the other side: When you get tired of looking Sunday, January 23
WOULD HAVE LOVED No one is happy with his lot. Even I, who am a man more conformist in the world. If one day write the history of all that I wanted to be (all my "exfuturos" Unamuno would say) would be a curious book.
would have liked to be a mathematician, not to deal with vague words and sticky feeling, but with clean abstractions. Would have liked be homeless, not being anchored to a place and a job, let me go from one place to another, where the wind takes me.
would have liked too, but this was never confess to anyone what-not practicing errabundia heart grow old with someone who is not perfect (because even I am), but he loves me and supports me when everything seems to collapse, as now, about me.
Monday, January 24 Villa Belza
In dreams I am still what I'll never be, and occasionally I like to play in realizing one of my fantasies. Last night I dreamed Villa Belza, Villa Negra, high house mysterious that rises over the Atlantic. Had not thought of her for maybe thirty years. Would be the scene of my first novel because I, like everyone else, I also wanted to be a novelist, that they now hate both. In that village that night of storm seems about to sink occurred sumptuous ritual masquerades and claims back in the twenties, in that village, which was owned by a relative of Stravinsky, a persistent malcasada, Wallis Simpson, grabbed the nose (not to mention other appendages) at a regional crackpot and made him dance to the sound since she played. There was a Russian cabaret and restaurant, Le Château Basque, and some Nazi leader chose it for its grizzly ritual.
All that I know of Villa Belza told me an old drunk who used to frequent the library Aviles, back in the seventies, and who ended up not letting him go because they engaged in disturbing the students. He said he had been a waiter at Le Château Basque. Somewhere still must walk the notes I took of her unborn slurred speeches for my novel.
I dreamed I had often dreamed that came to the door of Villa Belza, called and called and no one came to open up. I woke up, got in the bag the four essential things, and went after her, to see if the reality was luckier than in dreams.
Tuesday, January 25 PAGES OF A BOOK Cities that live mostly in the summer have a special charm in winter. I look out the window and see the lighthouse that separates the rocky coast of the Basque Country Landes sandy, I see the empty beach, the melancholy that goes in and out at the casino, wandering the streets, he stops to contemplate the horizon Place in Bellevie ... He first came to Biarritz, but not going for the first time: I was here in the pages to me more real-life "of such novelty finisecular idle.
road at random and giving names to places I had never seen, but which are familiar to me. Yes, this spectacular palace, surrounded by gardens, is Villa Eugenia, where they will see the Empress. Nearby are the domes of the Orthodox Church: in 1909 she attended the wedding Baroja his friend Paul Schmitz, his teacher in Nietzsche and the anarchist way of perfection. Right next to the hotel I have the old casino, with its sumptuous end of the century, which seems to be looking over his shoulder to present on the beach, stripped art deco. As crushed under the weight of the neo-Byzantine cathedral mole is the Port des Pêcheurs, which seems about to be buried by the waves.
Nightfall in the deserted streets. Following the Port Vieux beach, a violent corner I left in what seems like a stretch of road on the edge of the water. I've noticed in passing, but then I turn and there it is, perched on itself, Villa Belza.
whole time melancholy suddenly collapses on me. What Am I Doing? I do not know. I do not know what I came for, I do not know what my place in the world. I wish I could take refuge in the pages of a book and never leave them.
In the hotel room, close the curtains to see the light that makes me insistent winks, which seems to tell me something that I fail to understand and open a book: "The fog has advanced over the sea crossing miles and miles, passing over the Bidasoa, between the rock Rhune and Aya, and stops at the beech Velate port. Play in the canyons denuded by winter, clinging to the huge peaks and dips in the sea of \u200b\u200bmist oak birthplace Basque rights and sacred mistletoe. Caress with their blue veils the serene night, and lovingly tended on the River. When the sun rises, it begins to break down slowly in the bright air of the morning. "
Wednesday, January 26 OF RIVERS AND SHELTERS Sitting Theatre in the cafe, facing the spur at the junction L'Adour and the Nive, the two rivers of Bayonne, memory, or reinvented, the nuptial that Baron gave them: "The Adour, river Gascon is Growler, petulant, moody , bilious color and air of menace, the Nive is quiet, humble collection, not dominate anyone and start where you give way. The Adour from the fields where progress is born boy wearing a cynical drifter, wandering the muddy wave and unhealthy for people rioters dialects are spoken, the Nive is small lush hills covered with grass, and jump on the rocks, hiding quietly and modest in the hills ... "
Close to my right, I have the Rue Port Neuf, with its arcades, bakeries, antique shops and in the background, the towers of the cathedral, lit like an old picture. A Baroja, who knew the late nineteenth century, it seemed that when seen again in the murky spring of 1940, I had lost all its character. But still the most beautiful of the city from another time.
