So last night I met the French Kim. She came into the albergue in Hontanas late, and took the last bed, the bunk above mine. She said hello, and we chatted about the day´s walk, and I thought, she seems familiar. Later in the dining room I shared a table with her and a Quebecois couple, and it was then that I realized I was sitting next to the French incarnation of Kim. Actually, of course, both this woman, Christina, and our Kim, is each very much her own unique self, but they do share a skin tone and demeanor. Still, later when I learned she created websites for a living, I asked if she consdiered herself an artist (see, I was trying to make the link), she said no, she was too rational. I thought, I know some pretty rational artists, but I didn´t argue with her.
Christina, while French, has until recently run a bed and breakfast in Quebec. The websites she´s doing now are a sort of inbetween thing. Many of the people I´ve met on the Camino, especially the younger ones, are at such moments in their lives--something has ended, they don´t know for sure what´s next, and in the interim they become peregrinos.
Both Christina and the Quebecois couple at dinner--Jane and Leo--had started their walks in France in Le Puy in mid-April. They were veterans. Their English was rudimentary, but better than my French, though I did understand--and translate--when Christina was trying to figure out how to say "mouton noir" in English. Apparently she is the black sheep of her family; all of her siblings are living sensibly middle-class lives on the outskirts of Paris. But Christina says she does not like the French. "They are, how do you say...preejudee?" After some discussion we settled on the phrase "preconceived notions" (the French are prone to them). She finds the Quebecois more open and honest and friendly.
For dinner, I started with the salad, but envied the lentil soup Jane and Christina chose. For the second course, I had carne guisado, big chunks of saucy pot roast with french fries on the side. Excellent. Helado for dessert again. And of course good wine and bread along the way. Throughout the meal Christina kept jumping up to greet someone new coming into the room; she has made many friends in the last month and a half on the Camino.
This morning I set off at six in the near dark. I passed down a shallow valley for ten kilometers, as the light came on to reveal a cloudy sky. At the largish village of Castrogeriz I came to familiar ground. Last year on my visit to Spain with Naomi and the boys I walked from Castrogeriz to Fromista, about twenty-five kilometers--my route for the rest of this day. Funny how that little bit of familiarity changed my experience. I knew what to expect, and the walk seemed less interesting.... It didn´t help that all the way to Fromista I was walking into a strong wind. The last half hour it rained, and I arrived at the albergue chilled and damp.
I immediately showered, then lay down on my upper bunk and napped. A routine of sorts. I am in a room tonight with three other bunkbeds, and all the bunks seem to be occupied by Germans. The older woman below me said that she had learned English in school, forgotten it, then learned it again when her children were in school.
Speaking of Germans, and then I´m done for the day, yesterday, shortly after I met Christoph and Johanna in Burgos, Christoph asked me if I was British. I said, no, I was from the United States. He showed surprise and said, "but English, you speak it so well." That made me laugh. I said, "well, it is my native language," and he nodded as if after all that was a fact worth considering.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
La Meseta
I walked nineteen miles today, arriving in the small village of Hontanas at 1:30. Then I gratefully had a shower, lay down on my (lower, for a change) bunk, and soon was napping.
I bought a new pair of socks in Burgos yesterday. The exchange, though, was a little mortifying. Spanish shopkeepers are not the friendly, accomodating bunch you mostly find in the States. You are doing them no favors. On the contrary, you seem to be a bother. For the socks, I went into a shop devoted to sporty clothes and shoes. When I discovered that the hiking socks were behind the counter, as was the man in charge, I went to the side opening and gestured at the socks as if I would take the necessary two steps in for a closer look. "Si?" I said. "No," the man answered. For a moment I thought he was being sarcastic, but no, he meant no. So I went back around front and leaned over the counter trying to see. He gestured for me not to lean on the glass top. But then he did deign to call for a young woman to come help me. What he was doing besides sitting on a stool behind the cash register one foot distant from the socks, I couldn´t say. After buying socks I went to a pharmacy for bandaids--which were also available only with help. The pharmacist threw them on the counter as if to say, why are you bothering with this bullshit?
I set off at six this morning. When I stepped outside, the narrow cobbled streets were still wet after the night washing. There was no one about. In the near dark I walked throught the old city, past the looming cathedral and eventually through Arco St. Martin, once the gateway for travelers heading west for Santiago. From there the yellow arrows took me down to the river that runs through Burgos, and to the lovely park that runs along the river.
At a footbridge I came upon a young couple wearing backpacks and looking confused (this is a common sight). The young man said to me, "German, French, English?" I chose the third and he asked me if I knew which was the right direction. After some discussion we decided to cross the bridge. I walked with these two for the next couple hours: Christoph (29) and Johanna (27) from Muenster, Germany. They were astonished to learn that most Americans associate the name of their city with a bland white cheese. "The Munsters family, I know, yes," said Johanna, "but not of cheese."
Christoph is working on his dissertation in history, an account of violent leftist groups that arose in the late 1960s in Germany, France, and Japan. He has been at it sometime. "But last December," he said, "I finally came to the main idea, so now I think it will go faster. Maybe two more years." This figure seemed to surprise Johanna. "Two more years?" she repeated, in an incredulous tone. She has a job with the German equivalent of the Social Security Administration and her income supports them both. "It´s a boring job," she said, though Christoph was willing to describe what she actually did. Then she said again, "boring."
She gets five weeks vacation each year. Walking the Camino was Chritoph´s idea; she was thinking cruise ship. "But next time," Christoph said, "she will pick."
When they stopped to rest I continued on. Once my feet are warmed up, it´s best to keep them that way. I passed through a couple villages and then the path climbed up onto a high plateau--la meseta. For much of the day I crossed this broad tabletop, wheat and barley reaching all around, the horizon broken only by piles of lichened rocks long and laboriously removed from the soil. The sky was grey and the wind blew hard, playing across the green fields. My path, a narrow dirt road, ran straight, only shifting to accommodate the occasional gully or slight rise. I saw many small birds but few people, though occasionaly bicyclists would pass.
Eventually I descended into Hontanas, a stony village set into a fold that one only discovers when almost on top of it. Tomorrow the trail will follow a small valley down to the town of Castrogeriz. Day after tomorrow I´ll be in Carrion, and that´s where I´ll call Manolo to come get me and take me home to Espinosa for a visit.
I bought a new pair of socks in Burgos yesterday. The exchange, though, was a little mortifying. Spanish shopkeepers are not the friendly, accomodating bunch you mostly find in the States. You are doing them no favors. On the contrary, you seem to be a bother. For the socks, I went into a shop devoted to sporty clothes and shoes. When I discovered that the hiking socks were behind the counter, as was the man in charge, I went to the side opening and gestured at the socks as if I would take the necessary two steps in for a closer look. "Si?" I said. "No," the man answered. For a moment I thought he was being sarcastic, but no, he meant no. So I went back around front and leaned over the counter trying to see. He gestured for me not to lean on the glass top. But then he did deign to call for a young woman to come help me. What he was doing besides sitting on a stool behind the cash register one foot distant from the socks, I couldn´t say. After buying socks I went to a pharmacy for bandaids--which were also available only with help. The pharmacist threw them on the counter as if to say, why are you bothering with this bullshit?
I set off at six this morning. When I stepped outside, the narrow cobbled streets were still wet after the night washing. There was no one about. In the near dark I walked throught the old city, past the looming cathedral and eventually through Arco St. Martin, once the gateway for travelers heading west for Santiago. From there the yellow arrows took me down to the river that runs through Burgos, and to the lovely park that runs along the river.
At a footbridge I came upon a young couple wearing backpacks and looking confused (this is a common sight). The young man said to me, "German, French, English?" I chose the third and he asked me if I knew which was the right direction. After some discussion we decided to cross the bridge. I walked with these two for the next couple hours: Christoph (29) and Johanna (27) from Muenster, Germany. They were astonished to learn that most Americans associate the name of their city with a bland white cheese. "The Munsters family, I know, yes," said Johanna, "but not of cheese."
Christoph is working on his dissertation in history, an account of violent leftist groups that arose in the late 1960s in Germany, France, and Japan. He has been at it sometime. "But last December," he said, "I finally came to the main idea, so now I think it will go faster. Maybe two more years." This figure seemed to surprise Johanna. "Two more years?" she repeated, in an incredulous tone. She has a job with the German equivalent of the Social Security Administration and her income supports them both. "It´s a boring job," she said, though Christoph was willing to describe what she actually did. Then she said again, "boring."
She gets five weeks vacation each year. Walking the Camino was Chritoph´s idea; she was thinking cruise ship. "But next time," Christoph said, "she will pick."
When they stopped to rest I continued on. Once my feet are warmed up, it´s best to keep them that way. I passed through a couple villages and then the path climbed up onto a high plateau--la meseta. For much of the day I crossed this broad tabletop, wheat and barley reaching all around, the horizon broken only by piles of lichened rocks long and laboriously removed from the soil. The sky was grey and the wind blew hard, playing across the green fields. My path, a narrow dirt road, ran straight, only shifting to accommodate the occasional gully or slight rise. I saw many small birds but few people, though occasionaly bicyclists would pass.
