“Why do you like it here?”, I enquired Silvia one night over a glass of wine.
“I know it looks a little stuck in time but it’s peaceful and people are nice…” I scoffed before she could finish the word ‘nice’. She continued “Once you get to know them.”
“Itxaso was really warming up to me after she learned I’d never been North of Segovia.” I said, deliberately saying the wrong name.
Note to reader: If you've skipped part 1 of the story, find it here.
“Well, you finally came all this way.” said Silvia changing the subject. I’d let her have this one. She knew I could go on all night being cynical about people.
“I needed to leave, but it was still hard”, she knew the story well. “Every time I thought of leaving all these voices came into my head. My mother accusing me of another failed relationship. My own inner voice telling me that, if I left, I’d finally have to start working and paying bills.”
“Wouldn’t hurt for a woman your age.” she said, jokingly. She continued “I didn’t feel too different. Once I separated, I realized how much our lives were tangled. It made me feel like a shitty feminist.”
“But you were one.” Ideologically, we were worlds apart. Silvia’s idea of a shitty feminist was having a joint bank account and a lease with both their names.
“Not late to start.” Her tone revealed she already had a plan. She continued, “A friend owns a bar in Casco Viejo, I could introduce you if you like. Most of her friends are also bar and restaurant owners...” I didn’t like where she was going with this.
“A waitress?”, I asked, to confirm what I feared.
“Why don’t you just go meet her. You won’t lose the trip, it’s a beautiful part of town.”
I didn’t agree immediately. So far I’d lived happily depending financially on partners, but never friends. Days later I gave in and asked Silvia for the address. My way to the Casco Viejo was a long walk along the ría. It gave me comfort. This was one of the many times I found myself sitting and watching the water, which was almost immobile. Maybe I was as stagnant as the river.
While most of the city had hints of the old Bilbao, Casco Viejo turned out to be the untouched part of town. Nearby, locals who weren’t interested in the South-eastern neighbourhoods lived near the cobblestoned streets. Her bar, Irrintxi, was housed in what looked like a heritage building. A sign outside told me on Wednesday nights they served four euro churros with chocolate dip. I asked myself how I could work in a place where, under normal circumstances, I would refuse to step into.
“Do you speak any Basque?” she asked, after realizing the last time I served tables was 15 years ago.
“I can say agur”, which meant goodbye. ‘Drop the attitude’, I thought. “Do I need to?”
“No, but we get a lot of older customers who live around here, and they often like to be served in Basque.”
“I’m sure I can pick it up as I go.” I said, not knowing from where I got the confidence.
“The start of the year is never a busy time for us, so you have time to learn. Nerea will show you around, and she’ll teach you a few more words.” My attitude hadn’t gone unnoticed, I thought. “Please wear something black.” she said, staring down at my maroon flare pants and white shirt, raising an eyebrow. The sad part was, I toned down my colour choices to come meet her.
“I’m curious, did Silvia ask you to hire me as a favour?” I couldn’t stop myself asking.
“It’s my bar, I decide who I hire or don’t hire.”
Note to reader: If you'd like to refresh part 1 of the story, find it here.