Today I set out in the dark, using my headlamp to avoid the muddiest spots. The rain had stopped, but clouds still filled the pre-dawn sky. It was cold--for one of the first nights on the trip I´d been able to sleep in my down bag. I walked steadily uphill as the light slowly grew, revealing bushy, wild slopes on either side of the path. Occasionally I came upon a small fuente among the high grasses, usually connected to a long concrete trough--water for the peregrinos struggling upwards. But I saw no other people for the first hour. Then I came into the small mountain village of Foncebadon, where nearly all the buildings were reduced to roofless, crumbling walls of stone the same color as the stone underfoot. A few people were just setting off from a tiny albergue, so I was alone no longer.
Another couple kilometers and I came to La Cruz de Ferro, a weathered wooden pole topped by a small cross. Surrounding the pole was a huge pile of rocks, built over who knows how many years by the passing pilgrims to mark the highest point on the Camino--about 5000 feet. A cold wind blew across the top and low clouds scudded past, but a few breaks had begun to appear, and the sun illuminated selected patches of green and yellow mountainside. There´s been little of the sublime in the landscape I´ve crossed over the last week, but today was different. I walked on a proper trail, not roads, through beautiful green mountains dramatically clouded and lit, and gazed down into narrow valleys, up at the rounded peaks running into the distance. The easiest, most satisfying day of walking yet, despite the rigors of climb and descent.
My dinner last night was not so satisfying. Not as bad as the Van-Dos disaster in Fromista, but second. There were three restaurants in Rabanal, and I had a look at each before choosing--and then chose wrong. How can you know? There were also three albergues, and I overheard a German woman ask a bartender which was best, but the bartender would only say they were all good. As for the meal, the fault was partly a poorly translated menu. Since the night was chilly, I decided to forego my ensalada mixta in favor of the "vegetable stew." Two words that sounded warm and good. But I was presented with a large dish of cooked green beans and peas, with a few bits of mushroom and asparagus tossed in. This is not something I would knowingly choose to eat, but I ate it, every soft, mushy bite. Segundo, the salmon steak I ordered could not stand up to the one of the night before. Not in color, texture, or taste. But the bread was very good.
I ate alone, so for entertainment I had to eavesdrop on the three Asian people at the next table (the only other people in the room). They were all young, each traveling alone, and all trying to communicate with each other in broken, painstaking English. The two women, Korean, were a little more adept than the man, who was Japanese. Much of their conversation at first seemed to consist of English-language practice. "Cee, gee, tee," they said to each other several times together, several times separately. They also worked on specific words, some of which seemed of little conversational value. "Ell-ee-font," the Japaneses man said, six or seven times in a row. Then the two women repeated the word. "Ellee-font," the Japanese man said, a little faster, about ten more times. A moment later one of the Korean women taught the man a more useful word: "go," she said. "Gah?" he answered, confused. "G-o," she said, and pointed to indicate movement. He nodded, vigorously in understanding, and repeated "g-o" over and over. "Son-doll," the other Korean woman interrupted, pointing to her feet. They all had a go at that one, before breaking into laughter at the ridiculous sound of the word. Towards the end of their meal they were picking bits of food off each other´s plates.
Earlier in the day I had run into Mandy when she was having a coffee at the bar in my albergue. We spoke for some time, and I want to retract the word "giggly," which I applied to her yesterday (and which was probably a little condescending). Upbeat, positive, sunny.... No those aren´t good words. Maybe ebullient. I´ve met only a few Americans on the Camino, so I asked her how it was that she had decided to do the walk. She took my how as more of a why, and said that after she quit her job decorating cakes she thought the walk would help her figure out what she wanted to do with her life. She seemed in the midst of a familiar mid-twenties crisis--a smart, educated person, she could find nothing in the career-oriented, obvious fields of work that appealed to her, and was worried that she had not settled on a clear path. Her father had worked in finance for the last forty-two years. "The same job," she said, with a mix of affection (for him) and horror (at such a prospect for herself). Pretending to be speaking to her father, she said, "so explain to me one more time, what´s a mutual fund?" She screwed up her face in mock confusion. "And annuities?" When she was a teenager her father would ask, "do you want to come work with me as an office assistant?" The answer--"ah, no, Dad." She was quick to add that he was always fine with that.
We walked into the village together to look for the tienda, stopping in on the way at an open church. Mandy said, with a hint of disapproval, "there´s always the big churches, no matter how small the village." She´s a lapsed Catholic but not an angry one. "My mom sent me to Catholic school," she said. "But it didn´t really work. I was that kid putting up her hand and asking, ´so if God is all loving, what´s his problem with gay people?´" She laughed. "The teachers didn´t like that sort of question." In the tienda I picked up a bag of peanuts, and Mandy said, "I am dying for some peanut butter." Me too, but they just don´t have it here. And it would go so well with all the bread.
Once I passed the high point earlier today, the path stayed high for some time. Over the next ten or so kilometers I pased through only one village, Manjarin, a small gathering of stone huts. I don´t know what the few inhabitants do up there. Maybe tend sheep or goats, but I saw few of either on the rocky, gorse-covered hillsides.
The clouds blew off, revealing more of the surroundng hills. I saw a small deer dash off through the bushes, the first wild animal I´ve seen larger than a rabbit.
Eventually I started to descend--and kept dropping for quite some distance. By the end of the day´s walk, eighteen kilometers from the Cruz de Ferro, I had come down 3000 feet. Coming down I passed through a pair of handsome (and more prosperous) villages, where the narrow streets were surprisingly precipitous. At the bottom, down in the valley, I came to the town of Molinaseca, and on the far side found an albergue. After the usual cleaning tasks, I sat on the veranda in a green plastic Heineken chair and read one of my books--but paused often to admire the surrounding green hills.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Thursday, June 14, 2007
A man named Bart
So I´m walking along today in the rain and for some reason I´m thinking about when I was camping in Death Valley last January, and that made me think of sitting in the car one night listening to a University of Minnesota football game, a minor bowl, and it was the last few minutes of the game and Minnesota had an insurmountable lead and then they somehow blew it and lost. That made me remember how a couple nights later, camped in Anza-Borrego, I was again sitting in the rental car after dark and listening to another football game, this one with Boise State, who were losing at the end, again hopelessly, but miraculously came back and won. That made me remember the scene after the game when one of the football players got down on one knee and proposed to one of the cheerleaders. This moment made all the papers, and I later saw the picture. And remembering that romantic tableaux, I thought, the marriage proposal has to be one of our most sexist cultural rites. I mean, why does the man get to decide when it´s time to ask? Or any one person, for that matter. Shouldn´t such a momentous decision be a topic for discussion rather than a yes or no question?
