Coalesce. Between beaches.

A city breathing between two bays.

San Sebastián, Spain

Donostia, as San Sebastián is called in the local Basque language, sits between two beaches, and neither side competes with the other. La Concha curves wide and generous on one side, a perfect crescent that faces the bay and is a major beach vacation resort with towering, exclusive hotels attracting all kinds of tourists. Zurriola catches the Atlantic swell on the other side, a rougher, younger, less composed side attracting lots of surfers. The city lives between these two moods and seems entirely comfortable with the contradiction.

Arrival, under golden towers.

I arrived in the late afternoon, when the light over the water goes honey-coloured and the Parte Vieja, the old town, begins to wake up properly. The narrow streets between the cathedral and the port slowly start to come alive after the siesta, and by early evening they fill with couples, small groups, families, everyone moving slowly and without particular purpose, just enjoying the culinary richness and cinematic backdrop.

Everywhere in Spain it's called tapas; here in the Basque country they are called pintxos: small bites, most of them resting on a slice of bread, skewered or balanced or arranged with the kind of casual precision that takes years to make look effortless. In San Sebastián it feels like an architecture of a magical evening, each bar its own small room in a labyrinth that somehow all connects. There is a Spanish saying: "El viaje es el que te transforma, no el destino." "The journey is what transforms you, not the destination." This is an essential understanding that the best things are not destinations. They are doors you keep opening.

Sunset view and everyone's meeting point

We started at sunset at the Akerbeltz bar with a perfect view of La Concha, just above the harbour, and started our tour through the old town. We passed the Koruko Andre Mariaren Basilika, a magnet of the old town, slightly uphill, where everyone gathers at the steps, enjoys the impressive view into the old town, meets, and just chats. The plan and habit is to move around from bar to bar and get stuck at one. One glass of txakoli, the local white, poured from a height to open it up, sharp and slightly sparkling, and two or three pintxos at one bar, then out into the street again and through the next door. Each place has its own character, so completely that stepping between them feels like crossing a threshold into a different idea and world. Ganbarra bar is loud and tiled and lit like a club, its counter a crowded still life of anchovies, Russian salad, eggs, and a specialty Basque roasted pepper (piparras).

Pintxos, waiting to be chosen.

The next one is a wood-panelled bar with dimmed lights, way quieter, the pintxos fewer but created and prepared with greater devotion. Another is barely a room at all, yet people fill it and it is full, because the risotto it serves is apparently worth standing in the doorway for (Borda Berri). What strikes me, moving through them, is that none of these places are similar, but somehow fit all together like concepts complementing each other.

Piparras, bacalao, and whatever else survived.

What all these bars have in common is that Basque feeling of giroa, an atmosphere and understanding of warmth made from gathered people and small pleasures. It is not only present here. It accumulates, bar by bar, glass by glass, through a specific vibe that is interconnected from place to place.

By ten o'clock we had eaten perhaps twelve pintxos and drunk three different wines, not hurried once, just enjoying the atmosphere and scenery, making friends and getting advice on what to try out next. A pure rush of bliss and culinary delights.

Last sunrays, low tide, La Concha

Later, back along the seafront, La Concha was dark and calm, the lights of the bay reflected in the water. Zurriola was behind us somewhere, still restless with thundering waves. The shadows of Santa Clara Island, a small, flat island sitting right in the middle of La Concha bay, stretched calmly across the water. In summer there's a small beach on it and a boat that takes you across. It just sits there, perfectly placed, calmly framing and guarding the bay.

Evening settles over the bay.

We took a small hike up the promenade and the mountain guarding the bay, entering the world of Bar Resaca. It feels more like a theatre foyer, a big mirror behind the bar, people who look like movie stars, nicely dressed, with confident, friendly looks scanning the room. Lots of people are gathered here, waiting patiently to order drinks, the bartender immersed in the perfect cocktail, ignoring the impatient looks, too focused on adding the right ingredients. We finally ordered two beautiful glasses of bubbles, enjoying the jazzy atmosphere inside and chatting with happy people outside, with a perfect view over La Concha, before descending to the beach to watch the annual summer fireworks show.

A sphere of summer night lights.

It is quite a display, in an exquisite location, with so many culinary delights and different vibes to watch the fireworks, almost a feeling of getting sucked into a sphere full of different shapes, symbols, and musical themes. An exclamation point on this unique place, one that never stops giving, and never stops surprising you, all over again.

The bar that doesn't announce itself, but everybody knows.

The night concludes in the Pokhara bar, these places you would usually just find by accident or a local tip. It sits between the two beaches at the side of the Urumea river, not quite old town, not quite seafront, slightly hidden, the kind of bar that doesn't announce itself, but everyone knows it. A bottle of sagardoa, the Basque cider, cloudy and cold, is being ordered. We are standing outside in front of the window with it because there was nowhere left to sit, and it didn't matter, it was just a cozy vibe.

La Concha, dark and calm.

This describes the city between its two beaches perfectly. The bar is completely at ease with itself, mostly locals, but welcoming to everyone. I thought, this is what it looks like when a place has stopped trying to be impressive, showing off, and simply becomes amazing in all its imperfections and contradictions. It's like when perfect small things add up and coalesce, they become something bigger and special.

The Land of Mega Pumps

Wake-up call in the Windy City. Photo: Oindrila Bose/Unsplash

The ritual of coffee and finding a cozy place that feels like home

Chicago, Illinois, USA

The most beautiful thing in the morning is to wake up, rested but still sleepy, the sun peeking through the curtains and a fresh breeze going through the house, when the thought of a freshly brewed coffee hits you. On weekends preferably in bed, home brewed, with a freshly baked cinnamon bun. But most of the time a jolt of energy overcomes you and catapults you out of bed, ready to start the day on the right foot and keep moving, before the madness of the day arrives. Off to the land of unlimited morning energy.

