Sleeping with strangers

I think I´ve mentioned that most of the people on the Camino are over fifty, and that the French, Germans, and Spaniards dominate. There are also people from Great Britain, Holland, Belgium, Italy…. Some Canadians, and a scattering of Americans. Maybe Europeans dominate because of the obvious proximity, or because of the Camino´s long importance in European history. But I also think that most Americans, especially older ones, are (or would be) put off by the communal set-up in the albergues. It´s hard for me to picture roomfuls of American fifty-something couples sleeping in bunkbeds, sharing bathrooms, and stripping down to their underwear in front of strangers. I suppose camping and campgrounds require some such group living, but one can always retreat to the RV or tent, those mobile versions of a single-family dwelling. In the albergues there is no escaping other people; there is no privacy.

Not that that´s necessarily a terrible thing. Often the result is a pleasant and easy friendliness. Most people are polite and accommodating and don´t smell too bad.

On the other hand, even people with the best intentions don´t always practice courtesy—especially when they´re sleeping. Here of course I´m referring to the snoring.

This has been a revelation for me. I mean, I knew about snoring; I believe I might snore some myself. But I don´t think I fully realized the great variety, the aural diversity, that a roomful of people can produce.

My second night, in Roncesvalles, was my initiation. A few minutes after lights out at ten, the man who had taken the bunk below mine showed up from somewhere and proceeded to rustle plastic bags for what seemed like half an hour or so. But that was the good part. About two minutes after he finally settled in he fell asleep and began to snore. Very very loudly. It seemed as if the whole bedsted was vibrating, I´m not kidding. Occasionally he would let out a roar of a honk which would wake him for a moment—but only for a moment. Soon he was once again asleep and snoring and torturing me. I could not sleep for the longest time. Earplugs offered little help. I tried covering my head with the pillow, but if anything the snoring was louder coming up through the mattress. I finally slept, but only fitfully, off and on through the night.

In subsequent nights I seemed cursed with such neighbors; but rather than chalking up my fate to bad luck, I soon discovered that any room of even a few people is bound to have at least one champion snorer, usually more than one, and inevitably a few also-rans as well. The older men are the worst, and they are the most common demographic on the Camino.

Laying awake those first nights in the albergues, before I´d grown (somewhat) used to the noise, I teased out a list of types of snores. No two are exactly alike, but there do seem to be categories. At the bearable end is the light sawing, just a little more than heavy breathing, but with an edge that emanates more from the throat than the nose—this is almost companionable but not quite; then there are the surprisingly numerous candle snuffers, who punctuate a long breath with a sudden pooched-lip “ppp” (there´s a linguistic term for this that I can´t quite recall at the moment), a sound that strikes me as affected and unnecessary (just breathe, please, no need for the emphasis); next, floating across the top of the bunkbeds, comes the guileless Scooby-doo interrogatory, a snore that ends with a bemused question mark tossed out into the uncomprehending dark; less friendly is the peevish, “I´m trying to sleep!” snore, which concludes over and over with an annoyed grumble; then there is the absurd and briefly entertaining husband and wife combo, sometimes performed in harmony, sometimes as a duet (I´ve heard this crack up a whole room of those still sleepless).

I´ll list just two more types, the two most difficult to sleep over or through. First is the Olympic Rip, exemplified by the man in Roncevalles. This snore is distinguished by its mighty volume, which in the quiet darkness of the night seems as loud as a shout. One´s first reaction is, can it be possible? I´ve tried to recreate the sound myself, and I can´t do it, I can´t even come close. Such a snore fills a room and one´s thoughts, pushing everything else out until all one can do is lay wide awake, helplessly pummeled by the noise, entertaining visions of murder.

But at least the Olympic Rip has pattern or regularity, and after some hours one may be able to get used to it and fall into a shallow, uneasy sleep. The toughest snore to deal with, however, is the unpredictable Growl & Snap, which I lay unsleeping next to on my fourth night in Estella (after the thirty mile day). This snore starts deep in the throat and grows in volume as it moves up towards the mouth—where it may culminate in a version of the Olympic Rip; however, more likely is the sudden snap, which is either loud or very loud, and sounds as if the sleeper has risen up from his pillow and snatched a small bird from the air. The angry grumbling that follows sounds not unlike chewing. The Growl & Snap follows no set pattern, but occurs at irregular intervals, and at various decibel levels. The listener is held, against his will, by dread anticipation; if one manages to drift off in the short quiet spaces in between, a sudden Snap will jolt one awake again. The man in Estella slept in a top bunk next to mine (inches from mine, I should add), with his wife below; I kept waiting for her to get up and jostle his shoulder, or maybe punch him in the face, but she did not.

A couple nights later in Santo Domingo de Calzada, a young Englishman, Sam, said to a German girl in the bed beside his, “I snore some, so just give me a shove if it´s a problem.” The girl turned to me, on the other side, and asked if I gave the same permission. Certainly, I said, please do.
------------------------

Tonight will be my last with a room of my own. Tomorrow morning Manolo will drive me back to Carrion, and I´ll start walking again.