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.