¿Hablo Inglés?
Last year in Bilbao I was at the end of my rope. Nothing bad in particular had happened, but I’d been on too many buses, in too many hostels, had too many partial-hangovers and sun headaches, too many shitty sandwiches made in dingy kitchens. I’d had enough. Still, I was doing my best to see the city. While exploring the old town, some sort of baked goat cheese tapas still settling, I heard an almighty racket out of the window. I peered out to see what was going on and coming down the street, supported by a soundsystem on wheels, was a raucous protest-cum-dance party. Basque separatist flags, Palestine solidarity flags, pride flags. People drinking, dancing, holding up huge puppets of some kind. They poured down the street. It looked amazing. I finished my beer, paid quickly, and went to see what was going on. This is the cure, I thought to myself. Something fun and spontaneous to shake me out of my lassitude. Bilbao’s finest anarchists, liberationists and dancers. A palpably joyous at...
