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.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
In which I learn about the leather tanning industry
Yesterday for the midday meal Manolo and I ate garbanzo beans and huevos lleno Montse had left for us. His mother appeared during the meal bearing a pan of lentajas and a plate of jamon serrano. Son and mother argued, Manolo opening the refrigerator and gesturing at the food, apparently trying to assure her we had enough. Nonetheless we later ate the lentajas and ham and I was happy to do so. During dinner his mother showed up again (she lives next door), this time with a dish of cooked mushrooms (which Manolo´s father had gathered earlier that day). Manolo expressed exasperation and then we ate the mushrooms.
After both lunch and dinner he and I sat together in the living room and looked at family photographs. He had brought down two drawer-fuls from upstairs. I looked at the souvenirs of dozens of weddings (including Manolo and Montse´s own), baptisms, and first communions. As for the last, the boys for some reason wear quasi-military get-ups, their jackets festooned with braid and epaulets, as if the young communicant were standing on the bridge of a destroyer.
For most of the day, though, I again had the house to myself, and a long stretch of uncluttered time. A sentence from Patrick Leigh Fermor´s Mani: Travels in the Southern Peloponnese seemed apt: “One compensation of this kind of travel is the unchartable and unregimented leisure between the rigours of displacement.” Yes, but I function best with at least a mild work regime, and so I continued writing….
My fourth day on the Camino was Naomi´s birthday, and I thought of her and wished she was walking alongside of me. But instead I settled for Lino and Christoph once again. On this day Lino would require us to cover a shorter distance—just 24 miles—but at a faster pace. I think he´d been taken aback by the late arrival in Estella the previous day.
In the first village, Irache, a local wine maker provides a free wine fuente or tap for peregrinos. Eight in the morning is a bit early for me and wine to mix, but I had a sip for the novelty.
The sun burned off an early mist and soon the morning grew hot. We paused only briefly in the villages for water, in between traversing a rolling country of wheat and barley and more wheat and barley, and sometimes a vineyard. We reached the substantial town of Los Arcos about eleven. Lino asked women in the narrow streets about a tienda, and eventually chose a small one in the small Plaza de Santa Maria. Inside, he talked the storekeeper, a plump middle-aged woman, into slicing him some ham, cutting up a baguette, and making him a bocadillo. Christoph and I settled for the separate parts, though the friendly woman did go ahead without asking and cut our baguette lengthwise, spilling bread crumbs all over the counter.
Outside in the plaza in the cool shade of the church we sat down on the flagstones and Christoph made up sandwiches for the two of us, slicing a tomato to garnish the seranno ham. Such bocadillos are a mainstay on the Camnio, but I find them a little dry. The Spanish apparently don´t do condiments.
After lunch we made a hot four hour march to Viana. Lino and Christoph surged ahead, and I let them go. Eventually Christoph, tiring, dropped back with me. We talked quite a bit during the two days we were together on the Camino; he was gregarious, tall and social, and required conversation. At one particularly tiring point he had said to me, “I don´t care what we talk about, let´s just talk.” He´d been traveling about the world for nearly a year, after quitting an engineering job at Kimberly-Clark in Tucson (which involved substantial time in Mexico, where he´d learned his Spanish). He had also been—and still was—working on an MBA through the University of Phoenix. In a couple more months he would have to get a job again, but he was hoping to figure out something entrepreneurial that would allow him to continue to travel and have adventures.
Christoph was born in Switzerland but grew up mostly in Wisconsin near Madison. His grandfather had owned a tanning factory in Switzerland, and his father had adopted the work too. But when, for globalization-type reasons, tanning was no longer possible in Switzerland, the factory had closed and Christoph´s father had brought the family to Wisconsin, where he took up the same work (in which he is one of the world´s foremost experts). Now, though, tanning has moved to China, where Christoph´s parents are living, not quite contentedly. Over the course of our second morning together I learned much about the business and process of tanning, the different types and grades of leather and their different uses.
We reached Viana at four in the afternoon, only about a half hour behind Lino. All the beds at the albergue were taken, but the woman in charge assuaged my initial concern. She grabbed a thin mattress down from a stack in the laundry room and put it on the floor of the dining room. There was room for ten or so mattresses, and all were eventually put into use. Mine was set down next to a soda machine, with the head shoved under a table against the wall. Sounds a bit awkward, but it wasn´t, not really.
Christoph took a quick shower and then headed for the bus station. He´d decided that the speed with which we´d been moving would allow him to lever into his schedule a few days off from the Camino. He was heading for Pamplona, then Paris, and then Brussels and his Brazilian girlfriend.
I showered too, washed some clothes, and then settled for a sad dinner of muesli and banana, outside in a stone courtyard overlooking the lower part of town. A light rain began to fall as I spooned the goopy cereal into my mouth.
The next morning Lino and I set off together, though it wasn´t the same without Christoph´s jaunty presence. Soon we came to a small, old house and he gestured me inside. I ducked my head through the low doorway and stepped into a low-lit room mostly filled with a long table spread with bread and jam and milk. An elderly woman, small and rotund, stood to the side chatting with a couple German peregrinos. She puts out the breakfast each morning for the pilgrims, and sets a small dish to the side where people can leave donations if they like. The stamp she used to stamp my credencial read “Felisa” (her name?), and then below, “Higos, Agua y Amor” (figs, water and love).
After a couple miles, Lino and I came into the heart of Logroño, one of the larger cities on the Camino. I stopped him, and pointed up a street towards the Catedral Santa Maria de la Redonda. I made a circular motion with my hand and said in Spanish that I wanted to see the town. He nodded yes, he understood. We shook hands and he said “ciao.” I said I might catch up with him in Najera, where he planned to spend the night, but we both knew this was unlikely.
It rained most of the rest of the day, and I stopped in Ventosa, five miles short of Najera, and stayed in a lovely albergue and had that fabulous dinner at the Meson San Anton.
After both lunch and dinner he and I sat together in the living room and looked at family photographs. He had brought down two drawer-fuls from upstairs. I looked at the souvenirs of dozens of weddings (including Manolo and Montse´s own), baptisms, and first communions. As for the last, the boys for some reason wear quasi-military get-ups, their jackets festooned with braid and epaulets, as if the young communicant were standing on the bridge of a destroyer.
For most of the day, though, I again had the house to myself, and a long stretch of uncluttered time. A sentence from Patrick Leigh Fermor´s Mani: Travels in the Southern Peloponnese seemed apt: “One compensation of this kind of travel is the unchartable and unregimented leisure between the rigours of displacement.” Yes, but I function best with at least a mild work regime, and so I continued writing….
My fourth day on the Camino was Naomi´s birthday, and I thought of her and wished she was walking alongside of me. But instead I settled for Lino and Christoph once again. On this day Lino would require us to cover a shorter distance—just 24 miles—but at a faster pace. I think he´d been taken aback by the late arrival in Estella the previous day.