Eventually I descended into Hontanas, a stony village set into a fold that one only discovers when almost on top of it. Tomorrow the trail will follow a small valley down to the town of Castrogeriz. Day after tomorrow I´ll be in Carrion, and that´s where I´ll call Manolo to come get me and take me home to Espinosa for a visit.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
I am in a "ciber cafe" in Burgos
Burgos is big, one of the two largest cities on the Camino. The walk through the industrial outskirts this afternoon seemed interminable. And it didn´t help that the yellow arrows that mark the Camino became quite rare. But I made it to the center, where the interesting stuff is--the plazas, the narrow streets, the cathedral--about three, after a 23 mile walk from Villafranca. Then I sat on a bench by the river and spread cheese on a baguette and relaxed and waited for the shops to open back up. I had started out from Villafranca at six, one of the first out of the albergue; I like the cool and quiet early mornings, when there are few other people on the road or path.
My feet remain fucked up, but after I´ve been going awhile they sort of settle in. Still, it´s annoying. Yesterday I went into a farmacia in Belorado and bought somthing called Compeed, which I was told by a fellow Caminero would solve all my blister problems. I was very optimistic, but so far the promise remains unfulfilled. But I´ve just two more days to Fromista, and then I can give my feet a rest for a few days.
Here in Burgos I got a room at a hotel. Something of a splurge, but the albergue is a mile from the center of town, and I couldn´t see walking back to do the shopping I needed--socks, bandaids, books, fruit.... If I´d waited for the shops to open (post-siesta) before going on to the albergue, I probably wouldn´t have gotten a spot. Generally one must arrive fairly early in the afternoon at the albergues, otherwise all the beds are taken. Anyway, I thought I might like to have my own room for a change, but it feels a bit lonely--while sleeping in a room with numerous strangers has its challenges (such as the noise the older men make when they all start inevitably getting up to visit the bathroom in the small hours), it´s also strangely chummy.
So I was feeling bereft but then I ate dinner in a restaurant near the cathedral and felt better. A carafe of wine has medicinal qualities--as did the salad and paella and helado.
Two nights ago in Santo Domingo, I had single bed, stuffed into a tiny room with five other singles on the third floor of a nunnery. The floor sloped noticeably from the window to the curtained door. Two young English brothers were in the room, and it was a pleasure to talk about the Camino in English with them. A young German woman had a bed next to mine, and she said, "it is good, yes, to sleep between two men?" and then laughed.
Yesterday I walked through hilly vineyard country, occasionally passing through a small village, each with its obligatory large church, each church tower topped with massive stick nests built by large white and black storks. In each town there is a public fuente where one can get a drink and refill the water bottle. Sometimes the old ladies will say "buen camino."
Last night in Villafranca I arrived well before the two Englishmen, Marcus and Sam, so we were not in the same room again. I had a lovely spot on a top bunk, looking across the large room and through two big windows onto a green scene--cottonwoods and a small creek, then a hillside with the wind rolling like waves through the wheat. After a shower I lay down and gingerly put my feet up and read.
Soon a different young German girl appeared and was assigned the top bunk next to mine. Maria was a friendly and beautiful Rhine maiden, blonde and tall and bosomy, looking the ideal of Aryan youth. She had been on the Camino fifteen days, having crossed over from France farther east. It was her last day, she told me. I asked how she felt about that, and she smiled largely and said, happy. She was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend and her family. Over the course of the afternoon I heard her talk with ease in English, German, and French, chatting up the different people in the room, many of whom she had clearly met in previous albergues.
Marcus and Sam and I walked (or in my case, hobbled) up the road to a bar, inside of which a small room was devoted to a "supermercado." I bought bread and cheese and olives and tomato and carrots and bananas. Back at the albergue I found room at one of the tables and sat down to compose my meal. I found myself next to an American man in his fifties, Ed from Virginia. We had the sort of conversation in which the other person does most of the talking. I´ve noticed at more than one albergue that the American blowhard--late middle-aged variety, usually bearded--is a common type. Not to be too hard on Ed. I was glad to let him rattle on. And he gave me a glass of wine to go with my tomato and cheese on baguette. Also, I noted that he did take an interest in most of the people in the albergue, learning their names and places of origins. The next morning as I was leaving he was out in the hall comforting a young man who was throwing up into a trash can; the guy had been at it much of the night. "Do you think you can make it to Ages (the next albergue)?" asked Ed. "It´s only ten miles."
Ed was walking the Camino to mark the death of a young man. His wife had been an exchange student in Spain forty years previously, and had kept in close contact with her Spanish family and sister. The two women´s children had visited back and forth between the States and Spain, and one of the Spanish boys had gone to school at the University of Virginia. Not long after he graduated and returned to Spain he was killed in some sort of accident. At the time some family members had walked part of the Camino in commemoration. Ed hadn´t been able to get away from work, but he vowed to do the whole thing on the ten-year anniversary. And that´s what he was doing.
I´m still not sure what my own walk is commemorating. Much of the time I think about distances and my feet. But today I spent a good part of the morning going over in great detail my memories of eighth and ninth grade--teachers, friends, episodes, girls..... Bobbie Standefer, I loved her so. Remembering is good.
My feet remain fucked up, but after I´ve been going awhile they sort of settle in. Still, it´s annoying. Yesterday I went into a farmacia in Belorado and bought somthing called Compeed, which I was told by a fellow Caminero would solve all my blister problems. I was very optimistic, but so far the promise remains unfulfilled. But I´ve just two more days to Fromista, and then I can give my feet a rest for a few days.
Here in Burgos I got a room at a hotel. Something of a splurge, but the albergue is a mile from the center of town, and I couldn´t see walking back to do the shopping I needed--socks, bandaids, books, fruit.... If I´d waited for the shops to open (post-siesta) before going on to the albergue, I probably wouldn´t have gotten a spot. Generally one must arrive fairly early in the afternoon at the albergues, otherwise all the beds are taken. Anyway, I thought I might like to have my own room for a change, but it feels a bit lonely--while sleeping in a room with numerous strangers has its challenges (such as the noise the older men make when they all start inevitably getting up to visit the bathroom in the small hours), it´s also strangely chummy.
So I was feeling bereft but then I ate dinner in a restaurant near the cathedral and felt better. A carafe of wine has medicinal qualities--as did the salad and paella and helado.
Two nights ago in Santo Domingo, I had single bed, stuffed into a tiny room with five other singles on the third floor of a nunnery. The floor sloped noticeably from the window to the curtained door. Two young English brothers were in the room, and it was a pleasure to talk about the Camino in English with them. A young German woman had a bed next to mine, and she said, "it is good, yes, to sleep between two men?" and then laughed.
Yesterday I walked through hilly vineyard country, occasionally passing through a small village, each with its obligatory large church, each church tower topped with massive stick nests built by large white and black storks. In each town there is a public fuente where one can get a drink and refill the water bottle. Sometimes the old ladies will say "buen camino."
Last night in Villafranca I arrived well before the two Englishmen, Marcus and Sam, so we were not in the same room again. I had a lovely spot on a top bunk, looking across the large room and through two big windows onto a green scene--cottonwoods and a small creek, then a hillside with the wind rolling like waves through the wheat. After a shower I lay down and gingerly put my feet up and read.
Soon a different young German girl appeared and was assigned the top bunk next to mine. Maria was a friendly and beautiful Rhine maiden, blonde and tall and bosomy, looking the ideal of Aryan youth. She had been on the Camino fifteen days, having crossed over from France farther east. It was her last day, she told me. I asked how she felt about that, and she smiled largely and said, happy. She was looking forward to seeing her boyfriend and her family. Over the course of the afternoon I heard her talk with ease in English, German, and French, chatting up the different people in the room, many of whom she had clearly met in previous albergues.
Marcus and Sam and I walked (or in my case, hobbled) up the road to a bar, inside of which a small room was devoted to a "supermercado." I bought bread and cheese and olives and tomato and carrots and bananas. Back at the albergue I found room at one of the tables and sat down to compose my meal. I found myself next to an American man in his fifties, Ed from Virginia. We had the sort of conversation in which the other person does most of the talking. I´ve noticed at more than one albergue that the American blowhard--late middle-aged variety, usually bearded--is a common type. Not to be too hard on Ed. I was glad to let him rattle on. And he gave me a glass of wine to go with my tomato and cheese on baguette. Also, I noted that he did take an interest in most of the people in the albergue, learning their names and places of origins. The next morning as I was leaving he was out in the hall comforting a young man who was throwing up into a trash can; the guy had been at it much of the night. "Do you think you can make it to Ages (the next albergue)?" asked Ed. "It´s only ten miles."
Ed was walking the Camino to mark the death of a young man. His wife had been an exchange student in Spain forty years previously, and had kept in close contact with her Spanish family and sister. The two women´s children had visited back and forth between the States and Spain, and one of the Spanish boys had gone to school at the University of Virginia. Not long after he graduated and returned to Spain he was killed in some sort of accident. At the time some family members had walked part of the Camino in commemoration. Ed hadn´t been able to get away from work, but he vowed to do the whole thing on the ten-year anniversary. And that´s what he was doing.
I´m still not sure what my own walk is commemorating. Much of the time I think about distances and my feet. But today I spent a good part of the morning going over in great detail my memories of eighth and ninth grade--teachers, friends, episodes, girls..... Bobbie Standefer, I loved her so. Remembering is good.
