’t know whether it was the alcohol, or the Basque people are just amazing but we soon became amigos with the whole restaurant. A fellow named Javier quickly befriended our group and, along with a few red-faced old men, showed us the ways of the cider house. We learned some the proper technique of pourer the stuff—small amounts poured into the side of the glass and drank immediately—and proceeding to cheers (many, many times) to our new friends. About 20 minutes later, our waitress picked us out of the barrel room to inform us the first dish was ready.
I’m not exaggerating when I saw that the Sidreria was possibly my best eating experience. Not only was the food delicious, but also the whole concept of the restaurant was superb. Dinner that night was what I envisioned meals to be like in Europe .We sat on large wooden benches in a giant, old house and were brought out giant plates of food the moment it was prepared. Each plate was accompanied but a fresh loaf of bread. To add to this, everyone becomes everybody’s best friend. The whole idea is to leave the table after your plate and drink until the next dish is ready. Because of the freshness, this usually took more than 20 minutes. In any restaurant I can think of, waiting 20 minutes for piece of tortilla would cause a riot. However, at the Sidreria, you wait an extra 10 minutes before eating to squeeze in a few more toasts. The ambiance is incredible and there is nothing better than making a slew of Spanish friends.Just as had read, the first plate was Tortilla Bacalao, a variation of the typical Spanish potato tortilla. It’s a simple dish—only eggs, onion, potato and cod—but it was amazing. It was soft on the inside and begging to be chomped with a chunk of bread. Also, it went great with the sidra. As we were finishing the last few bites Javier walked by and yelled at us for having empty glass. Back to the barrel room we went.Like I said, the cider house is a ridiculous experience. It is really a social, family oriented place. People get drunk, but they get dunk together. It’s much better this way. Being that this was a family place, there were a bunch of niños creeping around, playing with the sidra buckets and (I’m pretty sure) stealing a sip or two of the golden elixir. After a few toasts I headed over to the bathroom to make some more room in my bladder and as I was washing my hands I felt a punch on my backside. Shocked, I turned around to see 4 children smiling devilishly at me. Being that the cider had already started working its magic, I laughed it off and inquired what the kids were doing. It was at that moment when they all started attacking me! I valiantly fought them off, finished washing my hands and returned to my place at the barrel. Despite being blurry, this picture best describes what happened next. The niños started running around like mad, punch butts wherever they could. Being that there folks were pleasantly intoxicated, they laughed as the 5 Americans were bombarded with nut tapaz and butt-slaps. This foto was taken of one especially malicious girl, just after the punched my friend Austin and scampered off.
After fending off the attack, our waitress called us to the table for plate two: Bacalao con pimientos. It was a flawless example of seafood—minimal ingredients, big flavor. There was no fuss, just straight deliciousness. I thought that I had my fill of Bacalao when I went to Portugal, but those Basques made me rethink the role of my appetite. We greedily chomped down the cod with some more fresh bread.
During the fish feeding frenzy, I heard loud thuds from the corner of our dining room. Situated next to the entrance to the barrel room stood a large, bearded man wearing a flannel shirt—do you see a pattern here? He stood over a large wooden counter with an open fire oven at his back. As we ventured for more sidra I noticed the source of the thuds—the man was preparing a huge slab of steak with an axe! Bewildered, I quickly found out his name (Solomon) and watched as he prepped a delicious look chunk of animal. He quickly disposed of his work in the open oven as a joined my friends on line for more cider. 20 minutes or so later, we were ushered to our table to witness the fatest, most juicy looking steak I’ve ever seen. It was glistening with juices and cooked to a delicious crisp exterior, with red interior. Solomon knows how to use that axe.
I don’t consider myself a steak connoisseur by any means, but this steak was done right. This steak was perfect—a crispy, blackened crust with a mineraly and perfectly balanced interior. Our steak was pre-cut (or hacked) but left clinging to a fat bone. I was never so happy to be a carnivore. I like to think that I’ve tasted some delicious things in my life, but this steak was something else. Perhaps it was the cider and the atmosphere, but the meat I sat happily chewing made me cry a bit on the inside. I was finished off our little piece of heaven I gave a content sigh and heading up to the barrel room with Javier, stopping first to hank Solomon for my near religious experience.
Things started melting together at this point in the night. The restaurant takes their time with dessert and allows their guests to relish in anticipation of their final meal. We repeatedly toasted with Javier, his brother-in-law, and a few old men who stumbled out of the wood work to inform us how the more cider you drank, the better it was for your manhood. We learned a few choice salutes and passed the time joking with our friends. When the dessert came out we lingered for an extra twenty minutes being goofballs with the locals. We talked about cider, ciderhouses, America, Spain and a slew of other things. We took pictures, spilled drinks on ourselves, drank cider directly from the barrel and over had an amazing, amazing experience. After heading back to the table to enjoy the cheese, membrillo and walnuts, but ordered a second basket and went in the back for another go round. I’ve never been so content.
