Jostling with enthusiastic eaters at the bar, I munch on my last spider crab open-face sandwich. A tiny plate of toothpicks is all that’s left of my meal. I keep them because this allows the bartender to tally the bill. After paying, he insists I drink one more glass of txakolí (cha-koh-LEE)–the local sparkling white wine. It’s on the house … and falls nearly from the ceiling as he theatrically pours from as high as he can reach. No one but me marvels as the house wine high-dives expertly into my glass. Watching the bartender’s face–proudly set off by a red neckerchief, surrounded by a happy commotion of black berets–I think it’s no wonder these Basque people are so stubborn when it comes to independence….