It would have been nice to have someone to hash this out with, but I was alone, and so I nursed my disapproval for a minute or two, and then I started thinking about other things.
I left Astorga in the dark this morning at six. A light rain fell for the first hour, and then once I was out in the open countryside the rain became heavier. I had all my rain gear on, but soon my feet were wet. This is only the second time on the walk there´s been enough rain to soak through my boots, but that´s little consolation when you´re feet are actually wet. The rain lightened, though, after not too long. I passed through a couple villages but didn´t stop to rest on any of the wet benches (and there is rarely any cover offered in the small plazas). The path today led slowly uphill, into hills, dotted with great bushes of yellow flowers and the occasional grove of small, unregimented trees. Clouds hung low over the hilltops. I walked only about four and a half fours, 22 kilometers, to Rabanal del Camino. A short stage, but the next likely albergue was some way off, and anyway I wanted to stop and take off my wet boots and choose a bunk. Then I could write, and eat, and read, and maybe nap. All appealing prospects.
Last night´s dinner at the Cafe Gaudi in Astorga was indeed worthy of praise. The room was fancier than I´m used to, with big uphlostered squares on the walls. That means class. I sat at a round table in a corner with four others, and while they all opened with gazpacho, I stuck with the ensalada mixta and was not disappointed. Segundo, I had a lovely piece of grilled salmon, with two small new potatoes on the side. It was very nice to have something other than a part of a pig. (The waiter tried to translate all the options into English, but he was stumped by Sajonia. I told him "ham steak," but after several attempts at pronunciation the best he could do was "home stay.")
Ben, the Australian, was again one of my dinner companions (third time in the last six nights). Next to me was a young Hungarian woman, Susanne. I´d met her earlier in the day at a small shrine on the Camino. When I´d walked up she´d held out a large and newly opened chocolate bar, offering me a piece. She spoke some English, but was quiet through most of the meal. Not so the other two people, both Americans. Mandy, in her mid-twenties and highly freckled, was both giggly and witty, an unusual combination. She had a degree in sociology from UC Santa Barbara (a city in which she still lives), but had been working for a number of years as a cake decorator. She had quit the job and come over to Spain to walk the Camino--a plan that her parents had not liked at all. Her father had presented her with a hypothetical situation in which she would be walking along a lonely portion of the Camino, when suddenly a man with a machete would jump out of the bushes. "What are you going to do? What´s going to happen then?" he'd demanded. She had answered, "I guess what happens then is my time is up."
The last person was a man in his mid-thirties, Bart. I´d been seeing him off and on for days, but we hadn't spoken until a few hours before dinner, outside Astorga´s cathedral. He made jokes (well, joke-like comments), then laughed uproariously, which required me to smile against my will. He was stocky, with a smooth shaved head and a goatee, and had the look of a man addicted to Sports Center (which admittedly I watch a lot of myself). I was guessing he delivered Anheuser-Busch products to bars and restaurants for a living (he's from St. Louis). Or maybe drove a UPS truck.
He told us a long story about the best pizza in Chicago. Later he was unhappy with his dinner. He thought he´d ordered clams, but due to waiter´s poor translation skills was instead presented with a platter of cangrejos (crayfish). I know from experience that these are a lot of work for little payoff, and Bart´s experience was the same. He was a little bitter. The rest of us had all chosen the excellent salmon
After Bart asked me what I did, I asked the same, and he said he was a Jesuit priest. Not that I´ve known too many priests, but still this was a surprise. He´s been in Spain for a year, living near Madrid and working on his dissertation at the Unversidad de Comias. He said that he was being groomed as a "Superior," and for that position one needed an advanced degree. (His degree would be a doctorate in sacred theology, for which the acronym in Spanish is "STD." Bart said that he´d been telling "everyone" that he´d come to Spain to get an std--then he guffawed loudly). He´s currently writing his dissertation, an investigation of the philosophical and theological meanings of perseverence in the teachings of St. Ignatius.
At one point during the meal Bart told a story about a long-ago monk, a teacher in a small village, who was accused of molesting children. The monk was removed from his position, but remained in the village, and for the rest of his long life he was cursed and reviled by the community. "But when he finally died," Bart said, "and they came to prepare him for burial, they discovered that he was actually a woman." He stressed the last word, to emphasize our amazement. "And so he--she--had been innocent all along." No one said anything, and Bart asked me, "have you heard of that story?"
"No," I said, "but--." Here I hesitated, but then thought, what the hell. "But that doesn´t mean she was necessarily innocent." Mandy piped in, "yeah."
Bart started to say something--maybe something about a penis?--but then stopped. "I suppose," he said, a little annoyed.
I changed the subject and he soon recovered his hearty demeanor.
It would have been nice to have someone to hash this out with, but I was alone, and so I nursed my disapproval for a minute or two, and then I started thinking about other things.
I left Astorga in the dark this morning at six. A light rain fell for the first hour, and then once I was out in the open countryside the rain became heavier. I had all my rain gear on, but soon my feet were wet. This is only the second time on the walk there´s been enough rain to soak through my boots, but that´s little consolation when you´re feet are actually wet. The rain lightened, though, after not too long. I passed through a couple villages but didn´t stop to rest on any of the wet benches (and there is rarely any cover offered in the small plazas). The path today led slowly uphill, into hills, dotted with great bushes of yellow flowers and the occasional grove of small, unregimented trees. Clouds hung low over the hilltops. I walked only about four and a half fours, 22 kilometers, to Rabanal del Camino. A short stage, but the next likely albergue was some way off, and anyway I wanted to stop and take off my wet boots and choose a bunk. Then I could write, and eat, and read, and maybe nap. All appealing prospects.
