Un cello

I arrived in Carrion de los Condes, a middle-sized town, today around eleven and looked to have my credencial stamped. The credencial, if I haven´t mentioned it before, is the record of the pilgrim´s progress, and must be presented when presenting one´s self at an albergue in hopes of obtaining a bed for the night. On this occasion I wanted a stamp only to mark my stopping point, as I would be meeting Manolo at one to go back to Espinosa for a few days.

I found a parish albergue, attached to the Iglesia de Santa Maria, and stepped into the anteroom. Four people, two young nuns in full habit and an older man and woman in secular dress, huddled around a desk conferring. Apparently the two young nuns were in training for how to administer the albergue and the older two were providing the guidance. The young nun behind the desk, her face neatly framed in black, took my credencial and asked me if I was Italian. I said no, los Estados Unidos, and she nodded as if to say, of course. I asked for “un cello,” a stamp, but she thought I hoped to stay the night and began to copy my information onto her roster. The older woman intervened, grabbing her hand and saying “no no no no no”; she explained that I just wanted the stamp. “Ah,” the nun said, unruffled, then gently, to me, “va a Caladilla de la Cueza?” (are you going on to the next albergue?). I said no and explained that I would be staying with friends in Espinosa, near Osorno. Everyone in the room considered this wonderful news.

The nun carefully stamped and dated my credencial and handed it back to me. When I rose to go, she pointed to a blue couch across the room and said, “if like, you rest . . . a little time.” I said yes, that would be nice. While I moved from the desk to the couch the older woman and man heaped praise and admiration on the young nun for her facility with English.

Last night in Fromista, after a shower and shave and nap at the albergue, and after some internet time, I wandered the town looking for food. There were a number of bars—Fromista is a bit touristy—but not the menu peregrino I was looking for. One place, Bar Van-Dos did offer such a menu, but only after eight. I returned against my better judgment. The interior smelled of old cigarettes and cigars, and one wall sported images of Egyptian gods another Hollywood stars such as Brando and Dietrich. More importantly there were no other diners. But I was hungry and maybe a little complacent since I hadn´t yet had a bad meal in Spain. Yet.

The dining area was up on a balcony above the bar, and overlooking a big screen television. The gruff, unshaven bartender took me up to a table and took my order. Then he asked “vino o agua?” This is the funny thing about wine in Spain—in restaurants they think of it as equivalent, in terms of value/price, to bottled water. Did I already tell about the albergue in Ventosa, where in a display of beverages a Coca-Cola can marked 1.20 euros stood next to a full-sized bottle of red wine marked 2 euros? I said “vino” and he brought me my own bottle, of which I could only drink half. The wine proved the highlight. The ensalada mixta that followed was tired and disappointing, and segunda, the albondigas (meatballs) were undercooked and ill-presented, accompanied only by a few soggy fries and a ridiculously pathetic pile of chopped iceberg lettuce.

On the television blaring to my left a Christmas-themed episode of Young Superman was showing. One of the women from Desperate Housewives, looking younger and less adulterous, played Lois Lane. She had a yearning for Superman that Clark Kent just could not fill. The couple from the Jeffersons and Dick Van Patten, from Eight is Enough, also featured prominently in the episode. Next was a Spanish game show based on that one hosted by Howie Mandel where you pick a suitcase or something like that. In this version, a young woman shaved the contestant´s head while he made his choices.

Yesterday I was passed on the Camino by a young blonde kid wearing throwback Nikes. Strapped to his pack was a case for a small stringed instrument. When I got back to the albergue after dinner he was sitting out in the courtyard playing. I went up and got in bed and could hear him through the window singing “Mrs. Robinson.”

Today the Camino led along a busy-ish road for the twenty kilometers between Fromista and Carrion. The writer of my guidebook was outraged by this lack of imagination. He offered an alternative route a half mile to the north and I took it. Just about everyone else stuck to the highway. The alternate led through quiet fields then along a small stream, the Rio Ucieza—much bird and frog song, shady cottonwoods, tall green reeds along the bank. One of the loveliest stretches in days.

In Carrion I met Manolo at the Monasterio de Santa Clara. We drove to Espinosa; my first time in a car in twelve days. Everyone was at the house, and they all commiserated with and laughed at my foot wounds. Montse asked if I would like to eat or shower first. Eat, please. We sat down in the kitchen, and Montse spooned out great plates of paella. They all ate very fast and I did too but still finished last by a mile. Afterwards Montse set before us bowls of strawberries doused with a lemon and sugar juice that at first taste made me think, I must have more and more of that. Sergio ate his bowl and then Maite´s too (she didn´t want it).

So I´m off the Camino for a time, maybe a few days, maybe a little longer. It´s good to be back in Espinosa, but earlier today in Carrion, when I was sitting across from the young nun, I did wish I was staying at her albergue. I´m a little reluctant to stop, though I do need the rest. After averaging 21 miles for the last eleven days I´m tired. Still, there´s a rhythm to the Camino that I find appealing, and it feels strange to break it. It has been lonely at times, but never for very long.

I´m a little less than halfway to Santiago de Compestela—I´ve walked 380 kilometers, I have another 420 ahead of me.