I like to sing

I like to sing as I walk along, but the problem is I don´t know many songs. The only one for which I know all the lyrics seems to be "Reason to Believe" by Bruce. It´s a good one to know, and I sing it a couple times a day, but I still wish I knew more. Of course I know parts of many songs. Today I was walking along, and I thought, "oh, it´s Saturday." And that made me start singing: "Saturday, in the park, I think it was the fourth of July. Sunny day, in the park... ne ne ne ne.... people laughing, people singing, a man selling ice cream... hmmm hmmm... can you dig it... na na... yes, I can." And so on.

The albergue I stayed in last night had been open only ten days; the building was brand new, open and airy and clean and a little sterile. I arrived first, and after he stamped my credencial, took my seven euros, and put out his cigarette, the proprietor took me up to the third floor. I had no reservations about the room: large, with ten single beds spread widely along the walls: skylights in the slanted wood ceiling; and at the far end a huge window, thrown open to the sun and mountains. I chose a bed by the window.

I had asked about internet, and the proprietor had said no, but launched into some explanation that I could not decipher. It turned out that none of the many bar/restaurants in town had internet either, which was odd. Later, though, I learned that one could use the computers at the school, but only after eight. By then, after dinner, I only wanted bed.

I met a couple that I´d been seeing for days but hadn´t yet spoken to: Cathy (Vancouver) and Edwin (New Zealand). They´d been traveling for nearly a year, and had decided to finish off with a walk on the Camino, before returning to Canada. They had the calm and confident demeanor of the long-traveled.

Ben stayed at the albergue too, and we made plans for dinner. There was a second albergue, but apparently it was a little decrepit. I ran into Mandy in town, and she was staying at the other one; "the cooties have cooties," she said, describing the beds. She decided to join us for dinner, as did Bart, and Jasmine, a young and beautiful Geran woman with wavy dark hair and large, handsome nose.

We ate at Meson Palacio, by a river and a stone bridge. I returned, with success, to the ensalada mixta, and followed that up with a tortilla, which was good but not Montse-good. Ditto for the dessert, natillas.

Ham and eggs was one choice, and Bart said, "A priest once asked me if I knew the difference between contribution and committment. He said, when it comes to ham and eggs, the chicken has made a contribution, but the pig has made a commitment." Then a big laugh.

His stories did, though, get better. First, though, Mandy was for some reason telling about one time when she was a freshman and got wasted and passed out, and then some girl she hardly knew had written all over her in marker. This had happened to Jasmine too, it turned out. Bart had a different version. "Once when I was a senior in high school," he said, "I got really drunk and passed out, and these two girls, they were friends of mine, put two big hickeys on my neck, one on either side." His father had been amused, he told us, his mother was not.

Before anyone else could recall a story of debauchery, Bart jumped in with another. Apparently I friend of his had been college roomates with Chris Farley at Marquette. "So one time Farley gets drunk and passes out, and then his roommates shaved his head and eyebrows, and poured syrup and ketchup and a bunch of other stuff on him." The best part, though, said Bart, was that Farley had refused to shower for a week afterwards. Bart held out his hands and, quoting Farley, said "you made me what I am, you can live with me."

Bart also told us that he was having intense dreams. In one he´d had the night before, he´d been sitting around a campdfire, and John Denver had been there, with his guitar, singing "Annie´s Song." Bart turned to a person beside him, and said, "but I thought John Denver was dead." At that moment, Denver disappeared, poof. Bart looked at all of us: "so what do you think that means?" he asked. No one had a theory.

This mornign I walked downhill for an hour into the large city of Ponferrada. There was a big castle, built by the Templars a long time ago I don´t know how long, but it was closed for reconstruction. At least half of the old buildings in Spain are under re-construction. I paused long enough in the city to admire the large churches and expansive plazas, and then went on. Today was utterly different than yesterday. Mostly I walked on or along roads, through city and suburbs mostly. Some grape and cherry tree orchards too, but in almost everyone men were spraying the vines and trees. It was Day of the Chemicals. The last five or so kilometers of the thirty kilometer day were much better, up through rolling hills, through a couple tiny villages, more vineyards.

I came to Villafranca del Bierzo about one. A beautiful little town down in a narrow fold in the hills. I´m at a funky albergue, Ave Felix, where the proprietor is an old man with long wispy gray hair and the ability to speak a number of languages. He looked at my credencial, and said, "come on upstairs, Capper, I´ll show you your bed." Good words to hear after a long walk.