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Meson San Anton
Yesterday it rained all afternoon, and the red dirt of Rioja--a famous wine-making region--clung relentlessly to my boots. I straggled into the village of Ventosa about 1:30, and climbed up through the narrow streets to the albergue. A man in the anteroom took my credencial (a sort of small folder all pilgrims carry), wrote my name down, stamped the credencial, took seven euros, then handed me off to a woman who took me upstairs and showed me the kitchen, the bathrooms, then my bed--top bunk in a small alcove, in a room with five other bunkbeds.
A Frenchman in his sixties or seventies had the bunk below. He spoke no English, but was solicitous of me in his own language. Over the course of the afternoon he told me of the laundry facilities, of the dinner later at the village´s only restaurant, and that he could nap with the light on, don´t worry--each time patting my arm reassuringly.
I didn´t talk to anyone else during the afternoon or the evening. Lino and I had parted in the morning in the city of Logrono. I wanted to look at the cathedral, and I knew he didn´t want to wait. His pace was killing me anyway. My blisters are worsening. I don´t, though, think it´s been so much the number of miles as the speed, and also, and maybe more importantly, the amount of distance on hard surfaces--stone and paved and gravel roads. Whatever the cause, I´m struggling a bit at the moment.
Last night a wonderful dinner at Meson San Anton offered great solace. The small, warm restaurant was staffed by two women, the cook and the server. I was first to arrive (dinner starting at seven) and was seated on the dark wood-floored patio, next to a glass wall overlooking a small garden. A cd of accordion music was playing.
The woman waiting tables soon returned with a small piece of paper on which she´d written the choices for the night (a "menu" was offered, consisting of first and second courses, wine and dessert). For my "primero" I chose ensalada mixta, though I was sorely tempted by the paella (there were also two pasta options); segunda, I chose "costillas," that is, pork ribs (other options were beef, fish, or stuffed peppers). The salad was excellent, so was the wine and bread. The pork ribs, a Flintstones-style slab, were served on a plate with slices of cooked red peppers in olive oil and a few salty french fries. I ate very slowly, happily.
For dessert I had chosen the tieramisu over arroz con leche or fruit.
Then I hobbled back downhill to the albergue and had my first unbroken night´s sleep. Now if there only wasn´t all this walking between such meals....
Actually the walking is a pleasure except for the feet issue. Today I left early, at six, and had a couple hours of quiet, cool morning to myself, before reaching the largish town of Najera. After that the Camino once again became crowded. I stopped early--about one--because of my feet, but also because the albergues pretty much fill by two. It´s something of an issue, this competition for space. Once my feet heal, I´d like to walk more, which may mean staying occasionally in a pension or a hotel (and in a town large enough for one of these).
Well, I still plan to go back and say something about the first days of the Camino, but I´ll probably wait until I am at my leisure in Espinosa next Sunday. In the meantime,I encourage all readers to write me, either as comments or emails to my account. I miss you all, and notes from you will be greatly enjoyed.
A Frenchman in his sixties or seventies had the bunk below. He spoke no English, but was solicitous of me in his own language. Over the course of the afternoon he told me of the laundry facilities, of the dinner later at the village´s only restaurant, and that he could nap with the light on, don´t worry--each time patting my arm reassuringly.
I didn´t talk to anyone else during the afternoon or the evening. Lino and I had parted in the morning in the city of Logrono. I wanted to look at the cathedral, and I knew he didn´t want to wait. His pace was killing me anyway. My blisters are worsening. I don´t, though, think it´s been so much the number of miles as the speed, and also, and maybe more importantly, the amount of distance on hard surfaces--stone and paved and gravel roads. Whatever the cause, I´m struggling a bit at the moment.
Last night a wonderful dinner at Meson San Anton offered great solace. The small, warm restaurant was staffed by two women, the cook and the server. I was first to arrive (dinner starting at seven) and was seated on the dark wood-floored patio, next to a glass wall overlooking a small garden. A cd of accordion music was playing.
The woman waiting tables soon returned with a small piece of paper on which she´d written the choices for the night (a "menu" was offered, consisting of first and second courses, wine and dessert). For my "primero" I chose ensalada mixta, though I was sorely tempted by the paella (there were also two pasta options); segunda, I chose "costillas," that is, pork ribs (other options were beef, fish, or stuffed peppers). The salad was excellent, so was the wine and bread. The pork ribs, a Flintstones-style slab, were served on a plate with slices of cooked red peppers in olive oil and a few salty french fries. I ate very slowly, happily.
For dessert I had chosen the tieramisu over arroz con leche or fruit.
Then I hobbled back downhill to the albergue and had my first unbroken night´s sleep. Now if there only wasn´t all this walking between such meals....
Actually the walking is a pleasure except for the feet issue. Today I left early, at six, and had a couple hours of quiet, cool morning to myself, before reaching the largish town of Najera. After that the Camino once again became crowded. I stopped early--about one--because of my feet, but also because the albergues pretty much fill by two. It´s something of an issue, this competition for space. Once my feet heal, I´d like to walk more, which may mean staying occasionally in a pension or a hotel (and in a town large enough for one of these).
Well, I still plan to go back and say something about the first days of the Camino, but I´ll probably wait until I am at my leisure in Espinosa next Sunday. In the meantime,I encourage all readers to write me, either as comments or emails to my account. I miss you all, and notes from you will be greatly enjoyed.
Friday, May 25, 2007
My feet hurt
So I´m in Viana, at the end of day four, and I was on the computer at the albergue--writing an entry such as this one--and the power went off. Then it went off two more times. I gave up and walked to a nearby bar, and now I´m in the dark and smelly back room. No ambience, but I am writing--which I have seriously missed over the last five days. I find I need to write about my days.
Last Monday I took a train from Burgos to Hendaye, just across the French border, made a connection to Bayonne, with five minutes to spare, then a connection from Bayonne to St. Jean Pied de Port with two minutes to spare. The last was single car train that putt putted up into the western end of the Pyrenees (more hills than mountains), stopping briefly at the numerous villages. I arrived late in St. Jean, so the three good albergues were full, and I had to stay at the sad one with bad lighting. There are hordes on the Camino. Tonight at the albergue here in Viana I have a mat on the floor in the big dining room, because all the regular beds are full.
That first night, in St. Jean, was my first of the last four nights in bunk beds, in rooms filled with other bunkbeds--six or seven that first night, over sixty the next night in Roncesvalles. You can´t believe the snoring.
I won´t go into the first day yet--except to say that it involved a 4000 foot elevation gain, up to where a whirling mist limited visibility to 30 or 40 feet. Very dramatic.
In the four days since I started I´ve walked 94 miles, which is a bit ridiculous--and as a result my feet are sort of a mess. Muchas ampollas (blisters). But I´ve had reason for the long distances. Two nights ago I fell in with an American guy, Christoph (28), and an Italian man, Lino, who is 69 and who has done the Camino on foot and by bicycle a number of times. He plans to complete the Camino in 20 days this time, which requires him to average 25 miles a day. While he´s been a great guide, he´s also been a relentless taskmaster. But both Christoph and succumbed to his substantial charm--for a time. I´ll not be matching his pace tomorrow. I don´t think I could. I have the stamina, the legs, but my feet are troubled at the moment.
Well, none of this really says much about the Camino, but my time is running short. I hope to move along more leisurely in the coming days, and to have more time to write.
Last Monday I took a train from Burgos to Hendaye, just across the French border, made a connection to Bayonne, with five minutes to spare, then a connection from Bayonne to St. Jean Pied de Port with two minutes to spare. The last was single car train that putt putted up into the western end of the Pyrenees (more hills than mountains), stopping briefly at the numerous villages. I arrived late in St. Jean, so the three good albergues were full, and I had to stay at the sad one with bad lighting. There are hordes on the Camino. Tonight at the albergue here in Viana I have a mat on the floor in the big dining room, because all the regular beds are full.
That first night, in St. Jean, was my first of the last four nights in bunk beds, in rooms filled with other bunkbeds--six or seven that first night, over sixty the next night in Roncesvalles. You can´t believe the snoring.
I won´t go into the first day yet--except to say that it involved a 4000 foot elevation gain, up to where a whirling mist limited visibility to 30 or 40 feet. Very dramatic.
In the four days since I started I´ve walked 94 miles, which is a bit ridiculous--and as a result my feet are sort of a mess. Muchas ampollas (blisters). But I´ve had reason for the long distances. Two nights ago I fell in with an American guy, Christoph (28), and an Italian man, Lino, who is 69 and who has done the Camino on foot and by bicycle a number of times. He plans to complete the Camino in 20 days this time, which requires him to average 25 miles a day. While he´s been a great guide, he´s also been a relentless taskmaster. But both Christoph and succumbed to his substantial charm--for a time. I´ll not be matching his pace tomorrow. I don´t think I could. I have the stamina, the legs, but my feet are troubled at the moment.
