In Leon, looking forward to dinner

Some people in the albergues are leisurely in their morning preparations, going so far as to make themselves breakfast. My alarm goes off at 5:45, and I´m outside in the almost-dark by 6:00 and on my way. I´ve put a banana and a muffin or some bread in my pocket, and I walk and eat as the sun comes up.

Lunch is light, more bread and fruit, maybe some olives and cheese. Dinner, though, that I take seriously--and by time seven rolls around (the hour when most restaurantes begin serving the evening´s menu) I have cultivated a serious desire to eat some good and substantial food.

Two nights ago in Calzada de Hermanillos I ate at the only restaurant in the small village. The middle-aged couple who ran it were encouraging and accommodating (which is usually not the case in customer service situations here, as I´ve mentioned before). The small interior of the restaurant was crowded with a half dozen wooden tables, and ocher-dominated oil paintings of the local countryside hung on the walls (painted by the husband, I later learned). And, though it didn´t quite match with the rest of the warm furnishings, a small television sat on a bracket high up on one wall, the volume turned low.

I had a table to myself for this meal. Company is good, but such is my commitment to la cena that the food alone is companionable too. A basketball game on the tv, a Spanish league playoff between Real Madrid and Joventut, provided bonus entertainment (there were several African-Americans on each team). But the food starred: first ensalada mixta (though I could have chosen macarones, asparagus, or lentajas), second something called Sajonia that the woman said was "rico" and turned out to be a ham steak, served with fries. The carafe of red wine filled my glass three times. For dessert I chose helado, which here was better than usual--vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, on top of a pineapple ring and a half of a peach.

I ate slow, making the meal last the whole basketball game. Dinner cost eight euros or about eleven dollars. Add in five euros for the albergue, a couple euros for fruit and bread, and that´s the cost of a day on the Camino.

Yesterday just as I reached Mansilla de las Mulas, people were entering a church near the albergue. I saw a young girl in snowy white from head to foot with white flowers in her hair, and I figured it´s either a wedding or a first communion. When a miniature naval officer, dripping braid, ambled up with his parents I decided the occasion was the latter. Soon a half dozen other girls, and various commodores, admirals, and natty common sailors arrived. Later, after the ceremony, a brass band led the newly confirmed kids in a parade around town; the girls tossed rose petals, carried in small white baskets, as they processed along the route, and for the rest of the day all over town the petals blew about in the streets.

I went out to dinner with Ben, the Autralian, and a British couple, Andy and Laura. The family in charge of the restaurant, which was in a big airy room behind a bar, were as peremptory as the previous night´s had been amicable. I had ensalada mixta first, chuletas (two pork chops) second. Everyone else had the fish (merluza or hake). I´ve had fish a couple times on the trip, but haven´t found myself all that happy afterwards. By the evening I find that my hunger is such that I need something with more personality than fish. Think lumberjack appetite. By the way, the third choice was ham and eggs. A sign out front had promised pollo as well, but the young woman shook me off when I had the temerity to ask after that fourth option.

I learned that Ben, who I mentioned earlier is a singer/songwriter, has made a couple cds of children´s songs in Australia, and is working on another such album in New York. Andy works for a telecomm company in England, in the security division. Laura makes furniture, footstools and ottomans, which she sells herself. At first she was a little self-deprecating about the work, but Andy was more forthcomng, and then she was too.

When I said I was from Minnesta, Laura said "Lake Woebegone." While I like Garrison Keillor, I´m afraid my first reaction was a little defensive. "Yes," I said, "A Prairie Home Companion. But I live in a city, the Twin Cities. It´s not like that" On the other hand, the fact that Laura and Andy knew anything about Minnesta was a rarity. Usually the word elicits a blank stare, or something like, "is that near Chicago?" It shouldn´t be a surprse, but it´s still funny to learn--over and over--that your home is largely anonymous outside the U.S.

We had a lovely conversation over the two hours of the meal, ranging widely. I probably talked a little too much, but we discussed books for awhile, and I get kind of blabby when that subject comes up. Books got us to storytelling, and then you couldn´t shut me up.

Today I had my shortest stage yet, just under twelve miles to Leon (but then I spent the whole afternoon walking around the city). The center city is pretty fabulous--winding, narrow streets filled with shops and bars and restaurants. I already found one bookstore, which had a large selection of books in English (Naked Lunch? Pale Fire? Anthony Bourdain´s Kitchen Confidential?). I bought Jonathan Raban´s Bad Land, a book about Montana because I´m a little homesick for American stuff.

I´ve had a look at the famous heaps of stone too, like the cathedral, which was one of the more amazing versions I´ve seen--what excess, what stained glass (rank upon rank of towering, arched windows, massive rosettes), what an astonishing number of bloodied and tortured Christs.

I´m staying in a huge convent tonight, with something like one hundred bunkbeds. But for some reason we peregrinos don´t rate pillows at this stop.

Soon I will go in search of dinner. This morning on a dirt road I came upon an old man with an old dog, and the man was using his cane to cast about in the weeds along the edge. Every few moments he would slowly bend over and pick up a snail and put it in a blue plastic bag. His dinner.