In the first village, Irache, a local wine maker provides a free wine fuente or tap for peregrinos. Eight in the morning is a bit early for me and wine to mix, but I had a sip for the novelty.
The sun burned off an early mist and soon the morning grew hot. We paused only briefly in the villages for water, in between traversing a rolling country of wheat and barley and more wheat and barley, and sometimes a vineyard. We reached the substantial town of Los Arcos about eleven. Lino asked women in the narrow streets about a tienda, and eventually chose a small one in the small Plaza de Santa Maria. Inside, he talked the storekeeper, a plump middle-aged woman, into slicing him some ham, cutting up a baguette, and making him a bocadillo. Christoph and I settled for the separate parts, though the friendly woman did go ahead without asking and cut our baguette lengthwise, spilling bread crumbs all over the counter.
Outside in the plaza in the cool shade of the church we sat down on the flagstones and Christoph made up sandwiches for the two of us, slicing a tomato to garnish the seranno ham. Such bocadillos are a mainstay on the Camnio, but I find them a little dry. The Spanish apparently don´t do condiments.
After lunch we made a hot four hour march to Viana. Lino and Christoph surged ahead, and I let them go. Eventually Christoph, tiring, dropped back with me. We talked quite a bit during the two days we were together on the Camino; he was gregarious, tall and social, and required conversation. At one particularly tiring point he had said to me, “I don´t care what we talk about, let´s just talk.” He´d been traveling about the world for nearly a year, after quitting an engineering job at Kimberly-Clark in Tucson (which involved substantial time in Mexico, where he´d learned his Spanish). He had also been—and still was—working on an MBA through the University of Phoenix. In a couple more months he would have to get a job again, but he was hoping to figure out something entrepreneurial that would allow him to continue to travel and have adventures.
Christoph was born in Switzerland but grew up mostly in Wisconsin near Madison. His grandfather had owned a tanning factory in Switzerland, and his father had adopted the work too. But when, for globalization-type reasons, tanning was no longer possible in Switzerland, the factory had closed and Christoph´s father had brought the family to Wisconsin, where he took up the same work (in which he is one of the world´s foremost experts). Now, though, tanning has moved to China, where Christoph´s parents are living, not quite contentedly. Over the course of our second morning together I learned much about the business and process of tanning, the different types and grades of leather and their different uses.
We reached Viana at four in the afternoon, only about a half hour behind Lino. All the beds at the albergue were taken, but the woman in charge assuaged my initial concern. She grabbed a thin mattress down from a stack in the laundry room and put it on the floor of the dining room. There was room for ten or so mattresses, and all were eventually put into use. Mine was set down next to a soda machine, with the head shoved under a table against the wall. Sounds a bit awkward, but it wasn´t, not really.
Christoph took a quick shower and then headed for the bus station. He´d decided that the speed with which we´d been moving would allow him to lever into his schedule a few days off from the Camino. He was heading for Pamplona, then Paris, and then Brussels and his Brazilian girlfriend.
I showered too, washed some clothes, and then settled for a sad dinner of muesli and banana, outside in a stone courtyard overlooking the lower part of town. A light rain began to fall as I spooned the goopy cereal into my mouth.
The next morning Lino and I set off together, though it wasn´t the same without Christoph´s jaunty presence. Soon we came to a small, old house and he gestured me inside. I ducked my head through the low doorway and stepped into a low-lit room mostly filled with a long table spread with bread and jam and milk. An elderly woman, small and rotund, stood to the side chatting with a couple German peregrinos. She puts out the breakfast each morning for the pilgrims, and sets a small dish to the side where people can leave donations if they like. The stamp she used to stamp my credencial read “Felisa” (her name?), and then below, “Higos, Agua y Amor” (figs, water and love).
After a couple miles, Lino and I came into the heart of Logroño, one of the larger cities on the Camino. I stopped him, and pointed up a street towards the Catedral Santa Maria de la Redonda. I made a circular motion with my hand and said in Spanish that I wanted to see the town. He nodded yes, he understood. We shook hands and he said “ciao.” I said I might catch up with him in Najera, where he planned to spend the night, but we both knew this was unlikely.
It rained most of the rest of the day, and I stopped in Ventosa, five miles short of Najera, and stayed in a lovely albergue and had that fabulous dinner at the Meson San Anton.
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Estella or bust
So here in Espinosa Manolo and I are bachin´ it. Montse set off for Valladolid yesterday afternoon, to take care of Sara while Maite is at work. She left us a tortilla for dinner, which we ate late after Manolo came in from mowing hay. During the meal his mother came over from next door and offered to clean up after us, but Manolo told her we had it covered.
After dinner we sat in the living room with the tv and talked man topics, like home improvement projects and the weather. Earlier in the day I had followed Manolo out to the big field he was cutting, driving the Suzuki Santana behind his large green tractor. It has been many years since I´ve driven a vehicle that lacks power steering. When we reached the field I parked the Suzuki and squeezed in the tractor cab with Manolo. We went around the edge of the sloping field, in and out of bays, and for a stretch right along a deep gully that put me in mind of tractors tipping over on Homer Simpson. When we got back around to the start, Manolo stopped, I thought to let me out. But instead he rose from his seat and gestured for me to take it. I did so, though with some trepidation. I carefully drove a couple circuits, cutting the high grass and leaving long green heaps in my wake—and thinking, Winston, you are jealous. The various corners were tricky, but Manolo helped me with the controls, lifting the mower attachment, finding reverse, manipulating the various petals.
When my stint was done, I took the Suzuki back to the village, bouncing over the rutted red dirt roads. I spent the afternoon alone at the house, reading, and writing the next part of my walking tale, which I pick up from where I left off a couple days ago--
On the third day on the Camino I set off in the company of Lino and Christoph. We walked through Arre in the cool and sunny morning, and through the outskirts of Pamplona, to a lovely city park with huge, leafy sycamores, and across the rio Arga, and up to a stone portal and into the narrow streets of the old town perched on a hill.
I had planned to spend some time wandering around Pamplona, but I gave this up, with some reluctance, in order to stay with Lino and Christoph. We went through the city following the yellow arrows without digression. We did pause at a sidewalk café for breakfast, but it would be many hours before Lino would brook any further delay. A reminder here, that Lino (aged 69, whippet thin, his face unlined, his smooth, tan head uncluttered by hair) intended to walk the Camino in twenty days—the night before at dinner he had shown me a piece of paper outlining each day´s distance, each night´s stop. He clearly wished to enlist Christoph and myself in his endeavor, but he would not compromise his plan if we were to fall behind. He never said as much—he was always friendly and often quite helpful (later he would gently doctor my blisters, running needle and thread through the white bulges)—but I knew that either I kept up or I wouldn´t see him again.
Why exactly it was important for me to keep up, I´m not sure I can say in retrospect—or could have explained at the time. I liked Lino, and appreciated his knowledge of the Camino. I also liked the idea of long stages, at least theortically. And I enjoyed Christoph´s company, our English-speaking conversations—and Christoph was staying with Lino, at least for a couple more days. Still, I don´t know that all this adds up to a sufficient explanation.
