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Vigo, Spain
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Time of Visit: October 14-15, 2022
The Camino conditioned me into a linear "might-as-well-go-since-it's-right-there" style of travel. Even though I was no longer walking from city to city, it seemed like a shame to bypass a place as bolded as Vigo was on Google Maps, so I took a 30-minute train ride from Pontevedra to the strikingly modern Vigo Urzaíz station. The station building feels Japanese with its five floors of bustling retail, and the hilly terrain creates an interesting arrangement where floor five is level with the ground on the south exit and the ground floor is level with the ground on the north exit.
It's a dead horse at this point on my blog, but it's hard to overstate just how dense Spanish cities are. The city looked like a metropolis from the train station and very much felt like one as I walked towards the city center. Buildings average around seven stories tall - taller than most brownstones in Manhattan.
Just south of the historic city center is a huge 300-meter-tall hill that has been developed into a park. Joggers and their dogs move with a vigor inversely proportional to their elevation.
A fortress at the top, originally constructed to ward off naval attacks by the English and Portuguese, now houses a garden replete with pink camellias. It was quiet on a warm Saturday afternoon.
It was about time to check in to my hostel in the old city, so I enjoyed a knee-shattering descent to sea level that was slightly allayed by a series of outdoor escalators à la Hong Kong. They're even covered with glass for protection from the rain.
After lunch, I made my way down to the waterfront, which has been scrupulously developed into one of the finest urban environments I've ever had the pleasure of walking around. A wide promenade overlooks the marina; next to the promenade is a park with ample shade, seating, and greenery, enjoyed by skateboarding teenagers and pensioners alike; and finally, next to the park, a row of cafes, beerhouses, and wine bars.
To my surprise, Vigo has many of the gastronomical fixtures of yuppie America: a poke shop, a sushi place, an upscale Mexican spot, multiple vegan restaurants, and a Japanese bakery. The bakery's owner was a Japanese woman who attended a cooking school in Santiago (why?!) and met her now-husband who was from Vigo. I bought a mediocre melonpan for a whopping 5 euros but it tasted so nostalgic that I went back and bought another.
With another morning to burn in Vigo, I headed back to the port to find a cafe where I could read for a bit, but ended up chatting with the owner for two hours since business was slow on Sunday morning. She had worked for PwC for ten years in Madrid and London before realizing that she had already made enough money to retire comfortably at home in Vigo, opened a cafe, and spent her days shooting the crap with old schoolmates and extended family in the neighborhood. Living the dream.
After breakfast, I began the long walk to the bus station on the edge of town.
I was lucky enough to be one of the last people to experience the dilapidated old bus station: it was officially retired on the day I write this article, replaced by a new station by Vigo Urzaiz. The station was dark, damp, and completely devoid of employees.
I went outside to wander around the working-class, utilitarian concrete hives that were constructed during the Franco administration to solve mass housing shortages- fascist commieblocks, if you will. I personally think they look alright with a fresh coat of paint, but a few Spaniards told me they hated the look of them, which is understandable.
It was an uncermonious view to close the curtains on three wonderful weeks in Spain. I grabbed a chocolate croissant for lunch and left the country with a sadness in my heart and sweetness in my mouth.