After eating and drinking to our hearts content the place started closing down. We arrived around 9:30 and started saying goodbyes at 1am. We slipped in a few last toasts with Javier and our new friends and started collecting ourselves to head out. Everyone was pretty toasted, but everyone was also happy, fat and full. Javier told me how he loved the outgoing spirit of Americans and wished us well as his girlfriend dragged him off into the car, we paid the bill (only 22 Euros each! 15 for vegetarians), filled up one more time and ventured outside.
If things were blurry before, the trip back home was pure static. I have no idea how much time we spent goofing off but by the end of the night we had doubled the amount of pictures we took, and my friend Joe Miller ended up in a dumpster. Although I was the one who lovingly placed him there, I have no idea why I did it. After a few mock bottles Joe ended up being pile-driven into the floor and busted open his head. Luckily for all of us, there was more blood than pain (thanks Sidreria!) and we started the long trek home. We took turns taking care of our friend while we searched in for a taxi and reminisced about the meal we just ate. We ending up getting to the hostel at an undetermined time and promptly passing out in preparation for the a pit stop in France (a mere 12 Kilometers from San Sebastian) and 7 hour drive back to Valencia.
After tallying up the previous nights damage to my wallet I decided to take it easy on the pinxtos—they can get a bit expensive after 15 or so. It was a good idea; day 2 was for exploring, hiking and seeing what the city had to offer. Of course I’d sampled some more delights in the evening, but I think it’s more interesting to elaborate on the picnics of the day.After sleeping off the sidra, I showered and went into the communal kitchen for the free breakfast. Everyone else had already started, and we gulped down stale coffee, various fruits and some cereal. The idea was to eat as much as possible to hold us off for the day. The plan was to hike up Monte Urgull, a small mountain north of the old city, and suck in the views. Afterwards, we would wrap around the Playa de la Concha—the world famous surf spot—and take the funicular (think of a small train that goes straight up a mountain side via pulleys) up Monte Igueldo. After that, we figured we’d play by ear.First off, San Sebastian is a beautiful, beautiful city. For whatever reason the gods have taken bits and pieces of the best parts of other cities, and exquisitely crafted them to form San Sebastian. The city is made up of quaint streets that weave in and out of beautiful buildings and churches. Every nook and cranny is filled with great looking bars bursting with pinxtos. The city isn’t large, but despite its small size, San Sebastian leaves nothing to be desired. The beach is literally right next to the city, but it’s cozy enough to make you forget about the hustle and bustle. Even better, the whole thing is book-ended by beautiful green mountains. It is an amazing place.
After over-loading on free breakfast, we went north to start climbing Monte Urgull. The smaller of the several mountains, Monte Urgull provides a great way to see the city and a path around the wave-ridden coast makes for an unbelievable walk. Even better is a giant Jesus statue—Sagrado Corazón de Jesús—at the peak. There are rungs cemented in the back of Jesus all the way to his head, but we failed to find access to the concrete statue.
After reaching the summit is when people started pulling out their lunches. I was waiting until we reached the other mountain to pick up sandwich supplies, but my friend Joe happily took a small sandwich from his bag. He sat on a small wall, munching away at a hostel made bocadilla as I walked over to inquire what he was eating.
Me: What have you got there Joe?Joe: My bocadilla—cookies and jam.Wow. The lunch of champions…or the homeless. Either way, you do what you have to do when you don’t have much money and need to explore and enjoy an awesome place to its fullest. After Joe munched down the last of his gourmet delight we headed down the mountain towards the beach. Having to stop several times to admire the surf or point out topless old women we settled down at a strange little part of the port for more sandwiches. After delving into a giant loaf of bread, a beer and some membrillo—a quince paste that looks like a firm, orange jelly paste—I noticed that the inhabitants of our little sea front spot all looked a bit…straggly. The more we looked around the more we noticed we were resided on the official bum residence of San Sebastian. It shouldn’t have surprised me; we were right next to the port, sitting on a huge slab of concrete with a set of stairs that led to the ocean—definitely prime bum real estate. The more we hung around the more bums appeared. It was like Cheers for bums, as one more bearded, plastic bag laden man scampered up the walk, all of the others would immediately shout out his name and ask him what he’d been up to. It was a sight to remember. I happily sipped my second can of Amstel as Joe bit into sandwich number two—jelly and cornflakes.
After being pulled away from the bum beach, we reached the summit of Monte Igueldo and sucked in the views. We bummed around at the top, snapping pictures and making the occasional membrillo and cheese sandwich. After getting our fill we hiked around some more, finding these strange old ruins and throwing rocks into the sea. Destruction can be fun sometimes. It was like being a kid again, only being a kid in one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen. We hiked back to the hostel after sunset and had a few bottles of sidra before wondering around the beach at night, causing a ruckus and calling it a night. 