Last night´s dinner at the Cafe Gaudi in Astorga was indeed worthy of praise. The room was fancier than I´m used to, with big uphlostered squares on the walls. That means class. I sat at a round table in a corner with four others, and while they all opened with gazpacho, I stuck with the ensalada mixta and was not disappointed. Segundo, I had a lovely piece of grilled salmon, with two small new potatoes on the side. It was very nice to have something other than a part of a pig. (The waiter tried to translate all the options into English, but he was stumped by Sajonia. I told him "ham steak," but after several attempts at pronunciation the best he could do was "home stay.")
Ben, the Australian, was again one of my dinner companions (third time in the last six nights). Next to me was a young Hungarian woman, Susanne. I´d met her earlier in the day at a small shrine on the Camino. When I´d walked up she´d held out a large and newly opened chocolate bar, offering me a piece. She spoke some English, but was quiet through most of the meal. Not so the other two people, both Americans. Mandy, in her mid-twenties and highly freckled, was both giggly and witty, an unusual combination. She had a degree in sociology from UC Santa Barbara (a city in which she still lives), but had been working for a number of years as a cake decorator. She had quit the job and come over to Spain to walk the Camino--a plan that her parents had not liked at all. Her father had presented her with a hypothetical situation in which she would be walking along a lonely portion of the Camino, when suddenly a man with a machete would jump out of the bushes. "What are you going to do? What´s going to happen then?" he'd demanded. She had answered, "I guess what happens then is my time is up."
The last person was a man in his mid-thirties, Bart. I´d been seeing him off and on for days, but we hadn't spoken until a few hours before dinner, outside Astorga´s cathedral. He made jokes (well, joke-like comments), then laughed uproariously, which required me to smile against my will. He was stocky, with a smooth shaved head and a goatee, and had the look of a man addicted to Sports Center (which admittedly I watch a lot of myself). I was guessing he delivered Anheuser-Busch products to bars and restaurants for a living (he's from St. Louis). Or maybe drove a UPS truck.
He told us a long story about the best pizza in Chicago. Later he was unhappy with his dinner. He thought he´d ordered clams, but due to waiter´s poor translation skills was instead presented with a platter of cangrejos (crayfish). I know from experience that these are a lot of work for little payoff, and Bart´s experience was the same. He was a little bitter. The rest of us had all chosen the excellent salmon
After Bart asked me what I did, I asked the same, and he said he was a Jesuit priest. Not that I´ve known too many priests, but still this was a surprise. He´s been in Spain for a year, living near Madrid and working on his dissertation at the Unversidad de Comias. He said that he was being groomed as a "Superior," and for that position one needed an advanced degree. (His degree would be a doctorate in sacred theology, for which the acronym in Spanish is "STD." Bart said that he´d been telling "everyone" that he´d come to Spain to get an std--then he guffawed loudly). He´s currently writing his dissertation, an investigation of the philosophical and theological meanings of perseverence in the teachings of St. Ignatius.
At one point during the meal Bart told a story about a long-ago monk, a teacher in a small village, who was accused of molesting children. The monk was removed from his position, but remained in the village, and for the rest of his long life he was cursed and reviled by the community. "But when he finally died," Bart said, "and they came to prepare him for burial, they discovered that he was actually a woman." He stressed the last word, to emphasize our amazement. "And so he--she--had been innocent all along." No one said anything, and Bart asked me, "have you heard of that story?"
"No," I said, "but--." Here I hesitated, but then thought, what the hell. "But that doesn´t mean she was necessarily innocent." Mandy piped in, "yeah."
Bart started to say something--maybe something about a penis?--but then stopped. "I suppose," he said, a little annoyed.
I changed the subject and he soon recovered his hearty demeanor.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Mateus, please don´t do that
In an albergue the first week, two Frenchwomen stood near my bunk talking. As a parting remark, one woman said to the other, who was holding a towel and a toiletrie kit, "bon douche!" I hadn´t been listening, but then that last comment--innocuous if unnecessary--took my attention from my book. It probably shouldn´t have, though. One of the first things you´re told at an albergue is the location of the, in Spanish, "duchas" (showers). Sometimes they are labled in several languages, and except for in English the word is always similar to the Spanish one.
Speaking of cleanliness, it´s an obsession among the peregrinos. The first thing people do upon reaching an albergue (after snagging a good bunk; lowers by windows are preferred) is to head for the showers. Afterwards there is much shaving and lotioning and teethbrushing (as for the last, more than once I´ve been amazed by how long the Germans brush their teeth--it shames one into taking more time too). Once the body is cleaned and polished, the immediate next task is to do the washing. There is usually a sink or two for clothes, and soon people are crowded around scrubbing socks and underwear and shirts; those who can´t squeeze in use the bathroom sinks, though usually there´s a sign saying please don´t. Soon the courtyard is festooned with drying clothes, as are the bunks. Only then do people seem to relax and turn to lesser matters such as eating or napping or drinking wine.
At the albergue in Mazarife yesterday I was checked in by a friendly, shirtless and fiftyish man named Mateus. It seemed that whatever language a new arrival spoke, Mateus could respond in kind. I preferred Spanish, but after he saw "USA" on my credencial he would only speak English to me, though I continued speaking Spanish to him. Later, near bedtime, Mateus buttonholed an attractive German woman for at least a half hour, going on about something, I´m not exactly sure what, but I think he was trying to explain how best for her to approach the Camino, as she´d been having some physical problems. He talked, she nodded and produced strained smiles. At the end he reached out and tousled her hair. Tousled it. I´m sorry, but that´s not something you do to thirty-five-year-old women.
The other half of the small albergue´s staff was Pepe, who was more appealing and a litle older with a long gray ponytail. He was the cook.