Well, none of this really says much about the Camino, but my time is running short. I hope to move along more leisurely in the coming days, and to have more time to write.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Leaving Espinosa
Yesterday afternoon Montse and Manolo went out, to Montse´s sister´s in another town, but not before Montse had prepared the midday meal. Maite served. First ensalada rusa, a relative of potato salad but with peas and sliced green olives and tuna and lots of mayonnaise. Next rabo de vaca or cow´s tail. Maite put three chunks of round tailbones on my plate and then ladled the inevitable (I´m not complaining) sauce over top (tomato, olive oil, onion….). I used my fork to scrape the meat from the troughs in the bone, and then discovered that cow tail tastes remarkably like an excellent pot roast. Last came a welcome reappearance of the torrijas. I took my time eating, pausing often to talk to Maite and Sergio, or to watch an exchange in the tennis match on the kitchen tv (Fedrerer and Nadal). By the time I got to the dessert Sergio was long gone, having returned to the living room with Sara to watch the match on the big television.
Afterwards I washed up in the bathroom, used a tissue to blow my nose, and then cast about for a trash can—and then remembered there are none in this house. There´s a small one out in the garage, and at meal times Montse keeps a white plastic grocery bag on the counter in the kitchen to scrap plates into; but once she has finished cleaning up—which she does right after the meal, and meticulously, wiping down every surface several times and even the stove hood—that bag disappears. As a result of the lack of trash receptacles, I´ve at times been relegated to stashing my used dental floss and tissues in my room until I can get out to the garage.
I returned to the kitchen and helped Maite clean up—something Montse would not allow me to do. We talked about cooking and who does it. She, Maite does not; that´s Sergio´s job. Montse, according to Maite, is, however, like the mothers in old American movies, smiling and cooking and cleaning. This was said with mocking affection. I would add that Montse has more of an edge than June Cleaver.
Everyone in the family does seem to have a clear role, and there seems no debate, and certainly no resentment, concerning these roles. The household functions smoothly, happily. Even when some sort of trouble intrudes, no one appears to be truly upset. A couple days ago I was standing in the kitchen with Manolo and Maite when Montse called out from the patio, where she was taking laundry down from the line. She had discovered Manolo´s cellphone in his pants pocket. Her tone indicated this was quite a good joke, and Maite appeared to agree. But Manolo slapped his forehead in exasperation. A moment later Montse, standing in the hall, reached a hand into the kitchen and deposited the well-washed cellphone on the counter. Then she followed it into the room.
Manolo said something, sharply, about how many times he had told her to check his pockets (apparently he had lost more than one phone in this manner). Montse, not the least bit cowed, made some sort of smart-alecky retort. Manolo raised a hand, pretending as if to strike her. Montse and Maite both laughed, and then Montse struck him hard on the chest with the back of her hand. Manolo blustered some more but almost if not quite seemed to appreciate the humor in his loss. Maite went into the other room and came back with a small box full of retired cell phones. Manolo grumblingly chose a replacement, while Montse and Maite made no effort to suppress their amusement.
After dinner last night we watched a soccer match (actually before, during, and after—Atletico Madrid vs Barcelona), then a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Ashley Judd. I had Sara for a time, and I spoke to her in a steady stream of English, to everyone´s approval. When the movie was over I stood up to say good night, and Maite told me we would leave for Burgos at 10:30 the next morning. In an effort at humor—an effort I´ve made a number of times this week, though not yet successfully—I said something to the effect, “Tomorrow I get up more soon than other times” (I´ve been sleeping in). I smiled to indicate I had made a witticism. Maite smiled politely in return, but without conviction.
Yesterday was rather long and dreary, the rain keeping me inside much of the day. I´m ready to go and start walking, but it will be with some reluctance that I leave Espinosa this morning and Manolo and Montse and Maite and Sergio and Sara.
Afterwards I washed up in the bathroom, used a tissue to blow my nose, and then cast about for a trash can—and then remembered there are none in this house. There´s a small one out in the garage, and at meal times Montse keeps a white plastic grocery bag on the counter in the kitchen to scrap plates into; but once she has finished cleaning up—which she does right after the meal, and meticulously, wiping down every surface several times and even the stove hood—that bag disappears. As a result of the lack of trash receptacles, I´ve at times been relegated to stashing my used dental floss and tissues in my room until I can get out to the garage.
I returned to the kitchen and helped Maite clean up—something Montse would not allow me to do. We talked about cooking and who does it. She, Maite does not; that´s Sergio´s job. Montse, according to Maite, is, however, like the mothers in old American movies, smiling and cooking and cleaning. This was said with mocking affection. I would add that Montse has more of an edge than June Cleaver.
Everyone in the family does seem to have a clear role, and there seems no debate, and certainly no resentment, concerning these roles. The household functions smoothly, happily. Even when some sort of trouble intrudes, no one appears to be truly upset. A couple days ago I was standing in the kitchen with Manolo and Maite when Montse called out from the patio, where she was taking laundry down from the line. She had discovered Manolo´s cellphone in his pants pocket. Her tone indicated this was quite a good joke, and Maite appeared to agree. But Manolo slapped his forehead in exasperation. A moment later Montse, standing in the hall, reached a hand into the kitchen and deposited the well-washed cellphone on the counter. Then she followed it into the room.
Manolo said something, sharply, about how many times he had told her to check his pockets (apparently he had lost more than one phone in this manner). Montse, not the least bit cowed, made some sort of smart-alecky retort. Manolo raised a hand, pretending as if to strike her. Montse and Maite both laughed, and then Montse struck him hard on the chest with the back of her hand. Manolo blustered some more but almost if not quite seemed to appreciate the humor in his loss. Maite went into the other room and came back with a small box full of retired cell phones. Manolo grumblingly chose a replacement, while Montse and Maite made no effort to suppress their amusement.
After dinner last night we watched a soccer match (actually before, during, and after—Atletico Madrid vs Barcelona), then a movie with Tommy Lee Jones and Ashley Judd. I had Sara for a time, and I spoke to her in a steady stream of English, to everyone´s approval. When the movie was over I stood up to say good night, and Maite told me we would leave for Burgos at 10:30 the next morning. In an effort at humor—an effort I´ve made a number of times this week, though not yet successfully—I said something to the effect, “Tomorrow I get up more soon than other times” (I´ve been sleeping in). I smiled to indicate I had made a witticism. Maite smiled politely in return, but without conviction.
Yesterday was rather long and dreary, the rain keeping me inside much of the day. I´m ready to go and start walking, but it will be with some reluctance that I leave Espinosa this morning and Manolo and Montse and Maite and Sergio and Sara.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Cangrejos de rio
Yesterday´s midday meal: the first course was a bowl of judias verdes, or French beans (haricots?), in a soupy juice with onions. Next came a filete plancha, a thin grilled steak (note: I am carnivorous for the duration). Last and best was the dessert, torrijas—similar to French toast, but served cold: thick, round slices of bread dipped in egg and grilled, and afterwards topped with a clear, lemony syrup. Fabulous.
Later I wandered out for a walk in the village. I tried to avoid the old people out walking with their canes and/or small dogs. I knew they would talk to me and that I would not understand. Maybe I´m confused by what seems a double commitment on this trip so far: to learn Spanish, to go on a long walk. It seems I must focus on one or the other. I can see staying in Espinosa and devoting myself to Spanish (if Montse and Manolo would have me); but my plan—and still strongest desire—is to walk.
By evening the sky had clouded over, the wind had risen, and it looked as if rain would be coming in from the south. A couple hours before dinner I went out into the fields with Manolo again. We drove out in a new (to me) direction, west of the small river. Manolo owns a great amount of land, it seems to me, but when I asked the other day how much, he said simply “bastante” (enough). As if concerned that such an answer was too curt, he then added that he does not farm alone—but I´m pretty sure he has only one partner, his brother-in-law, Femo.
We drove a mile or two up and down over the rolling land before Manolo nosed the Suzuki off the narrow dirt road and just into a field. “Guisante,” he said, pointing through the windshield, and I paged through my dictionary…: peas. “Por animales,” he added, “no humanos.” I said “entiendo,” a word I use a lot, though probably not more than its partner, “no entiendo.” We got out and Manolo pushed a cupped hand into the thick growth of waist-high guisante, using his other hand to shake the plants. He withdrew his still-cupped hand and showed it to me. A few tiny green insects crawled across his palm. I took this to mean trouble, but he said no. “Pocos,” he said, “no es una problema.” He had sprayed the field some time before, when the green bugs were more numerous, and we had come out to check if he would need to spray again.
We drove on to other fields. Perdices, or parrtidges, ran in front of the truck then sprung up to wing off to one side or the other. Numerous hawks glided past and over us, searching for prey. Manolo slowed as we passed along a field of barley and rolled down his window for a better view. He made a clicking sound with his tongue. Apparently the barley was not as robust as could be wished.
After another couple miles, back near the river, we stopped again. Manolo pointed up a slight rise to a patch of land bordered by small trees and said something that included the words “mi padre” and (I thought) “muerto.” I took this to indicate a cemetery, or maybe the spot where his father wants to be buried. Which goes to show that my interpretive skills are a work in progress.
We walked up the rise a hundred yards on a narrow path—to a vegetable garden that his father keeps. No dead people, current or anticipated.
The small sloped patch lay in a shallow fold between two vast fields of wheat; the garden´s shape was triangular, with the apex at the downhill end. A few leeks were planted at the narrow top, then, moving uphill, garlic and green onions in longer rows. Next came a large section of garbanzo beans, then green beans, then potatoes. The branches of a walnut tree leaned over the potatoes at the high end of the garden; next to the tree was a shallow concrete pond, filled with algae-covered water. Along the far side of the garden stood a few small quince and hazelnut trees, and down through the middle there were several apple trees.
