Iruña

In the same bar that la patrona of my casa rural brought me to last week, killing time before my blablacar to Barcelona, I have ordered some kind of open-faced mini-sandwich featuring something squiggly and, to my eye, marine.

Pescado, said the barman to my quizzicality, but I bet it’s not actually, not taxonomically.

Everyone is starting to look familiar to me, moving so quickly from place to place as I am.