Dinner was at seven, and nearly all of the twenty or so people at the albergue signed up. In the dining room downstairs a long wooden table was already set with wine and water bottles, cutlery and baskets of bread, and a plate of salad at each spot. Pepe waved us into the room, and then waved us to our chairs. I sprinkled olive oil and vinegar on my salad (always the only "dressing" choice), poured a glass of red wine, and happily began.
When we were all done with primero, Pepe carried out a huge pan of vegetarian paella (haricots, cauliflower, carrots, onion, and capers) and set it on an adjacent table. He served us each a plate, then encouraged us to have seconds if we wished, and I did. For dessert he passed out plates of fruit--chunks of melon, slices of orange and apple.
On one side of me sat a couple from Montreal, Pierette (67) and John (71)--she told me their ages unbidden. They had bunks next to mine, and the talkative John (who was Hungarian) had already explained to me his thinking on subjects such as daily mileage on the Camino, the current rules at Canadian-American border crossings, the number of flies in the room, and the fact that Toyota had overtaken General Motors. On the other side of me were two Italian women, Josie and Chincina, both about thirty. They had just started walking that day, from Leon. It came out that Josie had no hat and this elicited a concerned mini-lecture from John.
Pierette and John spoke heavily-accented and imperfect English between themselves as well as with me (apparently John did not speak French), while Josie and Chincina spoke only a little English. Yet they were both obviously interested in making the effort and participating in the conversation.
We talked of our homes, as people always do, relying overmuch on the familiar cliches. Somehow the conversation turned to Italian movies (I think because someone lamented the overweening influence of American films), and Pierette nearly swooned as she listed off a number of Italian actors she had adored in her youth. She was still crazy about someone named Don Camillo and had a number of his films on dvd. The two Italian women nodded approvingly at each name. One of them mentioned The Bicycle Thief, which we all agreed was great. But Pierette, who had watched it recently, said, "yes, but it is very sad. Afterwards I had to put in Don Camillo."
Earlier, while we still eating, Pierette had told me that she has three children and six grandchildren, all living close to Montreal. The youngest of the grandchildren is eight, and Pierette has taken care of her regularly since she was a baby. "I want to call her mother," Pierette said, "but I´m afraid the child will answer, and then--." She put a hand to her cheek and looked as if she would cry. She and John had considered starting their walk in Le Puy, but she told me that that would have meant three months away from the grandchildren which was too long.
This morning I overslept, the first time that has happened. But soon I was out the door and walking through quiet Mazarife and out into the countryside. Today´s stage was a little longer than any I´ve done since returning to the Camino--thirty kilometers. Along a small country road for the first part...through a couple sleepy villages...among fields of barley and wheat, and some corn today for a change. Rivers, the occasional stone medieval bridge. One long stretch was up over a hill and through an almost-forest of scrub oak, wild grass in the large spaces between patches of trees--an attractive savanna. From the top I could see Astorga in the distance, the twin towers of the cathedral rising up out of the jumble of red-roofed buildings. And Astorga is where I am now, in the Albergue San Javier. There is a tiny balcony off of my six-bunkbed room, and I can see the cathedral just down at the end of the narrow street. Astorga is big, if not as big as Burgos or Leon, and quite handsome on first impression. I´m loking forward to exploring after siesta, when all the shops re-open. The man who runs the albergue said that the nearby Cafe Gaudi offers the best pilgrim menu on the Camino and at eight o´clock tonight I plan to find out for myself.
Speaking of cleanliness, it´s an obsession among the peregrinos. The first thing people do upon reaching an albergue (after snagging a good bunk; lowers by windows are preferred) is to head for the showers. Afterwards there is much shaving and lotioning and teethbrushing (as for the last, more than once I´ve been amazed by how long the Germans brush their teeth--it shames one into taking more time too). Once the body is cleaned and polished, the immediate next task is to do the washing. There is usually a sink or two for clothes, and soon people are crowded around scrubbing socks and underwear and shirts; those who can´t squeeze in use the bathroom sinks, though usually there´s a sign saying please don´t. Soon the courtyard is festooned with drying clothes, as are the bunks. Only then do people seem to relax and turn to lesser matters such as eating or napping or drinking wine.
At the albergue in Mazarife yesterday I was checked in by a friendly, shirtless and fiftyish man named Mateus. It seemed that whatever language a new arrival spoke, Mateus could respond in kind. I preferred Spanish, but after he saw "USA" on my credencial he would only speak English to me, though I continued speaking Spanish to him. Later, near bedtime, Mateus buttonholed an attractive German woman for at least a half hour, going on about something, I´m not exactly sure what, but I think he was trying to explain how best for her to approach the Camino, as she´d been having some physical problems. He talked, she nodded and produced strained smiles. At the end he reached out and tousled her hair. Tousled it. I´m sorry, but that´s not something you do to thirty-five-year-old women.
The other half of the small albergue´s staff was Pepe, who was more appealing and a litle older with a long gray ponytail. He was the cook.
Dinner was at seven, and nearly all of the twenty or so people at the albergue signed up. In the dining room downstairs a long wooden table was already set with wine and water bottles, cutlery and baskets of bread, and a plate of salad at each spot. Pepe waved us into the room, and then waved us to our chairs. I sprinkled olive oil and vinegar on my salad (always the only "dressing" choice), poured a glass of red wine, and happily began.
When we were all done with primero, Pepe carried out a huge pan of vegetarian paella (haricots, cauliflower, carrots, onion, and capers) and set it on an adjacent table. He served us each a plate, then encouraged us to have seconds if we wished, and I did. For dessert he passed out plates of fruit--chunks of melon, slices of orange and apple.
On one side of me sat a couple from Montreal, Pierette (67) and John (71)--she told me their ages unbidden. They had bunks next to mine, and the talkative John (who was Hungarian) had already explained to me his thinking on subjects such as daily mileage on the Camino, the current rules at Canadian-American border crossings, the number of flies in the room, and the fact that Toyota had overtaken General Motors. On the other side of me were two Italian women, Josie and Chincina, both about thirty. They had just started walking that day, from Leon. It came out that Josie had no hat and this elicited a concerned mini-lecture from John.