I made it back alive. I didn’t want to come back, but I did. Besides San Sebastian stealing my heart, it provided me with more delicious food and drink than I have ever had the delight of sampling before. Everything was amazing and for whatever reason almost all the men had ridiculous beards or mustaches. I left for Pais Vasco with big expectations and they were all shattered. This is one place that I will have to revisit one day; once I have the time and money, I plan on eating my way through the Basque Country and having the adventure of a lifetime. Although that sounds like some sort of shoddy promise to myself, it is one thing I am certain I will happen.I spent four glorious days in San Sebastian. The best part about the place is that no matter what you do there, it is incredible easy to involve delicious food. I experienced this first hand the night we arrived. After the seven hour drive and getting settled into the hostel, we were finally ready to check out the city. Before leaving I asked the fellow from the hostel where we should go for some pinxtos. He raised his eyes to meet mine, pointed towards the old city—a mere block from our hostel—and informed me that every single piece of food in every single bar on every single street was delicious. Wow. Bold words.I’ve heard of the pride of the Basque people but something was telling me this guy wasn’t just stuffed with ignorant pride. We followed his advice, ventured out into the night and turned down the first busy street. My eyes were set aglow. 
The first placed we passed was packed with people. Everyone was standing with a plate of food and a glass of one of many delicious drinks. The bar was stuffed with plates of various pinxtos—small pieces of bread piled high with various sorts of goodies. Behind the bar were two large chalkboards advertising the hot foods in both normal Castellano and Euskera—the official Basque language that, depending who you ask, comes from Latin, Portuguese or some obscure eastern European tongue. The only Euskera I remember sounds something like "zara-gas-ko", the word for gracias. Fortunately for me, “thank you” was all I needed to say as I inhaled my body weight in delicious pinxtos.I could go on and on about variety of finger foods. There was sumptuous goat cheese with apricot pulp, hearty sprout salad with tuna and béchamel, impressive roasted peppers piled with jamón iberico, blue cheese and anchovies or my personal favorite, the smoked sausages wrapped in bacon. That is only the tip of the iceberg but I’ll let the pictures make you drool instead do the explaining instead.
Accompanying all of this delicious food were beautiful glasses of sidra natural, a Basque staple for hundreds of years. According to a few pamphlets I picked up on Sidrerias—or Sagardotegias in Euskera—every town had its own cider house back in the day for its inhabitants to bask in each other’s company, eat local specialties and drink sidra straight from the barrel. I would make it a personal mission to try one of the many sidrerias scattered throughout the area but until then we stuck to the more common bottled variety. Cider in Basque country is very different from the British of American version. It has less carbonation and more of a smooth, wine flavor. It’s light in carbonation and goes down smooth; sometimes a bit too smooth considering it’s more practical to buy the stuff by the bottle (more on the proper way to drink sidra on the post for day four). Another local beverage is Txakoli, a light, fizzy white wine that tastes like a sweeter (and a thousand times more delicious) champagne. Txakoli is tasty, but Sidra is heavenly.
I sampled both Basque beverages as we ate our way through a few bars. After having our stomachs stuffed with deliciousness, we worked our way into another sector of the old city. We bellied up to a simple looking bar when my friend Joe ran in announcing that a large, bearded man wearing a flannel shirt was pouring tasty German, Belgium and Czech beers next store. It was the moment I’d been envisioning since I got to Spain—a BEER BAR! We quickly hurried over and after squeezing into the small bar, I cried a little inside as I perused the menu—the beer menu! There was a superb little collection of beer to choose from and the menu was lovingly detailed with origins, alcohol content, styles and compliments. This was the first time since the states that I held a beer menu in my hands and I quickly got to chatting with the jovial owner about the stuff. Between customers I asked him about his beers and the beer culture in Spain. He concurred that I need to head towards Eastern Europe for the best of the beer world and poured me a few samples. Perhaps he could sense my love for beers and beards as he gave me free lighters, cards and pamphlets on the Siderias of the area. I then received a tall, dark and handsome glass of Louny Tostado, a deliciously chewy and well-balanced brew from the Czech Republic. After the first sip I knew that San Sebastian had everything I’d ever need.
After sufficiently tasting as many beers as we could, the five of us happily stumbled back to the hostel and crashed in preparation for day two of the best trip ever.
A typical trail. Normally we were being pelted with rain--our running jokes was that there is no happiness in Gallicia, only rain--but this was a rare 20 minutes without the wet stuff.
Ancient bridges allowed us access to towns full of ancient people.
¡Que Vistas!
This is La Catedral, the main pilgrim destination in Santiago. It looks amazing at night, but whenever I saw it lit up I was either too focused on getting to a restaurant, or too happy, full and tipsy afterwards to take a photo.
These shells speckle the entire trail. They tell pilgrims where to go and say how many kilometers are left in the trail. This lovely little shell reads "00.000 km." That's right, the end of the world.