It seemed a lot for one old man and his wife (especially considering abuelo has another, larger garden in the village), and I asked Manolo if his father sold the produce. No, he gives it to his son (Manolo) and daughter´s families, and to others in the village. He likes to keep busy, Manolo said, as if that explained the generosity.
Dinner was served not long after we returned to the house. Montse ladled my plate with ten or so dark red crayfish (cangrejos de rio). These proved more work than they were really worth--the tails were tasty (think crab) but small, while the body was inedible, as far as I was concerned, though the others obviously felt differently. The claws provided so little meat that they were hardly worth the bother. Plus I made a huge mess of my hands and face eating the crayfish, which were soaked in an excellent sauce. While everyone else seemed able to limit the damage to their fingertips, I was up to my elbows. I was quite relieved when I finally worked my way through the last of the creatures on my plate; Montse offered me more, and I tried to keep the alarm from my voice when I said, “no, gracias.” I was, though, happy to use my bread to soak up the red and oniony sauce on my plate (the part not covered with crayfish remnants). Montse, ever watchful, took a pan from the stove and ladled the last spoonful of sauce onto my plate.
Here in Espinosa I eat and sleep and read and (try to) talk. I have no work, and that´s odd but not troublesome. I suppose I do have a task of sorts, and that is to pay attention. Which is not difficult. Everything is strange and unfamiliar, so everything catches my attention. I´m always operating from a position of ignorance, which is often exciting but which at times makes me weary. It´s good to get off the couch and leave home, but I do love my couch. It´s raining here today, and I prefer the sun.
Later I wandered out for a walk in the village. I tried to avoid the old people out walking with their canes and/or small dogs. I knew they would talk to me and that I would not understand. Maybe I´m confused by what seems a double commitment on this trip so far: to learn Spanish, to go on a long walk. It seems I must focus on one or the other. I can see staying in Espinosa and devoting myself to Spanish (if Montse and Manolo would have me); but my plan—and still strongest desire—is to walk.
By evening the sky had clouded over, the wind had risen, and it looked as if rain would be coming in from the south. A couple hours before dinner I went out into the fields with Manolo again. We drove out in a new (to me) direction, west of the small river. Manolo owns a great amount of land, it seems to me, but when I asked the other day how much, he said simply “bastante” (enough). As if concerned that such an answer was too curt, he then added that he does not farm alone—but I´m pretty sure he has only one partner, his brother-in-law, Femo.
We drove a mile or two up and down over the rolling land before Manolo nosed the Suzuki off the narrow dirt road and just into a field. “Guisante,” he said, pointing through the windshield, and I paged through my dictionary…: peas. “Por animales,” he added, “no humanos.” I said “entiendo,” a word I use a lot, though probably not more than its partner, “no entiendo.” We got out and Manolo pushed a cupped hand into the thick growth of waist-high guisante, using his other hand to shake the plants. He withdrew his still-cupped hand and showed it to me. A few tiny green insects crawled across his palm. I took this to mean trouble, but he said no. “Pocos,” he said, “no es una problema.” He had sprayed the field some time before, when the green bugs were more numerous, and we had come out to check if he would need to spray again.
We drove on to other fields. Perdices, or parrtidges, ran in front of the truck then sprung up to wing off to one side or the other. Numerous hawks glided past and over us, searching for prey. Manolo slowed as we passed along a field of barley and rolled down his window for a better view. He made a clicking sound with his tongue. Apparently the barley was not as robust as could be wished.
After another couple miles, back near the river, we stopped again. Manolo pointed up a slight rise to a patch of land bordered by small trees and said something that included the words “mi padre” and (I thought) “muerto.” I took this to indicate a cemetery, or maybe the spot where his father wants to be buried. Which goes to show that my interpretive skills are a work in progress.
We walked up the rise a hundred yards on a narrow path—to a vegetable garden that his father keeps. No dead people, current or anticipated.
The small sloped patch lay in a shallow fold between two vast fields of wheat; the garden´s shape was triangular, with the apex at the downhill end. A few leeks were planted at the narrow top, then, moving uphill, garlic and green onions in longer rows. Next came a large section of garbanzo beans, then green beans, then potatoes. The branches of a walnut tree leaned over the potatoes at the high end of the garden; next to the tree was a shallow concrete pond, filled with algae-covered water. Along the far side of the garden stood a few small quince and hazelnut trees, and down through the middle there were several apple trees.
It seemed a lot for one old man and his wife (especially considering abuelo has another, larger garden in the village), and I asked Manolo if his father sold the produce. No, he gives it to his son (Manolo) and daughter´s families, and to others in the village. He likes to keep busy, Manolo said, as if that explained the generosity.
Dinner was served not long after we returned to the house. Montse ladled my plate with ten or so dark red crayfish (cangrejos de rio). These proved more work than they were really worth--the tails were tasty (think crab) but small, while the body was inedible, as far as I was concerned, though the others obviously felt differently. The claws provided so little meat that they were hardly worth the bother. Plus I made a huge mess of my hands and face eating the crayfish, which were soaked in an excellent sauce. While everyone else seemed able to limit the damage to their fingertips, I was up to my elbows. I was quite relieved when I finally worked my way through the last of the creatures on my plate; Montse offered me more, and I tried to keep the alarm from my voice when I said, “no, gracias.” I was, though, happy to use my bread to soak up the red and oniony sauce on my plate (the part not covered with crayfish remnants). Montse, ever watchful, took a pan from the stove and ladled the last spoonful of sauce onto my plate.
Here in Espinosa I eat and sleep and read and (try to) talk. I have no work, and that´s odd but not troublesome. I suppose I do have a task of sorts, and that is to pay attention. Which is not difficult. Everything is strange and unfamiliar, so everything catches my attention. I´m always operating from a position of ignorance, which is often exciting but which at times makes me weary. It´s good to get off the couch and leave home, but I do love my couch. It´s raining here today, and I prefer the sun.
Saturday, May 19, 2007
Caracoles
In a narrow street in Burgos, Manolo stopped and pointed at a wooden box sitting outside the door of a small produce store. I peered in: hundreds of snails crawled slowly over each other, their slimy bodies extending from greenish shells. “Caracoles,” Manolo said, meaning to remind me of an earlier conversation. The night before, when I´d not been able to find the word “caracol” in my dictionary, he had tried a pop culture reference as a means of definition. He´d asked, “Tu sabes la película pity oomn?” I thought for a moment, straining to translate, then shook my head—I didn´t know such a movie. He cast about for another clue, then his face brightened. “Zh-ulya Robe-airt,” he said. Then I got it: the snail eating scene in Pretty Woman.
I know that sometimes my Spanish sounds as incomprehensible. I´ll say something that I think is perfectly clear and reasonable but will be met by a blank stare. I´ll repeat the phrase, as if to say, no, you´re not listening…. Then I´ll have to try other words, and eventually, usually, the light of comprehension will grace my interlocutor. On the other hand, there´s always the option of misunderstanding. Last year at the village bar, Manolo introduced me to an older man who apparently, I garnered from the conversation, had once lived in South Dakota. I´d said something about how that was close to Minnesota. They both smiled and nodded but didn´t pursue the geographical topic. Later I learned that the man in the bar was actually the local priest—“sacerdote” in Spanish (sah-ser doe-tay—which sounds a little bit like South Dakota, doesn´t it?). He´d never been within a thousand miles of the Upper Midwest.
Usually language simply washes over one, requiring no conscious effort. Here I have to strain to speak and hear, to comprehend and be comprehended. Often I´m up for the challenge—my small dictionary is already well-thumbed—but sometimes I need to go off by myself and read a bit of Dickens.
Maite and Sergio both know some English but are self-conscious about their limited skill (however, yesterday Sergio did show some pride when he defined a “vaca” or cow as a “milk factory”). They are determined that little Sara master English, and have already begun her education. They sit her down in front of the television and play English-language instructional videos (remember, the child is four months old). The favorite is an amalgamation of old Disney cartoons, with an added voiceover. Goofy wrestles a salmon, and the narrator asks, “what´s this?” Sergio, watching with Sara, will prompt her—“feesh, Sara.” Next comes a clip of the romantic dinner scene in Lady and the Tramp. “What´s this?” the narrator asks as a waiter serves the two dogs. “It´s a saghetti, Sara,” Sergio answers.
Speaking of food, yesterday´s midday meal deserves description…. The first course was soup—fidellas con almehas—or noodles with clams. Short thin noodles filled the bowl of reddish, olive oily broth, and a crowd of small, open clam shells sat on top or half submerged. One could pick up the shells one at a time and suck the clams off the half shell, or use a spoon to scrape them into the soup. I alternated between methods.
As an aside, I´d like to note that no one in the family seems to eat all that fast, and yet I always finish last. Mysterious. Today I tried to watch the others eat—but I would forget, entranced by my own portion, and then when I looked up my neighbor´s plate would be clean. I finally did, though, notice that they take massive bites. But even this they make look easy and casual.
The second course was albondigas, or meatballs of beef and pork. “Carne picada,” Manolo explained (minced or chopped meat). A thin sauce, inevitably tinged with tomato, was ladled on top, and Sergio and I got larger portions than everyone else. The ubiquitous bread came in handy as a means of not wasting any of the excellent sauce.