Pierette and John spoke heavily-accented and imperfect English between themselves as well as with me (apparently John did not speak French), while Josie and Chincina spoke only a little English. Yet they were both obviously interested in making the effort and participating in the conversation.
We talked of our homes, as people always do, relying overmuch on the familiar cliches. Somehow the conversation turned to Italian movies (I think because someone lamented the overweening influence of American films), and Pierette nearly swooned as she listed off a number of Italian actors she had adored in her youth. She was still crazy about someone named Don Camillo and had a number of his films on dvd. The two Italian women nodded approvingly at each name. One of them mentioned The Bicycle Thief, which we all agreed was great. But Pierette, who had watched it recently, said, "yes, but it is very sad. Afterwards I had to put in Don Camillo."
Earlier, while we still eating, Pierette had told me that she has three children and six grandchildren, all living close to Montreal. The youngest of the grandchildren is eight, and Pierette has taken care of her regularly since she was a baby. "I want to call her mother," Pierette said, "but I´m afraid the child will answer, and then--." She put a hand to her cheek and looked as if she would cry. She and John had considered starting their walk in Le Puy, but she told me that that would have meant three months away from the grandchildren which was too long.
This morning I overslept, the first time that has happened. But soon I was out the door and walking through quiet Mazarife and out into the countryside. Today´s stage was a little longer than any I´ve done since returning to the Camino--thirty kilometers. Along a small country road for the first part...through a couple sleepy villages...among fields of barley and wheat, and some corn today for a change. Rivers, the occasional stone medieval bridge. One long stretch was up over a hill and through an almost-forest of scrub oak, wild grass in the large spaces between patches of trees--an attractive savanna. From the top I could see Astorga in the distance, the twin towers of the cathedral rising up out of the jumble of red-roofed buildings. And Astorga is where I am now, in the Albergue San Javier. There is a tiny balcony off of my six-bunkbed room, and I can see the cathedral just down at the end of the narrow street. Astorga is big, if not as big as Burgos or Leon, and quite handsome on first impression. I´m loking forward to exploring after siesta, when all the shops re-open. The man who runs the albergue said that the nearby Cafe Gaudi offers the best pilgrim menu on the Camino and at eight o´clock tonight I plan to find out for myself.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
I liked Leon, a lot
Yesterday at the convent in Leon, Santa Maria de Carbajalas, the peregrinos were assigned to one of three separate rooms (each with beds for fifty or so): men, women, couples. The men´s room was packed, while in the other two there were many empty beds. This is the only albergue I´ve come across so far that has made such distinctions; in most there´s not even a separation of bathrooms and showers.
There are certainly fewer women on the Camino, but not few. Most, though, are older, and I´ve noticed that the rare younger ones come in for particular attention from the older men, what a surprise. For the last few days I´ve been staying at the same albergue as two young American women (19 and 22--in Leon we had to tell the nuns our ages, and I was in line behind them), and I´ve noticed that they have fallen into the company of two Spanish men in their fifties. The men are quite solicitous, in an avuncular way, helping with the language, with blisters, with food. But they also seem a bit covetous....
A few days ago in Calzada de Hermanillos at lunch I sat a table with a Frenchman and a young Asian woman, Kim. I thought they were together, but the next day I saw her arrive at the albergue with two other older men. The one at lunch was making an unsuccessful bid to take care of her, as I sat across from them trying to read. He kept weedling her, trying to get her to eat more. At first I just thought she was shy, but soon I changed my mind and decided she was trying to ignore him, hoping he would stop. "Keem," he said repeatedly, "but I bought enough for two. You must have a ham sandwich. It´s too much. Keem, please, Keem. A little sandwich, Keem." Kim ate her apple and shook her head.
Despite these little dramas and short-term relationships, I´d say there is no sex on the Camino. Well, actually, what do I know. But at least in the dorm rooms, large and small, the night noises have been limited to varieties of snoring.
Last night in Leon I had dinner with Andy and Laura again, the couple from Wiltshire. We walked around town for some time, disappointed to find the most likely restaurants all closed. But in Leon, apparently, the Spanish rather than the peregrino meal schedule is followed, which means that the big meal comes midday. So, many of the restaurants were done by three or so. We settled on a dining room in the back of a bar, the 2 de Mayo, a sort of get-it-done type of restaurant. The meal was average--salad and chuletas yet again for me--but the company was quite good. We talked about New Orleans, the disappointing state of foreign language education in both the States and Britain, travel writing about Spain, and European politics and the theory that some have, according to Andy, that the Germans, having failed to take Europe by force, are conniving to dominate economically. At this Laura tried to shush him, as two German couples occupied the table behind ours. However, no feelings seemed to be hurt.
Andy and Laura were done with the Camino, for the time being, and after one more day in Leon were heading for home. Laura wanted to spend that extra day walking, but Andy thought this would be pointless. They argued gently for a moment, then reconciled.
At 9:35 Laura said we should go--the doors of the monasterio close for the night at 9:45 and we did not want to get locked out. We made it in and said good-bye in the forecourt. I parted with them reluctantly.
This morning I walked through Leon in the dark, along empty streets that had been filled with people the night before. I passed the Cathedral, then San Ysidro, another massive church, then a huge Renaissance monastery dedicated to St. Mark. Cleaning crews with handcarts swept the cobbled streets as the light started to come on. I crossed the Rio Bernesega and walked along on wider streets past dozens of closed shops. It took awhile, but I finally got through the city, the suburbs, an industrial outer ring, and then back out into the countryside. From there, the familiar fields and small villages. The land, though, is becoming rolling now, a hint of the mountains to come in the days ahead.
I reached Mazarife about eleven, where I´m not at one of three albergues. A short day, and I fretted for a half hour about going on. But the afternoons are hot, and more, I want to spend tomorrow night in Astorga, thirty kilometers from here. It´s another largish city with lots of plazas and churches and restaurants and narrow streets cluttered with shops. By comparison, Mazarife seems dull. But I have chosen a comfy corner, lower bunk in the book airy room, and I have my new books to occupy my afternoon. I´ve been pretty good about going slower the last five days, but sometimes it´s still a challenge.