A quick splash of water onto the face and head, quickly dressed up in a half running, half leisure wear outfit, sliding into some sports sneakers, and out in the still dim reality to the heavenly morning place: The Coffee House.

In the USA a friend once described her walk to the coffee place as a ritual that feels like being home again every time she returns — the morning walk to the next Starbucks.

The place of unlimited morning energy. Photo: Alex Feleja/Pexels

This corporate powerhouse of industrialized coffee making has completely transformed the “Art and Ritual” into a business transaction, which somehow still feels like a modern slightly quirky coronation. Quick and efficient, with minimal human contact. If you haven't ordered over the app for a quick pickup, the in-store order demands a precise order command manual. If you are not following it accurately, eye-rolling and impatient silence will follow, looking down on such amateurism, but with an extremely high reward if executed correctly.

There I stand, overwhelmed by the choices in front of me, thousands maybe even a million of different options. New trend drinks like the Unicorn Frappuccino, okay?! But the drink looks more like a mix of all body scrubs from Lush combined or maybe a Tropical Butterfly Lemonade Refresher, mhmm apperently trying to display the whole spectrum of colors in one drink. Maybe not something to start the day with, and I'm not feeling adequately suited style-wise for such a drink anyway. My eye catches a cold brew coffee — nah, that sounds promising for a morning wake-up call maybe with some sweet and saltiness in it.

1000s of different coffee choices and new trends. Photo: Rachelia Kriss/Unsplash

"One Iced Salted Caramel Cream Cold Brew, Venti, please," I proudly throw at the person at the register, who has been eyeing me patiently the whole time, waiting to finally take my order. She counters with: "Would you like that with normal, light, or extra salted caramel cream foam?" Crap. She got me. Slightly confused but still confident I answer: "Ahh make it an extra this time" — even though I have never ordered it before, and I’m already regretting my big-mouthed choice. But bigger, better… you know the verse, I'm just trying to fit in here, what can I say. With a professional attitude she registers it and asks for a name. Today I go by Lenny, easier to write down and pronounce than my real name or other creative inventions like Lawrence for some reason. She puts the order through to the preparation counter, I pay and trot over to the pickup area, full of pride at having mastered the jungle of choices and order procedure.

Arriving there, I find myself being pushed around by customers streaming in now, hunting for their coffees and scones or egg pastries. It takes a while, waiting patiently now in the back, while more and more people gather in the pickup area, before the magical moment arrives: "One Iced Extra Salted Caramel Cream Foam Cold Brew Venti for Lenny!" it echoes through the room. Yesss, that's me! Step aside, people, I've been chosen! Nods of admiration all around or maybe looks admiring the courage? Ahh, he went with an extra salted caramel cream foam. "Sure, yours will come next," I mumble with a little weird eye wink to a bystander with an impatient, disappointed face checking his morning messages on his phone. I glide on the imaginary rolled-out red carpet to the counter to pick up my iced coffee trophy with its perfectly, artfully mixing colors.

With a now satisfied face I start slurping at my drink while trotting back to the waiting area, because for some reason the oatmeal my companion ordered takes the longest to prepare — everything feels mechanically well trained in this place, but the oatmeal here feels like it is meticulously freshly prepared by a retreat yogi back in the kitchen.

Starbucks baristas serving the morning crowd. Photo: Vaishnav Chogale/Unsplash

The first sips are a symphony of different flavors, perfectly balanced, very good choice. Then it hits me: a rush of sugar sweetness activating my brain membranes and completely numbing my taste buds. I give my companion, now impatiently waiting for her oatmeal, almost ready to jump over the counter herself to prepare it, a taste of my iced brew specialty. "Really nice huh? But maybe a tad too sweet?" I ask her, rhetorically, already sure of the answer. "Yes," she answers with a face somewhere between delight and cringing, "a bit too sweet. I wonder how many pumps they put in there?"

I'm a man of action, especially in this place. The indirect command has been received, and my foreigner attitude, a mix of curiosity and innocence, pushes me back to the counter. "Sorry, can I ask you something? How much salted caramel did you put in my drink?" With an interested but slightly surprised look, the preparer at the station throws back at me: "The usual six pumps for an extra salted caramel cream Venti." My eyes flash open in disbelief. "Oh wow, thanks," is all I can bring out, although I'm ready to scream: Isn't that the whole frigging syrup bottle?!!

Good old cane sugar in this country is a necessity rather than a choice. And yes, this heavenly palace of coffee curiosities added a measurement to the sugar supply in their drinks, not in cups or ounces or any other common measurements for liquids in this world, but in PUMPS. Dangerous measurement if you ask me. My theory: the more trained and fast-paced the Barista is, the fewer pumps you have to order, because they're not too shy to jolt that pump accordingly. With newbies, give it an extra one, they're still afraid of it, like everyone should be with this sweet dynamite.

Morning walk in Chicago’s rising sun. Photo: Jerry Kavan/Unsplash

The oatmeal arrives and we walk out, deeply laughing about the pump festival in my coffee. Well, next time I’ll know, in the land of mega pumps, better order half the amount and add that to the perfect order procedure, to actually have a morning coffee instead of a sugar rush with a straw.

The walk back feels amazing in the now rising sun, still few cars on the road, birds chirping, dog walkers still night fuzzy trying to navigate the four-legged friends out of their front yards, the morning dew and mist still laying in the air while the city slowly wakes up. One task of the day already completed. I smile at my companion and she smiles back, pure happiness and joy thanks to the place of unlimited morning energy.

Morning in the Windy City. Photo:Ryan Heuer/Unsplash