So. Where were you when England beat Australia in Sydney, to take the Rugby World Cup? Me? I was in a hotel room in Bilbao.
I’d woken at 3:30am, and dozed fitfully till 9:45, fifteen minutes before kick-off. The anxiety that had kept me awake wasn’t centred on doubts about England’s chances (though I wasn’t over-confident), but a fear that I might not be able to get the game on one of the European channels here in the hotel room. Thank heavens for the French, who brought me not only the game but the unforgettable sound of those two frenzied commentators. My French isn’t good, which is just as well. The pictures were wounding enough, without a salty commentary to exacerbate the pain.
The tension left me stuck to the chair with sweat after normal full time. Extra time provided a different problem. M twice entered the room to ask me what I was doing a) on the bed, running on the spot and b) lying face down on the floor, beating my fists so hard on the carpet that clouds of ancient Basque dust were drifting portentously across the room.
And when that final drop-kick went over, just seconds from the end of extra time, I can’t really tell you where I was. I’ve a remote recollection of dancing that manic, atavistic, electric-current boogie that connects us with out prehistoric cousins just a couple of times per lifetime. Don’t ask.
Don’t ask, because I can’t tell you any more than that.
An hour later, still vibrating, we were at the Guggenheim for our first proper look at this bizarre and wonderful place. Started off with a great lunch and most of a bottle of decent, celebratory Rioja. It’s easy to be dismissive of minimalist cooking, but when it’s done as well as this, you have to congratulate them. It also drives home the message that we tend to eat much bigger portions than necessary. However small the plate, I never leave a meal like this still hungry.
The Bilbao Guggenheim is one of those must-see buildings. The entire experience is a dialogue between architecture and art; between the shell and the contents. It’s absolutely dramatic, and coming so soon after the excitement of Sydney and the lunchtime bottle of wine, well, almost too overwhelming. I’ve never before been to a gallery where the building itself is the prize exhibit. It’s hard to describe, but it’s like some great shoal of silver fish, thrashing about on the banks of the river. The titanium skin continues inside, just as the glass interior extrudes through the shell, confusing the inside with the outside, and somehow bringing the city into the gallery, and the gallery into the city, blurring the lines between the building and its environment, and between art itself and the pedestal we use to keep it separate from real life.
It’s a great building, and as with all great buildings (like the new football stadium in Huddersfield), the less you know about ART, the more you’ll appreciate it.
Running. What’s that? Ah yes. Well, I have my gear with me but it’s difficult to see too much activity. Not that Bilbao isn’t a great place to run. It is. But this is Spain. The wine is too good, the spirits too cheap, the tapas too enticing, the nights too late. The plan is still to run a marathon at the end of April 2004. This means starting proper training around the end of December, so there’s time yet. This week is my final hurrah, my farewell to excess.
Where have I heard that before?