There are certainly fewer women on the Camino, but not few. Most, though, are older, and I´ve noticed that the rare younger ones come in for particular attention from the older men, what a surprise. For the last few days I´ve been staying at the same albergue as two young American women (19 and 22--in Leon we had to tell the nuns our ages, and I was in line behind them), and I´ve noticed that they have fallen into the company of two Spanish men in their fifties. The men are quite solicitous, in an avuncular way, helping with the language, with blisters, with food. But they also seem a bit covetous....
A few days ago in Calzada de Hermanillos at lunch I sat a table with a Frenchman and a young Asian woman, Kim. I thought they were together, but the next day I saw her arrive at the albergue with two other older men. The one at lunch was making an unsuccessful bid to take care of her, as I sat across from them trying to read. He kept weedling her, trying to get her to eat more. At first I just thought she was shy, but soon I changed my mind and decided she was trying to ignore him, hoping he would stop. "Keem," he said repeatedly, "but I bought enough for two. You must have a ham sandwich. It´s too much. Keem, please, Keem. A little sandwich, Keem." Kim ate her apple and shook her head.
Despite these little dramas and short-term relationships, I´d say there is no sex on the Camino. Well, actually, what do I know. But at least in the dorm rooms, large and small, the night noises have been limited to varieties of snoring.
Last night in Leon I had dinner with Andy and Laura again, the couple from Wiltshire. We walked around town for some time, disappointed to find the most likely restaurants all closed. But in Leon, apparently, the Spanish rather than the peregrino meal schedule is followed, which means that the big meal comes midday. So, many of the restaurants were done by three or so. We settled on a dining room in the back of a bar, the 2 de Mayo, a sort of get-it-done type of restaurant. The meal was average--salad and chuletas yet again for me--but the company was quite good. We talked about New Orleans, the disappointing state of foreign language education in both the States and Britain, travel writing about Spain, and European politics and the theory that some have, according to Andy, that the Germans, having failed to take Europe by force, are conniving to dominate economically. At this Laura tried to shush him, as two German couples occupied the table behind ours. However, no feelings seemed to be hurt.
Andy and Laura were done with the Camino, for the time being, and after one more day in Leon were heading for home. Laura wanted to spend that extra day walking, but Andy thought this would be pointless. They argued gently for a moment, then reconciled.
At 9:35 Laura said we should go--the doors of the monasterio close for the night at 9:45 and we did not want to get locked out. We made it in and said good-bye in the forecourt. I parted with them reluctantly.
This morning I walked through Leon in the dark, along empty streets that had been filled with people the night before. I passed the Cathedral, then San Ysidro, another massive church, then a huge Renaissance monastery dedicated to St. Mark. Cleaning crews with handcarts swept the cobbled streets as the light started to come on. I crossed the Rio Bernesega and walked along on wider streets past dozens of closed shops. It took awhile, but I finally got through the city, the suburbs, an industrial outer ring, and then back out into the countryside. From there, the familiar fields and small villages. The land, though, is becoming rolling now, a hint of the mountains to come in the days ahead.
I reached Mazarife about eleven, where I´m not at one of three albergues. A short day, and I fretted for a half hour about going on. But the afternoons are hot, and more, I want to spend tomorrow night in Astorga, thirty kilometers from here. It´s another largish city with lots of plazas and churches and restaurants and narrow streets cluttered with shops. By comparison, Mazarife seems dull. But I have chosen a comfy corner, lower bunk in the book airy room, and I have my new books to occupy my afternoon. I´ve been pretty good about going slower the last five days, but sometimes it´s still a challenge.
Monday, June 11, 2007
In Leon, looking forward to dinner
Some people in the albergues are leisurely in their morning preparations, going so far as to make themselves breakfast. My alarm goes off at 5:45, and I´m outside in the almost-dark by 6:00 and on my way. I´ve put a banana and a muffin or some bread in my pocket, and I walk and eat as the sun comes up.
Lunch is light, more bread and fruit, maybe some olives and cheese. Dinner, though, that I take seriously--and by time seven rolls around (the hour when most restaurantes begin serving the evening´s menu) I have cultivated a serious desire to eat some good and substantial food.
Two nights ago in Calzada de Hermanillos I ate at the only restaurant in the small village. The middle-aged couple who ran it were encouraging and accommodating (which is usually not the case in customer service situations here, as I´ve mentioned before). The small interior of the restaurant was crowded with a half dozen wooden tables, and ocher-dominated oil paintings of the local countryside hung on the walls (painted by the husband, I later learned). And, though it didn´t quite match with the rest of the warm furnishings, a small television sat on a bracket high up on one wall, the volume turned low.
I had a table to myself for this meal. Company is good, but such is my commitment to la cena that the food alone is companionable too. A basketball game on the tv, a Spanish league playoff between Real Madrid and Joventut, provided bonus entertainment (there were several African-Americans on each team). But the food starred: first ensalada mixta (though I could have chosen macarones, asparagus, or lentajas), second something called Sajonia that the woman said was "rico" and turned out to be a ham steak, served with fries. The carafe of red wine filled my glass three times. For dessert I chose helado, which here was better than usual--vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, on top of a pineapple ring and a half of a peach.
I ate slow, making the meal last the whole basketball game. Dinner cost eight euros or about eleven dollars. Add in five euros for the albergue, a couple euros for fruit and bread, and that´s the cost of a day on the Camino.
Yesterday just as I reached Mansilla de las Mulas, people were entering a church near the albergue. I saw a young girl in snowy white from head to foot with white flowers in her hair, and I figured it´s either a wedding or a first communion. When a miniature naval officer, dripping braid, ambled up with his parents I decided the occasion was the latter. Soon a half dozen other girls, and various commodores, admirals, and natty common sailors arrived. Later, after the ceremony, a brass band led the newly confirmed kids in a parade around town; the girls tossed rose petals, carried in small white baskets, as they processed along the route, and for the rest of the day all over town the petals blew about in the streets.
