The day in Bilbao began under an ambivalent sky — the sort of “moody but bracing” weather that suggests that the sky might at any moment crash in on you, or else clear and dare you to complain. It made you walk faster, or with more purpose, and that suited us fine.
We set out from the old quarter (Casco Viejo), weaving through narrow lanes where the stones still remember centuries of soles. But our true objective was the river: the Nervión, which threads through Bilbao like a backbone, and carries you — if you trust it and your own feet — straight to the Guggenheim.
The River, the Bridges, the City
Walking along the Nervión is a structural delight. Bridges arch, hips and spans of metal and stone, each one with its own personality. On a duller day, you might resent them; on a day like this, they are dramatic props to the city’s narrative. The water, restless, tugs at your attention: sometimes smooth, sometimes lumpy, reflecting iron-grey clouds and flashes of pale blue. A wind from the estuary cuts through the streets, snapping coats and reminding you you are not inland.
Along the banks are promenades and parks, occasional benches, and the ever-present hum of traffic just behind the facades rising from the river’s sides. You’ll see locals jogging, dog-walkers scuttling between gusts, and the occasional ferry crossing lazily (or perhaps begrudgingly) between banks.
As one approaches the modern quarter, the buildings change: sleek glass faces, daring curves, reflective surfaces. The old and new rub shoulders, sometimes politely, sometimes in that snarky Basque way of refusing to suffer fools.
Basque Pride, Pinxos & Soccer Fever
To walk in Bilbao is to feel the pulse of Basque pride. In cafés, posters display the flag of Euskadi, slogans in Basque, and in bar windows one spots chorizo, bacalao, Idiazábal cheese, local cakes. This is not a place to whisper your heritage; it is a place to display it. The language lingers — you hear Euskara interlaced with Spanish — and you sense that the identity is not optional.
Everywhere are pinxos bars (pronounced “pinchos,” though with a salt-of-the-earth Basque accent). These are not just snack joints; they are theatres of conviviality. Narrow bars, low ceilings or half-lit rooms, crowds gathered cheek to jowl, plates of toothpicks, small skewers, morsels balanced on a thin slice of bread. Every bar wants to outdo the next. The culinary arms race is real: a razor-thin sliver of local anchovy on olive, a morsel of beef with foamy sauce, a wedge of tortilla that defies gravity. You stare, you salivate, you gamble with your decision: which to take before someone grabs it first.
If you were unfortunate and could not get a ticket to the local La Liga match (or, heaven forbid, you prefer to watch in the comforts of a bar), you’ll find sanctuary in these pinxos establishments. The regulars have their seats — a particular stool, a vantage point. The bartender knows by sight what they like: “Lo de siempre” (“the usual”) is enough. You sit, order a txakoli or a caña (or two), and watch the match on TV while tucking into morsels. The bar becomes a living theater: groans at near misses, cheers at the goal, friendly banter (and occasional grudging insult) among patrons. If you’re lucky, the bartender leans over and murmurs in Basque-accented Spanish: “Next round is por cuenta de la casa” — your drink’s on the house. Might as well believe it, in that moment.
The devotion to Athletic Club (Bilbao’s beloved football team) flutters everywhere — scarves in shop windows, murals, jerseys, flags. On match day, the city is incandescent: even if you are not a fan, you cannot avoid being drawn into its fever. Tonight, surely, the sports bars will be packed, the pinxos bars humming.
Reaching the Guggenheim
As you draw closer to the museum, the architecture becomes impossible to ignore. The titanium fish slants under uncertain light, its curves shifting with each cloud. One moment it gleams; the next it is brooding. One has the odd sensation that it might move, flick a fin, or take off. From certain angles it seems to jut, lean, explode outward; from others, it withdraws behind itself.
You cross over walkways, pass fountains that splash in sharp bursts, and see crowds milling — as reluctant in the drizzle as you. Some carry umbrellas, some accept the damp as part of the pilgrimage. You pause, take in the sculpture outside, the curves, the reflections, the surging water in a canal beside the museum. Inside awaits more art, more disquiet, more spectacle.
By the time you concede to enter, your shoes carry river grit, your cheeks are taut with wind, and you feel immensely alive. Bilbao has escorted you: via water, architecture, food, identity, and fealty to football. You exhale, step in, and let the art wrap its arms around you.