I did briefly fall behind in Pamplona, when a frazzled American girl stopped me and asked if I knew a place where she could use the internet. She was not on the Camino, but had arrived in town by train that morning. “And if I can´t check my email I can´t figure out my hotel or anything and I´m fucked, and the people at the train station, who I couldn´t even understand, gave me directions to a place but they were fucked up, and I don´t know where anything is, and nothing´s open yet, and I don´t know what to do.” I had to tell her that I had just arrived myself and knew the city no better than she did, but I did suggest she try the tourist office, though added it probably wasn´t open so early. She gave a big sigh. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said. “Well, thanks at least for speaking English with me.” That I understood.
After our sidewalk breakfast, we passed through a couple city parks, then, on the far side of town, through the lovely, grassy grounds of the University of Navarre. Up a long hill to the suburb of Cizur Menor, then up more steeply for five kilometers to Alto del Perdon. On top I put my pack down for a moment, but Lino surged right on and over and down the rocky descent.
In the next village, Uterga, Lino asked several old people—there are always a few out, sweeping the gutters, carrying bread, or simply ambling slowly with canes and/or small dogs—about the location of the fuente. Usually these village fountains (one or several spigots running into a stone trough) are obvious, a center piece of the small plaza. Lino always paused for a drink at the fuentes because he didn´t carry a water bottle (did I mention that his small pack weighed six kilos? Mine was ten, which he considered excessive and unfortunate). We came to the far edge of the village and still no fountain, so Lino went to the small, dark window of a house, from which the sound of dogs barking was emanating, and shouted something in Italian. After a moment an old man smelling of cigars and with one clamped in his mouth came out, along with several dogs. He and Lino talked at but not with each other, but finally the old man understood “agua.” He went back inside then returned with a large plastic coke bottle filled with water. Lino took a long drink then passed the bottle to me.
After another three miles or so we came to the beautiful village of Obanos, and Christoph and I threw ourselves down in the grassy shade of a church. The day had grown quite hot. Lino glanced at us and kept moving. We said we´d catch up. It was something of a relief to see him go, I must admit. The man´s pace was amazing—almost a jog, it seemed to me at times.
He was waiting for us at the edge of the next town, a largish one, Puente La Reina. This was the only time I saw Lino show any sort of annoyance. Apparently, we had reached the town a little too late—the stores close at two and don´t open again until four or five. Lino´s practice was to go to a small grocery (what the Spanish grandiosely call a “supermercado”) and buy the makings—bread and slices of ham—for a bocadillo. Arriving shortly after two, we had screwed up his lunch plans. But we salvaged a meal by going into a bar, where, after Christoph helped translate Lino´s Italian, Lino got his ham sandwich. I had a slice of tortilla, which was excellent. Lino said I didn´t eat enough.
Though we had walked thirty kilometers, or eighteen miles, our day was far from done. In the rolling countryside beyond Puente La Reina, among wheat and barley fields and occasionally a few rows of grape vines, Lino soon outdistanced Christoph and me. We, slowed by the heat and fatigue, let him go. Free of his “no stooping” mantra, we paused at each village for a short rest at the fuente—in Mañeru, Ciraqui, Lorca (the last two had comfy looking albergues)—and doused our heads and arms with the cool water.
We finally reached the town of Estella about 7:30, and found the large albergue, near the rio Ega. Lino stepped into the street to greet us. He had showered and changed and looked quite fresh. Fifty kilometers? Thirty miles? And what´s your point?
Christoph and I got the last two beds in the busy albergue. Then we went to a nearby restaurant with Lino, where we sat out front at a green plastic table. I ordered plato #2: first ensalada mixta, then, together, meatballs, french fries, two fried eggs, and lomo. Everything tasted wonderful, and I ate every bite.
After dinner we sat in the living room with the tv and talked man topics, like home improvement projects and the weather. Earlier in the day I had followed Manolo out to the big field he was cutting, driving the Suzuki Santana behind his large green tractor. It has been many years since I´ve driven a vehicle that lacks power steering. When we reached the field I parked the Suzuki and squeezed in the tractor cab with Manolo. We went around the edge of the sloping field, in and out of bays, and for a stretch right along a deep gully that put me in mind of tractors tipping over on Homer Simpson. When we got back around to the start, Manolo stopped, I thought to let me out. But instead he rose from his seat and gestured for me to take it. I did so, though with some trepidation. I carefully drove a couple circuits, cutting the high grass and leaving long green heaps in my wake—and thinking, Winston, you are jealous. The various corners were tricky, but Manolo helped me with the controls, lifting the mower attachment, finding reverse, manipulating the various petals.
When my stint was done, I took the Suzuki back to the village, bouncing over the rutted red dirt roads. I spent the afternoon alone at the house, reading, and writing the next part of my walking tale, which I pick up from where I left off a couple days ago--
On the third day on the Camino I set off in the company of Lino and Christoph. We walked through Arre in the cool and sunny morning, and through the outskirts of Pamplona, to a lovely city park with huge, leafy sycamores, and across the rio Arga, and up to a stone portal and into the narrow streets of the old town perched on a hill.
I had planned to spend some time wandering around Pamplona, but I gave this up, with some reluctance, in order to stay with Lino and Christoph. We went through the city following the yellow arrows without digression. We did pause at a sidewalk café for breakfast, but it would be many hours before Lino would brook any further delay. A reminder here, that Lino (aged 69, whippet thin, his face unlined, his smooth, tan head uncluttered by hair) intended to walk the Camino in twenty days—the night before at dinner he had shown me a piece of paper outlining each day´s distance, each night´s stop. He clearly wished to enlist Christoph and myself in his endeavor, but he would not compromise his plan if we were to fall behind. He never said as much—he was always friendly and often quite helpful (later he would gently doctor my blisters, running needle and thread through the white bulges)—but I knew that either I kept up or I wouldn´t see him again.
Why exactly it was important for me to keep up, I´m not sure I can say in retrospect—or could have explained at the time. I liked Lino, and appreciated his knowledge of the Camino. I also liked the idea of long stages, at least theortically. And I enjoyed Christoph´s company, our English-speaking conversations—and Christoph was staying with Lino, at least for a couple more days. Still, I don´t know that all this adds up to a sufficient explanation.
I did briefly fall behind in Pamplona, when a frazzled American girl stopped me and asked if I knew a place where she could use the internet. She was not on the Camino, but had arrived in town by train that morning. “And if I can´t check my email I can´t figure out my hotel or anything and I´m fucked, and the people at the train station, who I couldn´t even understand, gave me directions to a place but they were fucked up, and I don´t know where anything is, and nothing´s open yet, and I don´t know what to do.” I had to tell her that I had just arrived myself and knew the city no better than she did, but I did suggest she try the tourist office, though added it probably wasn´t open so early. She gave a big sigh. “Yeah, I guess so,” she said. “Well, thanks at least for speaking English with me.” That I understood.