After lunch Manolo showed me plans for a new house they are going to build just around the corner. A “merendero” he called it, sort of like a bodega, a place for entertaining—meaning eating. He got out the plans and showed me a series of drawings, and then he took me to the site, which is an open stretch of dirt now. Two months ago Manolo tore down what remained of an old collapsed house of adobed-over brick (later he showed me photographs). His grandmother had once lived in the house, but long ago. He showed me the spot where he planned to put in a small pool and said it would be for Winston and Jackson and Sara.
Winston and Jackson and Sara. Sara and Jackson and Winston. There is much talk of these small children. However, the other day Maite said, “no novios.” In other words, they are not allowed to become romantically involved. She´s afraid that Sara would go away to America, and that would be intolerable. The sound of rubber carriage wheels bouncing on the tile floors of the house is a constant throughout the day and evening. Often only such jostling will comfort Sara—though I think there´s some question of whether she is soothed by the motion or so rattled and tossed about that she hasn´t the wherewithal to fuss. The other constant sound is babytalk, as one adult or the other—or maybe the abuelos come in from next door—have a go at Sara.
I´m leaving here Monday, the day after tomorrow. But I kind of don´t really want to.
I know that sometimes my Spanish sounds as incomprehensible. I´ll say something that I think is perfectly clear and reasonable but will be met by a blank stare. I´ll repeat the phrase, as if to say, no, you´re not listening…. Then I´ll have to try other words, and eventually, usually, the light of comprehension will grace my interlocutor. On the other hand, there´s always the option of misunderstanding. Last year at the village bar, Manolo introduced me to an older man who apparently, I garnered from the conversation, had once lived in South Dakota. I´d said something about how that was close to Minnesota. They both smiled and nodded but didn´t pursue the geographical topic. Later I learned that the man in the bar was actually the local priest—“sacerdote” in Spanish (sah-ser doe-tay—which sounds a little bit like South Dakota, doesn´t it?). He´d never been within a thousand miles of the Upper Midwest.
Usually language simply washes over one, requiring no conscious effort. Here I have to strain to speak and hear, to comprehend and be comprehended. Often I´m up for the challenge—my small dictionary is already well-thumbed—but sometimes I need to go off by myself and read a bit of Dickens.
Maite and Sergio both know some English but are self-conscious about their limited skill (however, yesterday Sergio did show some pride when he defined a “vaca” or cow as a “milk factory”). They are determined that little Sara master English, and have already begun her education. They sit her down in front of the television and play English-language instructional videos (remember, the child is four months old). The favorite is an amalgamation of old Disney cartoons, with an added voiceover. Goofy wrestles a salmon, and the narrator asks, “what´s this?” Sergio, watching with Sara, will prompt her—“feesh, Sara.” Next comes a clip of the romantic dinner scene in Lady and the Tramp. “What´s this?” the narrator asks as a waiter serves the two dogs. “It´s a saghetti, Sara,” Sergio answers.
Speaking of food, yesterday´s midday meal deserves description…. The first course was soup—fidellas con almehas—or noodles with clams. Short thin noodles filled the bowl of reddish, olive oily broth, and a crowd of small, open clam shells sat on top or half submerged. One could pick up the shells one at a time and suck the clams off the half shell, or use a spoon to scrape them into the soup. I alternated between methods.
As an aside, I´d like to note that no one in the family seems to eat all that fast, and yet I always finish last. Mysterious. Today I tried to watch the others eat—but I would forget, entranced by my own portion, and then when I looked up my neighbor´s plate would be clean. I finally did, though, notice that they take massive bites. But even this they make look easy and casual.
The second course was albondigas, or meatballs of beef and pork. “Carne picada,” Manolo explained (minced or chopped meat). A thin sauce, inevitably tinged with tomato, was ladled on top, and Sergio and I got larger portions than everyone else. The ubiquitous bread came in handy as a means of not wasting any of the excellent sauce.
After lunch Manolo showed me plans for a new house they are going to build just around the corner. A “merendero” he called it, sort of like a bodega, a place for entertaining—meaning eating. He got out the plans and showed me a series of drawings, and then he took me to the site, which is an open stretch of dirt now. Two months ago Manolo tore down what remained of an old collapsed house of adobed-over brick (later he showed me photographs). His grandmother had once lived in the house, but long ago. He showed me the spot where he planned to put in a small pool and said it would be for Winston and Jackson and Sara.
Winston and Jackson and Sara. Sara and Jackson and Winston. There is much talk of these small children. However, the other day Maite said, “no novios.” In other words, they are not allowed to become romantically involved. She´s afraid that Sara would go away to America, and that would be intolerable. The sound of rubber carriage wheels bouncing on the tile floors of the house is a constant throughout the day and evening. Often only such jostling will comfort Sara—though I think there´s some question of whether she is soothed by the motion or so rattled and tossed about that she hasn´t the wherewithal to fuss. The other constant sound is babytalk, as one adult or the other—or maybe the abuelos come in from next door—have a go at Sara.
I´m leaving here Monday, the day after tomorrow. But I kind of don´t really want to.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Trigo y cebada
In the evening, Manolo asked me to come with him on an inspection of his fields. We rode out in his small but rugged Suzuki Samurai, onto the narrow red dirt two-tracks that crisscross the rolling countryside. Manolo drove fast, and I tried not to appear concerned as we bounced and swerved over the gully-riven roads. The sun stood just above the western horizon, and the late day light turned the green fields golden. Manolo pointed and said “trigo” (wheat). Then he pointed at another field, of lighter green, and said “cebada” (barley). Up on a ridge we paused beside a small patch of small plants and he said “girasol” (sunflowers—grown for the oil). It took some discussion and recourse to my pocket dictionary before we could come to an understanding about this last plant.
Down on the flats on the other side of the village, near where a small river flows, we stopped and got out. Manolo waded into a thigh-high field of grass and I followed, trying not to crush the crowded stalks though he didn´t seem to mind. Across the field stood a large square of poplar, darker green and laid out in straight lines. Only in the thin ravines between hills and fields and along the roads does anything grow in an irregular pattern. Everything else in the landscape has right angles. Manolo stopped and put his hands on his hips. He made a noise that indicated frustration and leaned down to pick up a piece of half-eaten grass. He held it out for me to see and said, “ratones” (mice). He gestured at the ground for me to note the small burrow holes all about. A moment later I stepped into a particularly well-eaten patch and two small mice scurried away beneath my feet. Apparently the winter is supposed to keep the mouse numbers down, but this last was mild. The mice were taking a toll on this particular field, which was a mix of grasses—wheat, barley, oats, and besa (the last alfalfa-like)—and intended for hay (“por las vacas,” Manolo said). He would have to cut the field soon—sooner than planned—to limit the damage.
The sun set and we headed back to the house. Montse had dinner waiting. We sat down at the table and she ladled a large portion of something reddish and gloopy onto my plate. “Tomatata,” she said. Manolo said something like, “not too much,” concerned I wouldn´t like it. Not without reason—it didn´t look particularly appetizing. A wet mush of tomato marbled with pieces of half-cooked egg and small chunks of onion. But if not handsome in appearance, the tomatata was attractive to the palate. It was warm and soft and tasted vaguely spaghetti-y but better, and I cleaned my plate. Montse also put out a dish of lomo, small stiff and chewy slices that went well with the bread.
After dinner we sat in the living room and talked about Spanish celebrities that have gone to the U.S. and American celebrities that have come to Spain. Manolo said he did not like Almodovar´s films. I also learned that there are five Spanish players in the NBA. Manolo put CNN news, in English, on the tv, but Montse objected—I needed to watch Spanish-speaking television in order to learn. I agreed. Manolo found the Survivor show, which I learned is called “Superviventes” and is taking place in Honduras. One of the men was played a recording of his two sons and wife telling him how much they missed him; he wept.
Down on the flats on the other side of the village, near where a small river flows, we stopped and got out. Manolo waded into a thigh-high field of grass and I followed, trying not to crush the crowded stalks though he didn´t seem to mind. Across the field stood a large square of poplar, darker green and laid out in straight lines. Only in the thin ravines between hills and fields and along the roads does anything grow in an irregular pattern. Everything else in the landscape has right angles. Manolo stopped and put his hands on his hips. He made a noise that indicated frustration and leaned down to pick up a piece of half-eaten grass. He held it out for me to see and said, “ratones” (mice). He gestured at the ground for me to note the small burrow holes all about. A moment later I stepped into a particularly well-eaten patch and two small mice scurried away beneath my feet. Apparently the winter is supposed to keep the mouse numbers down, but this last was mild. The mice were taking a toll on this particular field, which was a mix of grasses—wheat, barley, oats, and besa (the last alfalfa-like)—and intended for hay (“por las vacas,” Manolo said). He would have to cut the field soon—sooner than planned—to limit the damage.
The sun set and we headed back to the house. Montse had dinner waiting. We sat down at the table and she ladled a large portion of something reddish and gloopy onto my plate. “Tomatata,” she said. Manolo said something like, “not too much,” concerned I wouldn´t like it. Not without reason—it didn´t look particularly appetizing. A wet mush of tomato marbled with pieces of half-cooked egg and small chunks of onion. But if not handsome in appearance, the tomatata was attractive to the palate. It was warm and soft and tasted vaguely spaghetti-y but better, and I cleaned my plate. Montse also put out a dish of lomo, small stiff and chewy slices that went well with the bread.
