I go swimming

(A bonus post for the 27th, because there is always so much to say)

The albergue in Finisterre opened at five, and I secured a lower bunk by a window. A few minutes later I was headed out of town, crossing the narrow peninsula to Praia de Mar do Fora. From a hill above I admired the lovely beach, a half mile of white sand giving way on either end to black rocks and high green headlands. The clouds had all blown away to the south and the sun shone without the intermittent pauses of recent days.

Down at the nearly deserted beach I sat in the sand shirtless (a rare condition for me in Spain) and ate some bread and cheese and green olives. Then I walked down to the sea and stepped in--very very cold. But in just a moment I dove into the roiling water and swam out among the three and four foot waves. And in just a moment more I didn´t feel cold at all but nearly as happy as a person can be.

After my swim I sat on the beach for hours; the longer I stayed the longer I wanted to stay. The sound of the waves, the sun glittering on their crests, the wind and sand--all of this somehow undermined my usual impatience. I had that particular all-over good feeling that comes only after a swim in a cold sea, and more generally a satisfying sense of well-being so strong it was almost akin to an ache.

Later back in town I ate at a place by the port, Bar Miramar, where old men stood at the bar slowly drinking glasses of beer and smoking. The Miramar was suggested by the beautiful green-eyed woman who works at the albergue. "It is run by a family," she said, "very nice. The grandfather he will come over and talk to you." Actually he didn´t but the people were friendly. I had a good ensalada mixta (though I had to pick out the canned corn) and the best tortilla de patata I´ve had outside Montse´s kitchen. I sat by a window overlooking the port and the fishing boats, and Family Guy played on the television.

At the albergue when I signed in I had seen the Spanish Martinet--he was out front directing everyone within hearing to all the important sights in town. I also saw Carol, the American woman I had dinner with all the way back in Arre near Pamplona; she had been in Oliveiroa too, and you could hear her braying her bad Spanish througout that albergue. At one point she kept repeating the word "Pittsburgh" to someone over and over: "Pittsburgh!" she shouted. "PITTSburgh!" Not to be an ass or anything, but I was glad to discover that neither she nor the Spaniard had a bed near mine. A tall German woman had the bunk above me, and she eyed me with some distaste when I returned from the beach, I don´t know why.

Despite the minor setback of such company, I really liked Finesterre--the tall narrow buildings stacked up on the hillside above the water, the twisty streets, the stone pier reaching out from the town, the working boats behind the breakwater, the constant sound of crying seagulls. I lay in bed after dark and listened to the gulls, and ran over in my head the full day, and the full days of the last weeks.