After our sidewalk breakfast, we passed through a couple city parks, then, on the far side of town, through the lovely, grassy grounds of the University of Navarre. Up a long hill to the suburb of Cizur Menor, then up more steeply for five kilometers to Alto del Perdon. On top I put my pack down for a moment, but Lino surged right on and over and down the rocky descent.
In the next village, Uterga, Lino asked several old people—there are always a few out, sweeping the gutters, carrying bread, or simply ambling slowly with canes and/or small dogs—about the location of the fuente. Usually these village fountains (one or several spigots running into a stone trough) are obvious, a center piece of the small plaza. Lino always paused for a drink at the fuentes because he didn´t carry a water bottle (did I mention that his small pack weighed six kilos? Mine was ten, which he considered excessive and unfortunate). We came to the far edge of the village and still no fountain, so Lino went to the small, dark window of a house, from which the sound of dogs barking was emanating, and shouted something in Italian. After a moment an old man smelling of cigars and with one clamped in his mouth came out, along with several dogs. He and Lino talked at but not with each other, but finally the old man understood “agua.” He went back inside then returned with a large plastic coke bottle filled with water. Lino took a long drink then passed the bottle to me.
After another three miles or so we came to the beautiful village of Obanos, and Christoph and I threw ourselves down in the grassy shade of a church. The day had grown quite hot. Lino glanced at us and kept moving. We said we´d catch up. It was something of a relief to see him go, I must admit. The man´s pace was amazing—almost a jog, it seemed to me at times.
He was waiting for us at the edge of the next town, a largish one, Puente La Reina. This was the only time I saw Lino show any sort of annoyance. Apparently, we had reached the town a little too late—the stores close at two and don´t open again until four or five. Lino´s practice was to go to a small grocery (what the Spanish grandiosely call a “supermercado”) and buy the makings—bread and slices of ham—for a bocadillo. Arriving shortly after two, we had screwed up his lunch plans. But we salvaged a meal by going into a bar, where, after Christoph helped translate Lino´s Italian, Lino got his ham sandwich. I had a slice of tortilla, which was excellent. Lino said I didn´t eat enough.
Though we had walked thirty kilometers, or eighteen miles, our day was far from done. In the rolling countryside beyond Puente La Reina, among wheat and barley fields and occasionally a few rows of grape vines, Lino soon outdistanced Christoph and me. We, slowed by the heat and fatigue, let him go. Free of his “no stooping” mantra, we paused at each village for a short rest at the fuente—in Mañeru, Ciraqui, Lorca (the last two had comfy looking albergues)—and doused our heads and arms with the cool water.
We finally reached the town of Estella about 7:30, and found the large albergue, near the rio Ega. Lino stepped into the street to greet us. He had showered and changed and looked quite fresh. Fifty kilometers? Thirty miles? And what´s your point?
Christoph and I got the last two beds in the busy albergue. Then we went to a nearby restaurant with Lino, where we sat out front at a green plastic table. I ordered plato #2: first ensalada mixta, then, together, meatballs, french fries, two fried eggs, and lomo. Everything tasted wonderful, and I ate every bite.
Monday, June 4, 2007
El bautizo
Yesterday in the early afternoon here in Espinosa the extended family set off from the house and walked together through the village to the church. Maite carried the star of the occasion, baby Sara, who was turned out in a pretty pink and white dress and a thick head of dark hair. Beside them walked Sergio in dark suit and sunglasses, and all around them were cousins and siblings and aunts and uncles and parents and grandparents and great-grandparents—gathered to witness Sara´s baptism.
At the large stone and adobe church, we lingered outside while townspeople slowly filtered out the big double-doors after mass. When the church was finally empty, the family went in, following Maite and the priest (aka The Man from South Dakota) to a small nave in the back, a whitewashed room lit only by a bare lightbulb hung from the high ceiling. The priest stood under a painting of Jesus and Mary with a child walking between them, and behind a stone baptismal font big enough to bathe in. Next to the priest stood Maite holding Sara, then Sergio, then the two padrinos (godparents)—one of Sergio´s brothers, and Maite´s cousin, Emma. The rest of us crowded around the wide door of the nave.
Sara was compliant and well-behaved during the twenty minute ceremony, often smiling at Montse who was in her line of sight. The priest repeatedly drew crosses on Sara´s small head, and of course, for the denouement, doused her with a bit of holy water, as Maite held her over the font. Emma then stepped forward with a white towel and rubbed at the baby´s wet hair. Sara emerged with a look of confusion on her small face but made no audible complaint.
Back outside in the stone courtyard, the candy throwing began. The night before Maite had poured bag after bag of “dulces” and “caramelos”—mostly hard candies—into a plastic tub, mixed them all together, then poured the mix into several large plastic bags. Outside the church, she and Emma reached into these plastic bags and grabbed handfuls of candy, flinging them up in the air. The candies came down, pelting people on heads and noses and shoulders, and fell onto the flagstones—from where children dashing in quickly collected them.
Maite put Sara in her stroller, and we all began walking slowly back to the house. The candy flinging continued along the way, and kids came running from all over the village. Soon a crowd of shouting and stooping kids formed a vanguard, backing up slowly as they filled pockets and small plastic bags with candy. Maite began flinging twenty-cent pieces, and a yell of re-doubled excitement went up.
We finally reached the house, where Maite and Emma stood throwing candy until there was no more candy to throw. By the end, some of the older kids held substantial bags of loot.
Inside the house, the smell of the women´s collective perfume was overwhelming. Manolo found me and said, “vamos,” come have a drink at the town bar. I thought he meant just a few of the men, but actually most of the family and a number of locals crowded into the small, noisy room. A few people spoke to me briefly, but I have a particularly hard time understanding when in crowds. Manolo gave me a glass of wine and I found a wall to lean against. Femo, Manolo´s brother-in-law, also stood solo nearby; he occasionally reached me a dish of green olives from the bar. Children squeezed between the adults in the room, pulling candies from their pockets. Alberto, Sergio´s four-year-old nephew, paused for a good stare at me, while upending a bottle of coke into his mouth, his eyes watering.
Eventually the family all returned to the house for a meal in the attached tiled garage (a large room, in former times a granary). Tables had been set up in a big U to accommodate thirty some people. Mariscos, or seafood, dominated the early section of the long feast. Earlier that morning, Montse had begun preparations in the kitchen, thawing five pink octopi (pulpos), each on its own plate, and several cookie sheets covered with crabs (necoras), and shelling a big box of large shrimp (langostinos).
When we sat down at the table, each setting included a small bowl of salad with shrimp and a dollop of thousand island, and two crabs on a plate. Bottles of wine were scattered about, of course, and chunks of bread too. Montse and her beautiful sisters soon carried out platters of unshelled shrimp, as well as numerous plates of octopus, the fat tentacles now sliced into pink and white medallions and doused with a thin, reddish juice. I sat with the older people, the parents and grandparents, and there were many questions about the Camino. Manolo helped me out, telling them what I had been telling him over the last two days. Mostly, though, I was left to myself to eat—and eat and eat. I had a second bowl of the salad. I kept reaching for more shrimp. Another piece of bread, another glass of wine, yes, of course.