After dinner we sat in the living room and talked about Spanish celebrities that have gone to the U.S. and American celebrities that have come to Spain. Manolo said he did not like Almodovar´s films. I also learned that there are five Spanish players in the NBA. Manolo put CNN news, in English, on the tv, but Montse objected—I needed to watch Spanish-speaking television in order to learn. I agreed. Manolo found the Survivor show, which I learned is called “Superviventes” and is taking place in Honduras. One of the men was played a recording of his two sons and wife telling him how much they missed him; he wept.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Espinosa y Valladolid
It´s cliché but true—things slow down here after lunch. Yesterday afternoon, when everyone else in the house disappeared, I repaired to the living room to study my dictionary. The tv was on to Spain´s version of Survivor—a number of very attractive and minimally clothed beautiful people living and arguing on a beach. The Spanish program is a little different, though—slower, with no soundtrack (and apparently no “challenges”). Between desultory exchanges of personal remarks, the scene shifted to a man in a Speedo making a fish trap.
But soon after, when I paused from an intensive session with the verbs hacer and haber, I noticed that the program had changed to a studio talk show. I assumed Survivor had ended, but no, the people in the studio were commenting on the beach action. Then one of the men in the studio got up and sang a song while two busty young women wearing open front short overalls danced around him. Another woman, one of the talkers, got up and danced too, highlighting her exposed midsection.
In the evening I went for a walk out of the village and into the fields of wheat and barley. I walked to a hilltop, from where I could see the rolling green land stretching for miles in every direction. Pretty sweet. Dinner was ready when I got back (waiting for my return, I think, though they were much too polite to say anything). We ate a tortilla, which was excellent.
Afterwards the family settled into a living room scene of domestic bliss. Montse sat sewing something for baby Sara, Manolo worked on his sudokus, Sergio watched a soccer game on tv (two Spanish teams in the European Cup final), and Maite pushed the baby around the room in a carriage trying to get her to sleep. Well, “pushed” isn´t exactly the right word. It seems that Sara requires rigorous motion—think the baby carriage going down the steps in Battleship Potemkin.
This morning I joined Maite, Sergio, and Manolo on an hour drive south to the city of Valladolid. Sergio was scheduled to have his right eye operated on (an outpatient procedure); recently he had opened a bottle of tonic water and the top shot up and hit him in the eye, causing the retina to detach. On the drive we listened to a talky morning radio show. The DJs spoke much too fast for me, but I could sort of follow along. A young woman called in and they had her sing a song she´d written; then they made fun of her, then she cried, then they felt bad.
We went our separate ways in Valladolid, and I soon found myself attending a mass at the Iglesia de Santa Maria La Antigua, a gray stone giant from the 13th century. Only the lower reaches of the great stone vault were lit, and the colorlessness of the space was broken only by two tall, thin stained glass windows above the altar. I tried to follow the priest´s words….I thought he said “despicados” for sins but discovered later that the word is actually “pecados.” I like the first one better. The priest offered communion to the twenty or so congregants, and I considered having a little body and blood, but refrained.
Afterwards the priest disappeared through a side door. Slowly the people rose and left the church. Then the lights went off one by one, until I found myself alone in the near dark. Then I took the hint too.
I wandered around the sunny city, poking into a couple more churches, ambling about the parks, looking at the people. Spanish women are stylish, right up until about 65, then they aren´t but they are still very neat. Middle-aged women and their twenty-something daughters walk along together dressed nearly identically.
Manolo and I met at the train station to return to Espinosa. On the train two plainclothes policemen (Manolo used the word “paisanos”) asked to see identification. One took my passport and wrote the number down on a scrap of paper. Thus I enter another database. Manolo said he´d never been asked for his id on a train. Maybe the two of us together look like trouble.
I´d planned to leave Espinosa tomorrow and head for the start of the Camino. But now I´m pushing that back. Maybe Saturday; Monday at the latest. Life is good in Espinosa.
But soon after, when I paused from an intensive session with the verbs hacer and haber, I noticed that the program had changed to a studio talk show. I assumed Survivor had ended, but no, the people in the studio were commenting on the beach action. Then one of the men in the studio got up and sang a song while two busty young women wearing open front short overalls danced around him. Another woman, one of the talkers, got up and danced too, highlighting her exposed midsection.
In the evening I went for a walk out of the village and into the fields of wheat and barley. I walked to a hilltop, from where I could see the rolling green land stretching for miles in every direction. Pretty sweet. Dinner was ready when I got back (waiting for my return, I think, though they were much too polite to say anything). We ate a tortilla, which was excellent.
Afterwards the family settled into a living room scene of domestic bliss. Montse sat sewing something for baby Sara, Manolo worked on his sudokus, Sergio watched a soccer game on tv (two Spanish teams in the European Cup final), and Maite pushed the baby around the room in a carriage trying to get her to sleep. Well, “pushed” isn´t exactly the right word. It seems that Sara requires rigorous motion—think the baby carriage going down the steps in Battleship Potemkin.
This morning I joined Maite, Sergio, and Manolo on an hour drive south to the city of Valladolid. Sergio was scheduled to have his right eye operated on (an outpatient procedure); recently he had opened a bottle of tonic water and the top shot up and hit him in the eye, causing the retina to detach. On the drive we listened to a talky morning radio show. The DJs spoke much too fast for me, but I could sort of follow along. A young woman called in and they had her sing a song she´d written; then they made fun of her, then she cried, then they felt bad.
We went our separate ways in Valladolid, and I soon found myself attending a mass at the Iglesia de Santa Maria La Antigua, a gray stone giant from the 13th century. Only the lower reaches of the great stone vault were lit, and the colorlessness of the space was broken only by two tall, thin stained glass windows above the altar. I tried to follow the priest´s words….I thought he said “despicados” for sins but discovered later that the word is actually “pecados.” I like the first one better. The priest offered communion to the twenty or so congregants, and I considered having a little body and blood, but refrained.
Afterwards the priest disappeared through a side door. Slowly the people rose and left the church. Then the lights went off one by one, until I found myself alone in the near dark. Then I took the hint too.
I wandered around the sunny city, poking into a couple more churches, ambling about the parks, looking at the people. Spanish women are stylish, right up until about 65, then they aren´t but they are still very neat. Middle-aged women and their twenty-something daughters walk along together dressed nearly identically.
Manolo and I met at the train station to return to Espinosa. On the train two plainclothes policemen (Manolo used the word “paisanos”) asked to see identification. One took my passport and wrote the number down on a scrap of paper. Thus I enter another database. Manolo said he´d never been asked for his id on a train. Maybe the two of us together look like trouble.
I´d planned to leave Espinosa tomorrow and head for the start of the Camino. But now I´m pushing that back. Maybe Saturday; Monday at the latest. Life is good in Espinosa.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
La Comida
In the Chicago airport a man walked by me talking loudly on his cellphone. He said, “this is just between us.” On the flight to Madrid I sat amidst a group of U of Illinois students whose final destination was somewhere in Italy—they were off to study Renaissance history for a month. The girl sitting next to me wore sweatpants with the word “PINK” on the butt. Over the eight hours we spoke only briefly. I read The Pilgrimage by Paulo Coelho (disappointing) and she read the Nanny Diaries and talked to her friend across the aisle. We both watched the film Freedom Riders, though at several points I had to remove my earphones and avert my eyes in embarrassment.
When I travel abroad I become inevitably clumsy, and my first faux pas, though minor, occurred before we even touched down in Madrid. The flight attendant came around asking for “auriculares,” but I wasn’t really listening and handed her an empty cup. She made a derisory remark and then I realized my mistake and handed her the earphones. My language limitations became more obvious and painful later when I called Naomi’s Spanish family from the train station. I spoke to Montse first, then Manolo—they were trying to explain how I could meet up with Maite (their daughter) in Palencia (my train destination), but I could not understand. And I could see on the phone´s digital screen that my two euros were running out…. We finally agreed that I would simply take another train from Palencia to Espinosa (their home village). But to no surprise Manolo was waiting for me at the Palencia station. And I think he’d been waiting for some time—I’d said the train arrived at 2:45, but he heard “dos” as “doce” or twelve. My Spanish is mortifying (well, not always, but often).
On the Metro (subway) in Madrid, I had to make a couple changes to reach the Charmartin train station. At the first change I stood waiting for the door to open until an exasperated woman reached around me and pushed the required button.
On the train to Palencia two plainclothes policeman searched the belongings of the young man sitting in front of me; he had long, dark dreads and looked to be a gypsy. They went through the myriad contents of his backpack with some care, but it wasn’t until they made him empty his pockets that they found what they were looking for. He pulled out a small, dingy and well-used plastic bag with a bit of weed at the bottom. The police tsk-tsked then took his name and address and the weed, before moving on up the train aisle. The young man had argued against the confiscation, but one of the policemen said it was the law.
