We spent last week in San Sebastian on the north Atlantic coast of Spain with my brother’s family. We’d had a great time, although I’m not sure I would direct a traveller there.
The architecture is wonderfully ornate, like a little Disneyland, full of splendor and whorls, filigree and pomp. The beaches are wide and soft and there are two of them: one full of cresting waves for surfers, the other in a placid, protected bay, perfect for the chillun. The old section of town has the requisite narrow, cobblestone streets jammed with tapas jatetxe. There’s a castle overlooking the city, and you’re hard-pressed to find an English speaker (although, luckily, everyone does speak Spanish, not just the challenging Basque).
But, I don’t know, it just didn’t speak to me. Maybe it was because we stayed in a relatively sterile apartment on the grungier, newer half of the city, or maybe we just missed its allure. When it was time to move on, we moved on.