And yet the very best part of the meal was still to come—the lechazos. The roasted lamb finally appeared on huge flat pans, and Montse cut it up into manageable chunks and her sisters distributed platters to the tables. I know I´ve been a quasi-vegetarian for some time now, and for good reason, but this lechazos, it is my new favorite food in the world. This meat tastes good.
I had two substantial chunks of the tender lamb. Manolo, ever solicitous, gestured for me to hold my plate up, and he spooned dark juice from the platter of lechazos onto my portion.
But still we were not done. Yet another set of platters arrived, these wrapped up in paper as if they were gifts. The sisters untied the strings and revealed collections of small pastries (pasteles), no two alike. I´m afraid I don´t have the language to adequately describe these, but I´ll have a go—a lemony mousse, flaky tarts, cakey things topped with fruit or something whipped, a miniature chocolate horn o´plenty, sort of like a little ice cream cone…. I ate about ten. That´s not an exaggeration. No one seemed to be paying attention to me, and there were plenty, and I just kept eating them. Maybe more than ten.
I finally rose from the table, some hours after I had sat down. Some of the others had stepped outside to smoke. The sisters were cleaning up. I thanked Montse and went inside for some post-prandial reading. Soon I took my book upstairs, and soon I fell happily asleep.
When I came back down hours later, everyone had gone, even Maite and Sergio, who had returned to Valladolid (Maite had to work the next day). Manolo said, “la cena,” and gestured for me to follow him to the kitchen. Maybe I looked skeptical, because he added, “un poco.” We sat down, and Montse put out a bowl of pineapple chunks and a plate of shrimp. I didn´t think I could eat, but then I could.
Afterwards the three of us sat together in the living room and looked at photo albums, one of Maite´s two-month visit to the States in 1996, one of Naomi´s stay in Espinosa that same year. Afterwards I consulted my dictionary, then said, “estos fotos, tengo morriña” (the pictures make me homesick). Manolo nodded, yes, he understood, then suggested we call Naomi, which we did.
At the large stone and adobe church, we lingered outside while townspeople slowly filtered out the big double-doors after mass. When the church was finally empty, the family went in, following Maite and the priest (aka The Man from South Dakota) to a small nave in the back, a whitewashed room lit only by a bare lightbulb hung from the high ceiling. The priest stood under a painting of Jesus and Mary with a child walking between them, and behind a stone baptismal font big enough to bathe in. Next to the priest stood Maite holding Sara, then Sergio, then the two padrinos (godparents)—one of Sergio´s brothers, and Maite´s cousin, Emma. The rest of us crowded around the wide door of the nave.
Sara was compliant and well-behaved during the twenty minute ceremony, often smiling at Montse who was in her line of sight. The priest repeatedly drew crosses on Sara´s small head, and of course, for the denouement, doused her with a bit of holy water, as Maite held her over the font. Emma then stepped forward with a white towel and rubbed at the baby´s wet hair. Sara emerged with a look of confusion on her small face but made no audible complaint.
Back outside in the stone courtyard, the candy throwing began. The night before Maite had poured bag after bag of “dulces” and “caramelos”—mostly hard candies—into a plastic tub, mixed them all together, then poured the mix into several large plastic bags. Outside the church, she and Emma reached into these plastic bags and grabbed handfuls of candy, flinging them up in the air. The candies came down, pelting people on heads and noses and shoulders, and fell onto the flagstones—from where children dashing in quickly collected them.
Maite put Sara in her stroller, and we all began walking slowly back to the house. The candy flinging continued along the way, and kids came running from all over the village. Soon a crowd of shouting and stooping kids formed a vanguard, backing up slowly as they filled pockets and small plastic bags with candy. Maite began flinging twenty-cent pieces, and a yell of re-doubled excitement went up.
We finally reached the house, where Maite and Emma stood throwing candy until there was no more candy to throw. By the end, some of the older kids held substantial bags of loot.
Inside the house, the smell of the women´s collective perfume was overwhelming. Manolo found me and said, “vamos,” come have a drink at the town bar. I thought he meant just a few of the men, but actually most of the family and a number of locals crowded into the small, noisy room. A few people spoke to me briefly, but I have a particularly hard time understanding when in crowds. Manolo gave me a glass of wine and I found a wall to lean against. Femo, Manolo´s brother-in-law, also stood solo nearby; he occasionally reached me a dish of green olives from the bar. Children squeezed between the adults in the room, pulling candies from their pockets. Alberto, Sergio´s four-year-old nephew, paused for a good stare at me, while upending a bottle of coke into his mouth, his eyes watering.
Eventually the family all returned to the house for a meal in the attached tiled garage (a large room, in former times a granary). Tables had been set up in a big U to accommodate thirty some people. Mariscos, or seafood, dominated the early section of the long feast. Earlier that morning, Montse had begun preparations in the kitchen, thawing five pink octopi (pulpos), each on its own plate, and several cookie sheets covered with crabs (necoras), and shelling a big box of large shrimp (langostinos).
When we sat down at the table, each setting included a small bowl of salad with shrimp and a dollop of thousand island, and two crabs on a plate. Bottles of wine were scattered about, of course, and chunks of bread too. Montse and her beautiful sisters soon carried out platters of unshelled shrimp, as well as numerous plates of octopus, the fat tentacles now sliced into pink and white medallions and doused with a thin, reddish juice. I sat with the older people, the parents and grandparents, and there were many questions about the Camino. Manolo helped me out, telling them what I had been telling him over the last two days. Mostly, though, I was left to myself to eat—and eat and eat. I had a second bowl of the salad. I kept reaching for more shrimp. Another piece of bread, another glass of wine, yes, of course.
And yet the very best part of the meal was still to come—the lechazos. The roasted lamb finally appeared on huge flat pans, and Montse cut it up into manageable chunks and her sisters distributed platters to the tables. I know I´ve been a quasi-vegetarian for some time now, and for good reason, but this lechazos, it is my new favorite food in the world. This meat tastes good.
I had two substantial chunks of the tender lamb. Manolo, ever solicitous, gestured for me to hold my plate up, and he spooned dark juice from the platter of lechazos onto my portion.
But still we were not done. Yet another set of platters arrived, these wrapped up in paper as if they were gifts. The sisters untied the strings and revealed collections of small pastries (pasteles), no two alike. I´m afraid I don´t have the language to adequately describe these, but I´ll have a go—a lemony mousse, flaky tarts, cakey things topped with fruit or something whipped, a miniature chocolate horn o´plenty, sort of like a little ice cream cone…. I ate about ten. That´s not an exaggeration. No one seemed to be paying attention to me, and there were plenty, and I just kept eating them. Maybe more than ten.