I went out to dinner with Ben, the Autralian, and a British couple, Andy and Laura. The family in charge of the restaurant, which was in a big airy room behind a bar, were as peremptory as the previous night´s had been amicable. I had ensalada mixta first, chuletas (two pork chops) second. Everyone else had the fish (merluza or hake). I´ve had fish a couple times on the trip, but haven´t found myself all that happy afterwards. By the evening I find that my hunger is such that I need something with more personality than fish. Think lumberjack appetite. By the way, the third choice was ham and eggs. A sign out front had promised pollo as well, but the young woman shook me off when I had the temerity to ask after that fourth option.
I learned that Ben, who I mentioned earlier is a singer/songwriter, has made a couple cds of children´s songs in Australia, and is working on another such album in New York. Andy works for a telecomm company in England, in the security division. Laura makes furniture, footstools and ottomans, which she sells herself. At first she was a little self-deprecating about the work, but Andy was more forthcomng, and then she was too.
When I said I was from Minnesta, Laura said "Lake Woebegone." While I like Garrison Keillor, I´m afraid my first reaction was a little defensive. "Yes," I said, "A Prairie Home Companion. But I live in a city, the Twin Cities. It´s not like that" On the other hand, the fact that Laura and Andy knew anything about Minnesta was a rarity. Usually the word elicits a blank stare, or something like, "is that near Chicago?" It shouldn´t be a surprse, but it´s still funny to learn--over and over--that your home is largely anonymous outside the U.S.
We had a lovely conversation over the two hours of the meal, ranging widely. I probably talked a little too much, but we discussed books for awhile, and I get kind of blabby when that subject comes up. Books got us to storytelling, and then you couldn´t shut me up.
Today I had my shortest stage yet, just under twelve miles to Leon (but then I spent the whole afternoon walking around the city). The center city is pretty fabulous--winding, narrow streets filled with shops and bars and restaurants. I already found one bookstore, which had a large selection of books in English (Naked Lunch? Pale Fire? Anthony Bourdain´s Kitchen Confidential?). I bought Jonathan Raban´s Bad Land, a book about Montana because I´m a little homesick for American stuff.
I´ve had a look at the famous heaps of stone too, like the cathedral, which was one of the more amazing versions I´ve seen--what excess, what stained glass (rank upon rank of towering, arched windows, massive rosettes), what an astonishing number of bloodied and tortured Christs.
I´m staying in a huge convent tonight, with something like one hundred bunkbeds. But for some reason we peregrinos don´t rate pillows at this stop.
Soon I will go in search of dinner. This morning on a dirt road I came upon an old man with an old dog, and the man was using his cane to cast about in the weeds along the edge. Every few moments he would slowly bend over and pick up a snail and put it in a blue plastic bag. His dinner.
Lunch is light, more bread and fruit, maybe some olives and cheese. Dinner, though, that I take seriously--and by time seven rolls around (the hour when most restaurantes begin serving the evening´s menu) I have cultivated a serious desire to eat some good and substantial food.
Two nights ago in Calzada de Hermanillos I ate at the only restaurant in the small village. The middle-aged couple who ran it were encouraging and accommodating (which is usually not the case in customer service situations here, as I´ve mentioned before). The small interior of the restaurant was crowded with a half dozen wooden tables, and ocher-dominated oil paintings of the local countryside hung on the walls (painted by the husband, I later learned). And, though it didn´t quite match with the rest of the warm furnishings, a small television sat on a bracket high up on one wall, the volume turned low.
I had a table to myself for this meal. Company is good, but such is my commitment to la cena that the food alone is companionable too. A basketball game on the tv, a Spanish league playoff between Real Madrid and Joventut, provided bonus entertainment (there were several African-Americans on each team). But the food starred: first ensalada mixta (though I could have chosen macarones, asparagus, or lentajas), second something called Sajonia that the woman said was "rico" and turned out to be a ham steak, served with fries. The carafe of red wine filled my glass three times. For dessert I chose helado, which here was better than usual--vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce, on top of a pineapple ring and a half of a peach.
I ate slow, making the meal last the whole basketball game. Dinner cost eight euros or about eleven dollars. Add in five euros for the albergue, a couple euros for fruit and bread, and that´s the cost of a day on the Camino.
Yesterday just as I reached Mansilla de las Mulas, people were entering a church near the albergue. I saw a young girl in snowy white from head to foot with white flowers in her hair, and I figured it´s either a wedding or a first communion. When a miniature naval officer, dripping braid, ambled up with his parents I decided the occasion was the latter. Soon a half dozen other girls, and various commodores, admirals, and natty common sailors arrived. Later, after the ceremony, a brass band led the newly confirmed kids in a parade around town; the girls tossed rose petals, carried in small white baskets, as they processed along the route, and for the rest of the day all over town the petals blew about in the streets.
I went out to dinner with Ben, the Autralian, and a British couple, Andy and Laura. The family in charge of the restaurant, which was in a big airy room behind a bar, were as peremptory as the previous night´s had been amicable. I had ensalada mixta first, chuletas (two pork chops) second. Everyone else had the fish (merluza or hake). I´ve had fish a couple times on the trip, but haven´t found myself all that happy afterwards. By the evening I find that my hunger is such that I need something with more personality than fish. Think lumberjack appetite. By the way, the third choice was ham and eggs. A sign out front had promised pollo as well, but the young woman shook me off when I had the temerity to ask after that fourth option.
I learned that Ben, who I mentioned earlier is a singer/songwriter, has made a couple cds of children´s songs in Australia, and is working on another such album in New York. Andy works for a telecomm company in England, in the security division. Laura makes furniture, footstools and ottomans, which she sells herself. At first she was a little self-deprecating about the work, but Andy was more forthcomng, and then she was too.
When I said I was from Minnesta, Laura said "Lake Woebegone." While I like Garrison Keillor, I´m afraid my first reaction was a little defensive. "Yes," I said, "A Prairie Home Companion. But I live in a city, the Twin Cities. It´s not like that" On the other hand, the fact that Laura and Andy knew anything about Minnesta was a rarity. Usually the word elicits a blank stare, or something like, "is that near Chicago?" It shouldn´t be a surprse, but it´s still funny to learn--over and over--that your home is largely anonymous outside the U.S.