If Biarritz abused me with his melancholy, here I feel pampered and wrapped. In the Grand Bayonne, to my right, I found refuge. Opposite the cathedral, a small garden square where they await the spring Japanese azaleas, camellias, hydrangeas and a huge magnolia tree; right, following concrete and glass, another garden: the public library. I walk in, walk among the shelves, open a book at random: "Kneeling on the ground like an arrow that vibrates, retain the sweetness of the world in their hands." I look at the name of the author, Jean Sulivan.
Also at the Petit Bayonne, just across the river Nive, I found refuge. Is in the court of New Castle, seems an odd log cabin covered with snow: the University library.
I'm not made to live outdoors. I am no one without a book in their hands. The world-as large or small Bayonne, is for me an inexhaustible library illustrated.
Thursday, January 27 THAT NIGHT
Pierre Loti, after a thousand and one exotic voyages, took refuge in Hendaye. From his home, bathed by the Bidasoa, English land was almost within reach. A day at the window was surprised an unexpected turmoil in the churches and convents of Hondarribia, whose bells ring and play with the ringing of the great festivals. Then a large red and yellow flag is raised quickly at the top of gloomy castle, shining on the dark mountains. And the river is full of French boats are scrambling to get to the opposite bank. "What is it? "he asks. "She's the queen, the queen of Spain, who comes from San Sebastian."
do not know why I remember that now, when I climb through the dark streets of the old town of Hondarribia. The castle of Charles V, with its black walls with little windows, looks more like prison castle. I have no memory any of my verses, but then I remember verses of thirty years ago, "Solo, and shame of being alone, / the night in Hondarribia, / when someone went and took with him / everything that made the / life worth living. "
had not returned to this city since then, but I have not afraid of that ghost. Something I learned: I have no shame to be alone and I know that there are things nobody can take away. And many-smile-I can not tell.
Friday, January 28 PASS What I bring to San Juan de Luz? The memory of Unamuno, who here expected the fall of Primo de Rivera as pamphlets flooded Spain's aggressive against that Mardi Gras and King felon, some quiet and good natured streets with overhanging eaves, walls whitewashed beams that crisscross green and red, large trees beyond the walls of a garden overlooking the sea surf blue or brown Pyrenees a leisurely coffee in the Place Louis XIV, the Venetian palace of the Infanta, which looks down upon the old lighters swaying in the dark water, peace and quiet between white walls, a pebbled floor, the tower Cubist Andre Pavlovsky who wave at the entrance of Port ...
Saturday, January 29 ANOTHER NIGHT could not sleep, as so often happens to me, and went for a walk. The night was dreary, cold wind blew, there was a soul in the street. When next thing I knew, I was in front of Villa Belza. There were many rings: the luxurious mansion, with its ghosts witches and kings, after years of ruin, was now an apartment building. Not for me to call anyone, heard a click and the front gate opened. I looked for the switch, did not find it, I started up the dark stairs ... At the end of a corridor, a sliver of light.
from the bed, could see the sky full of stars and white image of the Virgin Mary on a rock that broke the sea, illuminated by the moon.
When you get tired of looking, gives the name of what he wanted to what was found.
Nightfall in the deserted streets. Following the Port Vieux beach, a violent corner I left in what seems like a stretch of road on the edge of the water. I've noticed in passing, but then I turn and there it is, perched on itself, Villa Belza. 
