Lasarte-Michelin

The city where we live is a factory town, by which I mean Michelin. F's father worked in the Michelin factory for the better part of his adult life and although business has declined in recent years, the factory is vast and still forms a city at the center of the city, with its very own street names. At this point the factory
mostly makes tires for race cars and such. It would be devastating for this area if the factory ever shuts down, which is a reasonable fear as it would be lucrative for them to tear it down and build expensive apartments for people who work in Donostia. Being within the Michelin orbit is probably unrelated to Donosti's distinction of highest per-capita Michelin stars in the world. There is a very strong culinary tradition here, and even the regular folks tend to eat very well. In 10 minutes you can walk from the Michelin factory to Martin Berasetegui's restaurant, which has three Michelin stars. Berasetegui is respected, if maybe not exactly loved-word is that he's rather stingy for a guy who charges 175 euros for a tasting. For aspiring chefs and cooking show obsessives, Berasetegui makes a weekly appearance on Robin Food. Even if you don't speak Spanish you will find this show entertaining, and if you do, you will probably be a wee bit surprised at how crudely people can speak on daytime t.v. Another favorite is Arguiñano, who takes product placement to new heights but is still a very skilled teacher. Food fixations aside, we had Tuesday off and went to F's uncle's place in Berrobi, which is a tiny town not far from here. He lives in an old-school baserri, or farmhouse, where the animals stable on the first floor. The main entrance to the house goes into this room, which has a funhouse floor with a discernibly sloped (and highly sled-able) floor. It's a gorgeous, very comfortable place to be, and a pre-lunch stroll (when you hang with Basque folks you need to take pains to work up an appetite: much fried stuff in large quantities and several courses are involved) provided the usual stunning views and altitude changes. This week we have a bunch more time off for All Saints' Day, and even though they don't do Halloween here, they have their own ways of celebrating. Other forays included a ramble in Donostia, where one of the natural food stores near the train station actually has a vending machine for carne mentiras (roughly 'meat lie') for all your fake meat needs and middle-of-the-night tofu emergencies. And if you liked the Emo Cows, you will definitely like the Pottoka, or Basque pony. They're tiny-they are only about waist-high, chunky, and very friendly. Must. Remember. Carrots. Sadly I didn't have my camera with me when I was at the school of music and dance this week-the busking nearby is super-duper and this week there was a hard-core looking punk guy with a gold faux-hawk and a leather jacket with the anarchy sign on the back...playing a recorder and sweetly singing a traditional Basque folk song. Wooo. And every day I am overwhelmed by the kindness and generosity of everyone I've met, who tries valiantly to help me understand what the wu tang is going on, repeating words and communicating patiently-I have yet to have a rude experience, not even in the bureau-crazy extranjeria, or foreigner's office, which sounds to me like a place where you go to buy the wool of an exotic animal from outer space, and even the 18-year-olds at the institute where I study always help me. And my last observation for the week, I promise, is that no matter how many people are around, some heretofore unarticulated law of nature dictates that some poor fool will ask ME for directions-this happens 3-4 times per week. Half the time they ask in Euskara, too. Ha ha! F conjectures that it has something to do with the contrast between my usual walking pace, which tops out at 'mosey,' with that of local people, whose pace is more like Actual Form of Transit, so lost people can catch me more easily, like a tree. Coming up: more cooking anecdotes? Or farm animals. Hm..