Mateus, please don´t do that

In an albergue the first week, two Frenchwomen stood near my bunk talking. As a parting remark, one woman said to the other, who was holding a towel and a toiletrie kit, "bon douche!" I hadn´t been listening, but then that last comment--innocuous if unnecessary--took my attention from my book. It probably shouldn´t have, though. One of the first things you´re told at an albergue is the location of the, in Spanish, "duchas" (showers). Sometimes they are labled in several languages, and except for in English the word is always similar to the Spanish one.

Speaking of cleanliness, it´s an obsession among the peregrinos. The first thing people do upon reaching an albergue (after snagging a good bunk; lowers by windows are preferred) is to head for the showers. Afterwards there is much shaving and lotioning and teethbrushing (as for the last, more than once I´ve been amazed by how long the Germans brush their teeth--it shames one into taking more time too). Once the body is cleaned and polished, the immediate next task is to do the washing. There is usually a sink or two for clothes, and soon people are crowded around scrubbing socks and underwear and shirts; those who can´t squeeze in use the bathroom sinks, though usually there´s a sign saying please don´t. Soon the courtyard is festooned with drying clothes, as are the bunks. Only then do people seem to relax and turn to lesser matters such as eating or napping or drinking wine.

At the albergue in Mazarife yesterday I was checked in by a friendly, shirtless and fiftyish man named Mateus. It seemed that whatever language a new arrival spoke, Mateus could respond in kind. I preferred Spanish, but after he saw "USA" on my credencial he would only speak English to me, though I continued speaking Spanish to him. Later, near bedtime, Mateus buttonholed an attractive German woman for at least a half hour, going on about something, I´m not exactly sure what, but I think he was trying to explain how best for her to approach the Camino, as she´d been having some physical problems. He talked, she nodded and produced strained smiles. At the end he reached out and tousled her hair. Tousled it. I´m sorry, but that´s not something you do to thirty-five-year-old women.

The other half of the small albergue´s staff was Pepe, who was more appealing and a litle older with a long gray ponytail. He was the cook.

Dinner was at seven, and nearly all of the twenty or so people at the albergue signed up. In the dining room downstairs a long wooden table was already set with wine and water bottles, cutlery and baskets of bread, and a plate of salad at each spot. Pepe waved us into the room, and then waved us to our chairs. I sprinkled olive oil and vinegar on my salad (always the only "dressing" choice), poured a glass of red wine, and happily began.

When we were all done with primero, Pepe carried out a huge pan of vegetarian paella (haricots, cauliflower, carrots, onion, and capers) and set it on an adjacent table. He served us each a plate, then encouraged us to have seconds if we wished, and I did. For dessert he passed out plates of fruit--chunks of melon, slices of orange and apple.

On one side of me sat a couple from Montreal, Pierette (67) and John (71)--she told me their ages unbidden. They had bunks next to mine, and the talkative John (who was Hungarian) had already explained to me his thinking on subjects such as daily mileage on the Camino, the current rules at Canadian-American border crossings, the number of flies in the room, and the fact that Toyota had overtaken General Motors. On the other side of me were two Italian women, Josie and Chincina, both about thirty. They had just started walking that day, from Leon. It came out that Josie had no hat and this elicited a concerned mini-lecture from John.

Pierette and John spoke heavily-accented and imperfect English between themselves as well as with me (apparently John did not speak French), while Josie and Chincina spoke only a little English. Yet they were both obviously interested in making the effort and participating in the conversation.

We talked of our homes, as people always do, relying overmuch on the familiar cliches. Somehow the conversation turned to Italian movies (I think because someone lamented the overweening influence of American films), and Pierette nearly swooned as she listed off a number of Italian actors she had adored in her youth. She was still crazy about someone named Don Camillo and had a number of his films on dvd. The two Italian women nodded approvingly at each name. One of them mentioned The Bicycle Thief, which we all agreed was great. But Pierette, who had watched it recently, said, "yes, but it is very sad. Afterwards I had to put in Don Camillo."

Earlier, while we still eating, Pierette had told me that she has three children and six grandchildren, all living close to Montreal. The youngest of the grandchildren is eight, and Pierette has taken care of her regularly since she was a baby. "I want to call her mother," Pierette said, "but I´m afraid the child will answer, and then--." She put a hand to her cheek and looked as if she would cry. She and John had considered starting their walk in Le Puy, but she told me that that would have meant three months away from the grandchildren which was too long.

This morning I overslept, the first time that has happened. But soon I was out the door and walking through quiet Mazarife and out into the countryside. Today´s stage was a little longer than any I´ve done since returning to the Camino--thirty kilometers. Along a small country road for the first part...through a couple sleepy villages...among fields of barley and wheat, and some corn today for a change. Rivers, the occasional stone medieval bridge. One long stretch was up over a hill and through an almost-forest of scrub oak, wild grass in the large spaces between patches of trees--an attractive savanna. From the top I could see Astorga in the distance, the twin towers of the cathedral rising up out of the jumble of red-roofed buildings. And Astorga is where I am now, in the Albergue San Javier. There is a tiny balcony off of my six-bunkbed room, and I can see the cathedral just down at the end of the narrow street. Astorga is big, if not as big as Burgos or Leon, and quite handsome on first impression. I´m loking forward to exploring after siesta, when all the shops re-open. The man who runs the albergue said that the nearby Cafe Gaudi offers the best pilgrim menu on the Camino and at eight o´clock tonight I plan to find out for myself.