I had arrived in Madrid at 7:30 in the morning—supposedly. But my body was not fooled by the 600 mph chase of daylight across the Atlantic. It was only around midnight for me, and I had barely slept on the plane. I dozed a bit on the train, and then had a late afternoon nap in Espinosa. This bit or rest helped, but did not fully prepare me for a night out with Manolo, Montse, and six of their friends. It turns out that I had arrived on the annual festival of the granjeros (farmers), which is observed all over Spain. Manolo and Montse and their friends, whom are all granjeros, celebrate annually with a dinner out together.
We drove to the nearby town of Amusco, to La Sinagoga, a restaurant and bar. After a drink at the bar upstairs, we descended to the bodega, a stone-vaulted chamber, long and high-ceilinged and filled with large round tables. We had the place to ourselves.
The meal began with four appetizers—pimiento relleno (red peppers stuffed with cheese and covered with an orange-colored sauce), thin slices of lomo (ham) and chorizo, grilled vegetables dribbled with olive oil, and something called puerro—a sort of cold pudding made from the green stalks of onion plants. I would not recommend puerro.
For the entrée, the women (Montse, Blanca, Marabell, and Amparo) all had some sort of fish in white sauce. I had a grilled fish, a lubino, I think. There had been some discussion about what type of fish I should have, a discussion I mostly stayed out of. But while the fish was quite good, I would come to regret the choice I had made when Manolo had asked me “¿carne o pescado?” I first experienced doubt when two large dishes arrived at the table—the first a huge platter topped with a giant piece of beef two inches thick, sprinkled on top with French fires (two of the men, Francisco and Mariano, shared the beef, polishing it off with ease and aplomb); better yet, though, was a large rectangular casserole dish filled with the leg and thigh and breast of a small lamb (lechazo), with scalloped potatoes occupying the interstices. This dish was shared by Manolo and Juan Carlos. Luckily Manolo asked if I´d like to try some. Yes, I would. Muy deliciosa.
Later my manhood would be questioned when I was the only one not to order dessert. I think it was anyway. I could follow the gist of the conversations throughout the long meal, but most of the details eluded me. After an initial few questions, I was mostly ignored—which suited me fine. I was left to eat and to try to listen and understand. I should say in my defense that I had eaten a large meal late in the afternoon, as soon as I arrived at the house in Espinosa—a big salad with garbanzo beans and tuna, a broiled chicken leg and thigh (doused in an incredible juice), and finally a bowl of natillas, a sort of thin custard and one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.
After the dinner at La Sinagoga, we drove to a the Bar Tagore in Osorno. There we pulled several couches together, with woman on one side of the circle, men on the other. The conversation soon split along gender lines. I tried to follow the men, but the noise and my fatigue made it difficult. My attention was also distracted by a tv above our heads, on which was showing a program called Los Jovenes Toreros: Apprendiendo a Morir (Young Bullfighters: Learning to Die). One clip of a 14-year-old being trampled and gored was shown over and over. Despite such excitement, I struggled to suppress my yawns and to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head. Finally, a little after two in the morning we set off for home.
I got up today at 1:30 in the afternoon, having to cover two nights sleep in a single night. I rose just in time for lunch. Spain is about eating, at least so far.
Once I leave Espinosa, I don´t imagine I´ll have such leisure and opportunity to write as much as I did today…. But I can already feel a strong urge to have some English time.
Could someone forward the blog url to Alix? I didn´t send the original email to her, and I can´t figure out how to type the “at” symbol on this Spanish keyboard.
When I travel abroad I become inevitably clumsy, and my first faux pas, though minor, occurred before we even touched down in Madrid. The flight attendant came around asking for “auriculares,” but I wasn’t really listening and handed her an empty cup. She made a derisory remark and then I realized my mistake and handed her the earphones. My language limitations became more obvious and painful later when I called Naomi’s Spanish family from the train station. I spoke to Montse first, then Manolo—they were trying to explain how I could meet up with Maite (their daughter) in Palencia (my train destination), but I could not understand. And I could see on the phone´s digital screen that my two euros were running out…. We finally agreed that I would simply take another train from Palencia to Espinosa (their home village). But to no surprise Manolo was waiting for me at the Palencia station. And I think he’d been waiting for some time—I’d said the train arrived at 2:45, but he heard “dos” as “doce” or twelve. My Spanish is mortifying (well, not always, but often).
On the Metro (subway) in Madrid, I had to make a couple changes to reach the Charmartin train station. At the first change I stood waiting for the door to open until an exasperated woman reached around me and pushed the required button.
On the train to Palencia two plainclothes policeman searched the belongings of the young man sitting in front of me; he had long, dark dreads and looked to be a gypsy. They went through the myriad contents of his backpack with some care, but it wasn’t until they made him empty his pockets that they found what they were looking for. He pulled out a small, dingy and well-used plastic bag with a bit of weed at the bottom. The police tsk-tsked then took his name and address and the weed, before moving on up the train aisle. The young man had argued against the confiscation, but one of the policemen said it was the law.
I had arrived in Madrid at 7:30 in the morning—supposedly. But my body was not fooled by the 600 mph chase of daylight across the Atlantic. It was only around midnight for me, and I had barely slept on the plane. I dozed a bit on the train, and then had a late afternoon nap in Espinosa. This bit or rest helped, but did not fully prepare me for a night out with Manolo, Montse, and six of their friends. It turns out that I had arrived on the annual festival of the granjeros (farmers), which is observed all over Spain. Manolo and Montse and their friends, whom are all granjeros, celebrate annually with a dinner out together.
We drove to the nearby town of Amusco, to La Sinagoga, a restaurant and bar. After a drink at the bar upstairs, we descended to the bodega, a stone-vaulted chamber, long and high-ceilinged and filled with large round tables. We had the place to ourselves.
The meal began with four appetizers—pimiento relleno (red peppers stuffed with cheese and covered with an orange-colored sauce), thin slices of lomo (ham) and chorizo, grilled vegetables dribbled with olive oil, and something called puerro—a sort of cold pudding made from the green stalks of onion plants. I would not recommend puerro.
For the entrée, the women (Montse, Blanca, Marabell, and Amparo) all had some sort of fish in white sauce. I had a grilled fish, a lubino, I think. There had been some discussion about what type of fish I should have, a discussion I mostly stayed out of. But while the fish was quite good, I would come to regret the choice I had made when Manolo had asked me “¿carne o pescado?” I first experienced doubt when two large dishes arrived at the table—the first a huge platter topped with a giant piece of beef two inches thick, sprinkled on top with French fires (two of the men, Francisco and Mariano, shared the beef, polishing it off with ease and aplomb); better yet, though, was a large rectangular casserole dish filled with the leg and thigh and breast of a small lamb (lechazo), with scalloped potatoes occupying the interstices. This dish was shared by Manolo and Juan Carlos. Luckily Manolo asked if I´d like to try some. Yes, I would. Muy deliciosa.
Later my manhood would be questioned when I was the only one not to order dessert. I think it was anyway. I could follow the gist of the conversations throughout the long meal, but most of the details eluded me. After an initial few questions, I was mostly ignored—which suited me fine. I was left to eat and to try to listen and understand. I should say in my defense that I had eaten a large meal late in the afternoon, as soon as I arrived at the house in Espinosa—a big salad with garbanzo beans and tuna, a broiled chicken leg and thigh (doused in an incredible juice), and finally a bowl of natillas, a sort of thin custard and one of the best things I’ve ever tasted.
After the dinner at La Sinagoga, we drove to a the Bar Tagore in Osorno. There we pulled several couches together, with woman on one side of the circle, men on the other. The conversation soon split along gender lines. I tried to follow the men, but the noise and my fatigue made it difficult. My attention was also distracted by a tv above our heads, on which was showing a program called Los Jovenes Toreros: Apprendiendo a Morir (Young Bullfighters: Learning to Die). One clip of a 14-year-old being trampled and gored was shown over and over. Despite such excitement, I struggled to suppress my yawns and to keep my eyes from rolling back in my head. Finally, a little after two in the morning we set off for home.
I got up today at 1:30 in the afternoon, having to cover two nights sleep in a single night. I rose just in time for lunch. Spain is about eating, at least so far.
Once I leave Espinosa, I don´t imagine I´ll have such leisure and opportunity to write as much as I did today…. But I can already feel a strong urge to have some English time.
Could someone forward the blog url to Alix? I didn´t send the original email to her, and I can´t figure out how to type the “at” symbol on this Spanish keyboard.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Time to go
So I've been talking about this trip long enough, and today it finally begins. In a couple hours I jet off to Madrid, from where I'll immediately take a train north to Espinosa Villadegonzalo--the village where Naomi's Spanish family lives. Manolo and Montse, Maite and baby Sarah, will take me in for a few days. Then I'll continue north, maybe to Bilbao and San Sebastian for a day or two, then across the French border to Bayonne, then south to St. Jean de Pied Port--where I'll begin walking the Camino de Santiago.
I imagine there will be computers scattered along the pilgrim's path, and I will stop to use them. It occurs to me, though, that often when I first land in foreign places I become inarticulate--as if the language part of my brain is overwhelmed by all the new sensations. Hopefully, though, this malady will not have too much of a negative effect on my correspondence skills. We'll see.
I imagine there will be computers scattered along the pilgrim's path, and I will stop to use them. It occurs to me, though, that often when I first land in foreign places I become inarticulate--as if the language part of my brain is overwhelmed by all the new sensations. Hopefully, though, this malady will not have too much of a negative effect on my correspondence skills. We'll see.
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