I finally rose from the table, some hours after I had sat down. Some of the others had stepped outside to smoke. The sisters were cleaning up. I thanked Montse and went inside for some post-prandial reading. Soon I took my book upstairs, and soon I fell happily asleep.
When I came back down hours later, everyone had gone, even Maite and Sergio, who had returned to Valladolid (Maite had to work the next day). Manolo said, “la cena,” and gestured for me to follow him to the kitchen. Maybe I looked skeptical, because he added, “un poco.” We sat down, and Montse put out a bowl of pineapple chunks and a plate of shrimp. I didn´t think I could eat, but then I could.
Afterwards the three of us sat together in the living room and looked at photo albums, one of Maite´s two-month visit to the States in 1996, one of Naomi´s stay in Espinosa that same year. Afterwards I consulted my dictionary, then said, “estos fotos, tengo morriña” (the pictures make me homesick). Manolo nodded, yes, he understood, then suggested we call Naomi, which we did.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
Carol, will you please be quiet
At six in the morning, on my second day on the Camino, the lights came on in the big stone albergue in Roncesvalles. Some of the beds were already empty, as a few people had slipped off in the dark. I was outside myself in just a few minutes and tramping along a path in the misty woods. I soon passed a stone cross dating from the 14th century.
A couple miles down a long valley I came to the village of Burguete, still asleep in the early morning. On the far side of town the path led uphill, between pastures occupied by brown cows, and back into a forest of large, handsome beech trees. Over the course of the early morning I crossed a number of ridges, descending to small rivers and villages between. Finally, a longer descent took me down to the Rio Arga. The sun had burned off the mist and the day had become almost hot. I followed the Arga down to the town of Larrasoaña, where I sat on a bench by a fuente in front of the municipal albergue and took off my boots. I´d walked over seventeen miles in six hours.
Too fast, which would continue to be the case in the following days. When I walk I´m used to a fair amount of solitude, but there were so many peregrinos on the trail…. It seemed the only way to avoid them was to get and stay ahead (when I stopped at a small tienda, I felt quite impatient with the slow old woman who rang up my bananas and juice and yogurt). In retrospect this was a silly and hopeless strategy. It didn´t help that I was convinced I needed to reach the next albergue early, before the hordes, in order to secure a bed. Of course these considerations worked against the sort of walk I had imagined—leisurely, with time to explore villages, to lay about along the way. I knew my speed was not the best choice, but I couldn´t help myself. Besides the need for a trail of my own and a bed, I was still disconcerted at finding myself alone in a foreign place, and I responded with movement. I didn´t know enough Spanish, or how to eat breakfast, or any person within several hundred miles, but I did know how to walk.
The albergue in Larrasoaña wasn´t open yet, so I sat down to wait. After an hour I had recovered sufficiently, and was impatient enough, that I set off again, figuring I could go ahead and make it to the next refugio, six or seven miles over a few more hills. As I set off I thought, this might be a bad idea, but turns out it wasn´t. The day cooled, it rained lightly for awhile, and soon I came down into the town of Arre, near Pamplona, and crossed over a lovely medieval bridge to the adjacent Convento de Trinidad, where monks have been accommodating pilgrims since the eleventh century.
One of the current monks, whose quiet, reassuring demeanor helped to calm me down, stamped my credencial, then took me around to the albergue, a stone building behind the church. Much smaller than Roncevalles—a sitting room, kitchen, and back room with a dozen bunkbeds. Out a side door steps led to a small courtyard garden, where an elderly man was sowing seeds along a stone walkway.
Only three people had arrived in the albergue before me, only four came after. I don´t know why we were so few—I´ve never seen such a small number since, and certainly not at such a beautiful and comfortable albergue.
It was here I met the ageless Italian flash, Lino, and his American sidekick, Christoph. They had met on the train into St. Jean Pied de Port two days earlier, and Christoph had decided that Lino was a man to follow, considering his wide experience of the Camino. Christoph spoke a fair amount of Spanish, but Lino spoke only his own language. However, Christoph was managing to use his Spanish to translate (and learn bits of) Lino´s Italian—which made for an entertaining form of conversation.
We three went out to a restaurant for dinner, joined by two others, Carol (American) and Pierre (French), both sixtyish. Carol was overbearing, Pierre charming but exhausted. The next morning he took a bus back to his car in St. Jean, having completed a not fully successful two-day foray on the Camino. At the restaurant I had calamares (squid) cooked in its own black ink, which looked terrible and made me feel slightly ill. But it tasted ok. At one point it came up that I taught a class on science and religion and Carol let out an entirely too loud bray that startled us all. “How do you get away with that in Minnesota?” she said. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and suggested, “maybe you´re thinking of Kansas,” adding for myself the unspoken punctuation, “bitch.”
Besides Carol´s annoying presence, the meal was a success, helped along by an extra bottle of wine. We had no one language in common, but communicated through a surprisingly successful mix of English, French, Italian, and Spanish.
After dinner, Lino the tireless suggested a stroll around the town. When we finally returned to the albergue, I was more than ready for my bunk. Pierre, who had declined the bonus walking, was already asleep in the next bed, snoring away in a neighborly manner.
A couple miles down a long valley I came to the village of Burguete, still asleep in the early morning. On the far side of town the path led uphill, between pastures occupied by brown cows, and back into a forest of large, handsome beech trees. Over the course of the early morning I crossed a number of ridges, descending to small rivers and villages between. Finally, a longer descent took me down to the Rio Arga. The sun had burned off the mist and the day had become almost hot. I followed the Arga down to the town of Larrasoaña, where I sat on a bench by a fuente in front of the municipal albergue and took off my boots. I´d walked over seventeen miles in six hours.
Too fast, which would continue to be the case in the following days. When I walk I´m used to a fair amount of solitude, but there were so many peregrinos on the trail…. It seemed the only way to avoid them was to get and stay ahead (when I stopped at a small tienda, I felt quite impatient with the slow old woman who rang up my bananas and juice and yogurt). In retrospect this was a silly and hopeless strategy. It didn´t help that I was convinced I needed to reach the next albergue early, before the hordes, in order to secure a bed. Of course these considerations worked against the sort of walk I had imagined—leisurely, with time to explore villages, to lay about along the way. I knew my speed was not the best choice, but I couldn´t help myself. Besides the need for a trail of my own and a bed, I was still disconcerted at finding myself alone in a foreign place, and I responded with movement. I didn´t know enough Spanish, or how to eat breakfast, or any person within several hundred miles, but I did know how to walk.
The albergue in Larrasoaña wasn´t open yet, so I sat down to wait. After an hour I had recovered sufficiently, and was impatient enough, that I set off again, figuring I could go ahead and make it to the next refugio, six or seven miles over a few more hills. As I set off I thought, this might be a bad idea, but turns out it wasn´t. The day cooled, it rained lightly for awhile, and soon I came down into the town of Arre, near Pamplona, and crossed over a lovely medieval bridge to the adjacent Convento de Trinidad, where monks have been accommodating pilgrims since the eleventh century.
