Bad albergue

The albergue in Melide last night was the worst albergue of the walk. The municipal albergues in Galicia are all pretty bad (private are much better, but there are fewer of those), but Melide wins for the dirtiest and most unpleasant. Peeling walls, black mold around the windows, filthy floors, strange and terrifying odors, sheets and pillows one hesitates to touch.... When we (Mandy, Rachael, and I) first arrived the woman at the front desk put down her knitting nad stamped our credencials. Once we were upstairs and saw the conditions, Rachael said, "why doesn´t the fat cow get off her ass and do some cleaning." The price was "donativo," which we all refused to do, which of course doesn´t help. Later Rachael packed up her gear and went up the street and got a room at a small and appealing hotel.

But first we had a picnic up on the third floor of the albergue, using a small table we set at the end of the long room, beneath two big windows. We pulled pillows off as yet unclaimed beds and sat on the floor. Outside the weather was cloudy, raining on and off, and a bit coolish. We had shopped earlier, and now set out bread and sheep´s cheese and blue cheese and beets and bananas and chocolate. Such food always improves one´s mood, which had been seriously damaged by our temporary living space and the blustery weather.

Later we walked down into the largish city and found an internet cafe. In a back room young teenagers sat playing with a puppy and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Young boys with mullets and rat tails (surprisngly popular with the youth here) greeted young girls in tight jeans by kissing them on both cheeks. Then they all lit up together.

Later I went out to dinner with Rachael and Mandy and Bart, who had appeared at the albergue not long after we arrived. We stopped first at Pulperia Ezequial to try the octopus, which is a regional specialty. A man behind a small counter pulled a pink octopus from a boiling vat of oil (water?), and then sliced the long tentacles into wafers using a pair of scissors. He poured olive oil and sprinkled spices on top of the pile then handed the wooden plate over to us. This version of pulpo was considerably better than what I´d had at the Christening feast. Less bouncy, more flavor. After our pulpo, we walked across the busy street for pizza, which should´ve been better. It had sounded good.

Today in Spain was old people scything day. Again and again I came upon old men and woman wielding ancient black scythes on patches of overgrown grass--sometimes in small drainage ditches, sometimes in the corner of a large field. They piled the cuttings in great heaps on various types of aged wheelbarrows. Rachael said "Buenas dias" to one old and toothless scything man, and he paused from his work to correct her: it was too late in the day--he had already eaten his midday meal, he said--for one to use "dias." "Buenas tardes," he told her, would be the correct phrase. But then as we were walking off he said, "buen dia," and Rachael said to me, "so what´s up with that?"

I walked with Rachael much of the day; her ankles were swollen and painful and we moved slowly. In the village of Santa Irena I did surge ahead, walking the last three kilometers into Arca de Pino alone (for a total of thirty for the day). I got a bed in big room at the bottom of the large albergue--which smelled of feet, but wasn´t as bad as Melide--then had a shower and shave and washed my socks. By this time I expected Rachael to show up. I asked a few people I knew who came in after me if they had seen her, but no one had. A little worried, I ended up walking back to Santa Irena, to see if she had decided to stay in the albergue there. But no. Back in Arca, Mandy and I checked the few pensions. Finally we gave up and went to dinner (spaghetti, some sort of Galician beef specialty with potatoes, and natillas for dessert: quite good). Afterwards I checked email and there was a message from Rachael. She had missed the turn to the town and gone on; by the time she had discovered her mistake she´d had no desire to turn back, and so carried on a full ten kilometers more before stopping. She´d taken ibprofun just before we parted, and apparently this palliative carried her through.

Communication among the peregrinos spread over the Camino takes various forms (or lack of communication)--but more on that tomorrow....