One of the current monks, whose quiet, reassuring demeanor helped to calm me down, stamped my credencial, then took me around to the albergue, a stone building behind the church. Much smaller than Roncevalles—a sitting room, kitchen, and back room with a dozen bunkbeds. Out a side door steps led to a small courtyard garden, where an elderly man was sowing seeds along a stone walkway.
Only three people had arrived in the albergue before me, only four came after. I don´t know why we were so few—I´ve never seen such a small number since, and certainly not at such a beautiful and comfortable albergue.
It was here I met the ageless Italian flash, Lino, and his American sidekick, Christoph. They had met on the train into St. Jean Pied de Port two days earlier, and Christoph had decided that Lino was a man to follow, considering his wide experience of the Camino. Christoph spoke a fair amount of Spanish, but Lino spoke only his own language. However, Christoph was managing to use his Spanish to translate (and learn bits of) Lino´s Italian—which made for an entertaining form of conversation.
We three went out to a restaurant for dinner, joined by two others, Carol (American) and Pierre (French), both sixtyish. Carol was overbearing, Pierre charming but exhausted. The next morning he took a bus back to his car in St. Jean, having completed a not fully successful two-day foray on the Camino. At the restaurant I had calamares (squid) cooked in its own black ink, which looked terrible and made me feel slightly ill. But it tasted ok. At one point it came up that I taught a class on science and religion and Carol let out an entirely too loud bray that startled us all. “How do you get away with that in Minnesota?” she said. I gave her a tight-lipped smile and suggested, “maybe you´re thinking of Kansas,” adding for myself the unspoken punctuation, “bitch.”
Besides Carol´s annoying presence, the meal was a success, helped along by an extra bottle of wine. We had no one language in common, but communicated through a surprisingly successful mix of English, French, Italian, and Spanish.
After dinner, Lino the tireless suggested a stroll around the town. When we finally returned to the albergue, I was more than ready for my bunk. Pierre, who had declined the bonus walking, was already asleep in the next bed, snoring away in a neighborly manner.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
St. Jean Pied de Port to Roncesvalles
Last night I went through my pack discarding a few items, then re-supplying from the small bag I left here in Espinosa. I am ready to set off again. But such preparations are premature. If only I could make a quick visit to the Lost island and hang out with Locke for a few hours....
One advantage of the respite is that I have time to write, and so I´m going to return to the first days of the walk, when I did not have such time....
While by now I have become familiar with albergue life, the first night in St. Jean Pied de Port I was still at sea. In the downstairs lobby of Le Chemin vers l´Etoile, the owner gestured for me to remove my boots. He pointed to a pile of well-used sandals and flip-flops, apparently expecting me to choose a pair before we went upstairs to the sleeping room. When I hesitated--only because every pair I could see was obviously too small--he reached in and chose for me a set of old-lady denim espadrilles. Also too small. I followed him up the stairs, at each step trying to kick back on the falling-off espadrilles. And feeling like an idiot. It´s funny how in unfamiliar, foreign situations I tend to lose all free will.
Breakfast was included at this first albergue, but the next morning there was little in the kitchen that I recognized as legitimate morning fare. The Europeans—which was everyone but me—were fine. Apparently they considered the several choices of dust, over which one pours milk, to count as breakfast. In my ignorance I asked someone when breakfast was going to be put out, and he gestured at the dust containers as if to say, are you blind?
I soon left the others to their bowls of thin gruel and set off . Up the wet, narrow streets of the town I took my first steps towards Santiago. Over the tops of the buildings hung a low fog, not quite rain, but wet enough to soon accumulate droplets on my eyebrows, causing the hairs to descend into my line of vision.
The yellow arrows that mark the path led me through a stone arch out of town and immediately uphill, along a small paved road. Light brown cows grazed beside the road in pastures of tall wet grass, and for the first part I passed an occasional farmhouse. For the next twelve miles I would walk steadily and steeply uphill, eventually gaining 4200 feet in elevation. On a clear day such a climb would be rewarded with striking vistas of the Pyrenees, but on this day the drama was more intimate, as visibility was limited to fifty feet and often less.
As I rose, the trees became fewer and the pavement gave way at stretches to a muddy path. Eventually I came into alpine habitat of short grass and lichened rocks. The wind rose, shoving about but not dissipating the heavy mist. And it grew colder. Out of the wind and cloud came the wild clanging of bells, a strange and exciting music. As I approached the sound, shadowy bands of wooly, curly-horned sheep emerged alongside the track. They paused and raised their heads to watch me pass within a few feet. The wind more than the sheep themselves tossed the bells tied around their necks. High up I came upon a dozen brown workhorses, also marked by the clang of bells, though they stood stolid in the wind.
Near the peak the wind crescendoed, whipping my sodden raincoat and making it hard to see at all. A group of people had paused together beside a stone cross just below the summit, more to adjust their raingear than to pray, it seemed. Right at the top, the path led through a shallow cut in a rocky outcrop. There a band of sheep was gathered, and in small bunches they paused then quickly dashed across the path, bells clanging.
On the other side the wind relented and soon I crossed into Spain, into Navarre. I came down into a lovely forest of small beech trees, ghosty in the mist. Before much longer the sky began to clear, and I had my first view of the hills and alpine meadows among a scattering of clouds. The four mile descent into Roncesvalles was steep and muddy. I was within sight of the town, within one hundred yards, when in a moment of inattention I went down on my ass right into the mud. A little annoying.
Roncesvalles was smaller than I´d expected, a gathering of massive stone buildings from the 13th and 14th centuries—a church, Iglesia de Santa Maria, a cloisters, a medieval version of the office building, the Real Collegiata de Santa Maria, and a few others. The town was one of the earliest and most revered pilgrim refuges on the Camino.
The albergue is in a gothic stone building, originally a pilgrim hospital. The large rectangluar space is now filled with bunkbeds—60 or so of them (bathrooms in the basement). One hundred and twenty people sleeping in one room sounds a bit much, but actually there was a good vibe, a camaraderie I liked (at least until the lights went off at ten and the snoring began). A few bunks down from mine was a ten-year-old girl with her parents, American, I think (maybe Canadian). She was arranging her belongings along a short stone ledge above her bed. I had seen her up near the top in the wind and cold, wearing a pack and holding a stuffed animal. She was the only child I saw that day, or that I´ve seen since on the Camino. While she had apparently made the hike over from St. Jean without too much trouble, in the albergue she was having an argument with her mother about showering. Her mother was insisting that they would shower together, but the girl wanted to shower with her father. “Boys and girls aren´t allowed to shower together,” her mother said.
I had dinner at one of the two restaurants in town, at the first sitting at seven. I sat at a large round table with ten or so others—three French woman, a couple Italians, a couple Germans, a pair of Spaniards, and a Japanese woman. Several big tureens of of brown soup, with kidney beans and little hot dogs, were already on the table when we sat down, as were three bottles of wine and pitchers of water. The French woman beside me, Monique, made small talk, but very small as her English was minimal and my French had for some reason completely abandoned me. She and her sister Soulange were walking as far as Burgos. The second course was trout and fries. Dessert didn´t match the rest of the very good meal—a carton of banana yogurt.
After dinner I attended a mass at the Church, conducted by three older priests and a younger one doing it up on the organ. The lead priest read a list of the nationalities represented in town that evening, and a special blessing was offered for the pilgrims. Before Communion, though, one of the priests made it clear that the rite was only for Catholics, and while others might be good people they were not to share in the body and blood of Christ on this occasion. OK.
I haven´t attended mass since this first night on the Camino, though I have been inside a number of churches. It´s worth noting that while many people might have religious reasons for walking to Santiago (often symbolized by the scallop shell they have attached to their pack), no one has spoken of such motivation to me. Only once has religion come up, and that was when Christoph, the German man in Burgos, asked if I was Catholic. I didn´t sense that my status was all that important, only that he was curious if I shared his faith. When I said no, he asked what I “was,” a large question indeed.
One advantage of the respite is that I have time to write, and so I´m going to return to the first days of the walk, when I did not have such time....
While by now I have become familiar with albergue life, the first night in St. Jean Pied de Port I was still at sea. In the downstairs lobby of Le Chemin vers l´Etoile, the owner gestured for me to remove my boots. He pointed to a pile of well-used sandals and flip-flops, apparently expecting me to choose a pair before we went upstairs to the sleeping room. When I hesitated--only because every pair I could see was obviously too small--he reached in and chose for me a set of old-lady denim espadrilles. Also too small. I followed him up the stairs, at each step trying to kick back on the falling-off espadrilles. And feeling like an idiot. It´s funny how in unfamiliar, foreign situations I tend to lose all free will.
Breakfast was included at this first albergue, but the next morning there was little in the kitchen that I recognized as legitimate morning fare. The Europeans—which was everyone but me—were fine. Apparently they considered the several choices of dust, over which one pours milk, to count as breakfast. In my ignorance I asked someone when breakfast was going to be put out, and he gestured at the dust containers as if to say, are you blind?
I soon left the others to their bowls of thin gruel and set off . Up the wet, narrow streets of the town I took my first steps towards Santiago. Over the tops of the buildings hung a low fog, not quite rain, but wet enough to soon accumulate droplets on my eyebrows, causing the hairs to descend into my line of vision.
The yellow arrows that mark the path led me through a stone arch out of town and immediately uphill, along a small paved road. Light brown cows grazed beside the road in pastures of tall wet grass, and for the first part I passed an occasional farmhouse. For the next twelve miles I would walk steadily and steeply uphill, eventually gaining 4200 feet in elevation. On a clear day such a climb would be rewarded with striking vistas of the Pyrenees, but on this day the drama was more intimate, as visibility was limited to fifty feet and often less.
As I rose, the trees became fewer and the pavement gave way at stretches to a muddy path. Eventually I came into alpine habitat of short grass and lichened rocks. The wind rose, shoving about but not dissipating the heavy mist. And it grew colder. Out of the wind and cloud came the wild clanging of bells, a strange and exciting music. As I approached the sound, shadowy bands of wooly, curly-horned sheep emerged alongside the track. They paused and raised their heads to watch me pass within a few feet. The wind more than the sheep themselves tossed the bells tied around their necks. High up I came upon a dozen brown workhorses, also marked by the clang of bells, though they stood stolid in the wind.
Near the peak the wind crescendoed, whipping my sodden raincoat and making it hard to see at all. A group of people had paused together beside a stone cross just below the summit, more to adjust their raingear than to pray, it seemed. Right at the top, the path led through a shallow cut in a rocky outcrop. There a band of sheep was gathered, and in small bunches they paused then quickly dashed across the path, bells clanging.
On the other side the wind relented and soon I crossed into Spain, into Navarre. I came down into a lovely forest of small beech trees, ghosty in the mist. Before much longer the sky began to clear, and I had my first view of the hills and alpine meadows among a scattering of clouds. The four mile descent into Roncesvalles was steep and muddy. I was within sight of the town, within one hundred yards, when in a moment of inattention I went down on my ass right into the mud. A little annoying.
Roncesvalles was smaller than I´d expected, a gathering of massive stone buildings from the 13th and 14th centuries—a church, Iglesia de Santa Maria, a cloisters, a medieval version of the office building, the Real Collegiata de Santa Maria, and a few others. The town was one of the earliest and most revered pilgrim refuges on the Camino.
The albergue is in a gothic stone building, originally a pilgrim hospital. The large rectangluar space is now filled with bunkbeds—60 or so of them (bathrooms in the basement). One hundred and twenty people sleeping in one room sounds a bit much, but actually there was a good vibe, a camaraderie I liked (at least until the lights went off at ten and the snoring began). A few bunks down from mine was a ten-year-old girl with her parents, American, I think (maybe Canadian). She was arranging her belongings along a short stone ledge above her bed. I had seen her up near the top in the wind and cold, wearing a pack and holding a stuffed animal. She was the only child I saw that day, or that I´ve seen since on the Camino. While she had apparently made the hike over from St. Jean without too much trouble, in the albergue she was having an argument with her mother about showering. Her mother was insisting that they would shower together, but the girl wanted to shower with her father. “Boys and girls aren´t allowed to shower together,” her mother said.
I had dinner at one of the two restaurants in town, at the first sitting at seven. I sat at a large round table with ten or so others—three French woman, a couple Italians, a couple Germans, a pair of Spaniards, and a Japanese woman. Several big tureens of of brown soup, with kidney beans and little hot dogs, were already on the table when we sat down, as were three bottles of wine and pitchers of water. The French woman beside me, Monique, made small talk, but very small as her English was minimal and my French had for some reason completely abandoned me. She and her sister Soulange were walking as far as Burgos. The second course was trout and fries. Dessert didn´t match the rest of the very good meal—a carton of banana yogurt.
After dinner I attended a mass at the Church, conducted by three older priests and a younger one doing it up on the organ. The lead priest read a list of the nationalities represented in town that evening, and a special blessing was offered for the pilgrims. Before Communion, though, one of the priests made it clear that the rite was only for Catholics, and while others might be good people they were not to share in the body and blood of Christ on this occasion. OK.
I haven´t attended mass since this first night on the Camino, though I have been inside a number of churches. It´s worth noting that while many people might have religious reasons for walking to Santiago (often symbolized by the scallop shell they have attached to their pack), no one has spoken of such motivation to me. Only once has religion come up, and that was when Christoph, the German man in Burgos, asked if I was Catholic. I didn´t sense that my status was all that important, only that he was curious if I shared his faith. When I said no, he asked what I “was,” a large question indeed.
Friday, June 1, 2007
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.
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.
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