We had a lovely conversation over the two hours of the meal, ranging widely. I probably talked a little too much, but we discussed books for awhile, and I get kind of blabby when that subject comes up. Books got us to storytelling, and then you couldn´t shut me up.
Today I had my shortest stage yet, just under twelve miles to Leon (but then I spent the whole afternoon walking around the city). The center city is pretty fabulous--winding, narrow streets filled with shops and bars and restaurants. I already found one bookstore, which had a large selection of books in English (Naked Lunch? Pale Fire? Anthony Bourdain´s Kitchen Confidential?). I bought Jonathan Raban´s Bad Land, a book about Montana because I´m a little homesick for American stuff.
I´ve had a look at the famous heaps of stone too, like the cathedral, which was one of the more amazing versions I´ve seen--what excess, what stained glass (rank upon rank of towering, arched windows, massive rosettes), what an astonishing number of bloodied and tortured Christs.
I´m staying in a huge convent tonight, with something like one hundred bunkbeds. But for some reason we peregrinos don´t rate pillows at this stop.
Soon I will go in search of dinner. This morning on a dirt road I came upon an old man with an old dog, and the man was using his cane to cast about in the weeds along the edge. Every few moments he would slowly bend over and pick up a snail and put it in a blue plastic bag. His dinner.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
Walking once again
A new twist on the snoring game. Night before last the man next to me looked like trouble--a graybeard who polished off a half dozen or ten beers in the afternoon on the patio at the albergue. And indeed, he did distinguish himself. Though he was courteous enough to remain a quiet sleeper until I put down my book and turned off my headlamp. Soon after, he began to mull and murmur, speculating on something... then he moved to humming, then produced several annoyed harumphs...a pause and then mild groaning, indicating not real suffering but just a little fatigue. Silence, then several sinus clearing sniffs. Next lipsmacking, followed by a clearly articulated question, "can I have a danish?" For a long count of ten silence followed his apparently unfulfilled request...then suddenly he emitted a loud "kkkkk-och!" that made me jump. It seemed to startle him too. He fell to muttering and rolled over. At that moment the man on the other side of him clucked four times, paused, then clucked four more. There is no other word for it; he clucked. I lay awake, wondering what might come next.
Friday morning Manolo dropped me off on the far side of Carrion and I walked across a flat, mostly featureless landscape, sixteen miles to the small town of Terredillos de Templarios. A comfortable albergue, in spite of my bed neighbor. The next day I walked another sixteen miles to another small village, Calzada de los Hermanillos, and today another fifteen miles to Mansilla de las Mulas, which is bigger and partially surrounded with a crumbling stone wall that is very old I don´t know how old. I have reined in my mileage for the time being, walking only in the mornings.
The last two days have been mostly along the Via Trajana, an ancient Roman road, and a Camino alternative. This has meant fewer people and fewer villages. There wasn´t a one, village that is, on today´s walk, the longest such stretch of the trip so far. Just fields and fields, an occasional small tree.... I had some wind and rain early on, a muddy path much of the way.
The last two nights, and tonight too I imagine, I´ve been seeing the same people at the albergues. Two nights ago in Terradillos I had the pilgrim menu at the albergue (some offer meals, some have kitchens where people can make their own). I shared a table with six other people, and by good fortune they all spoke English. Ben a Australian, with the ruddy complexion one expects of his nationality, and a singer/songwriter living in New York and making an album; Uly, a talkative German living in London; another German, Mathias, a Berlin cabdriver with the Knowledge; one more German, a young woman, Michelle, who spoke English with an American accent, thanks to a year as an exchange student in North Carolina; and finally two Japanese, Kiro, a sinewy man in his sixties, with impressive stars of wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes, and his middle-aged daughter whose name I can´t remember. When the food came I pulled out my camera to take a picture, as usual, and explained that one of my daughters was interested in food. In an attmept to ingratiate myself with Kiro, I told him that Alix´s favortie food was sushi. This might have been too obvious, but actually he responded with enthusiasm, and spent the next five minutes explaining to me in broken English some of the secrets of sushi making.
The dinner, you ask? First, garbanzo beans with callos (tripe), then a chuleta or pork chop with a freid egg and salad; bread and wine, of course, and a basket of fruit for dessert.
The conversation ranged from the size of backpacks and what it said about a peregrino, to religion (Uly launched into a long disquistion on the 9th century inspirations for the Camino--directed at Kiro who understood little), to the small number of Americans on the Camino, and so on. It was a great pleasure to spend a whole two hours speaking English. One more subject that came up--the fact that the Japanese couldn´t use email because their English, and the English of their family back in Japan, wasn´t good enough that they could use the Roman alphabet keyboards. No Japanese keyboards available.
Last night most of the people at the table showed up eventually in Calzada de los Hermanillos, which had the smallest albergue I´ve stayed at yet--just sixteen beds. A bit worn but comfy and relaxed. One just picks a bed, choosing from one of the four small alcoves. The sheets smelled a bit of stale sweat, but I covered mine with the blanket provided. I went through my usual routine--shower, shave, wash clothes, read, nap.... Ben showed up after a couple hours, nackered, and took the bunk above mine. Later Uly and I sat at the big table in the public room and he asked to hear more about this ultralight thing we had talked about the night before....
Alright, here at the albergue in Mansillas others are waiting to use the computer.... Tomorrow a short day to Leon, one of the three biggest cities on the Camino....
Friday morning Manolo dropped me off on the far side of Carrion and I walked across a flat, mostly featureless landscape, sixteen miles to the small town of Terredillos de Templarios. A comfortable albergue, in spite of my bed neighbor. The next day I walked another sixteen miles to another small village, Calzada de los Hermanillos, and today another fifteen miles to Mansilla de las Mulas, which is bigger and partially surrounded with a crumbling stone wall that is very old I don´t know how old. I have reined in my mileage for the time being, walking only in the mornings.
The last two days have been mostly along the Via Trajana, an ancient Roman road, and a Camino alternative. This has meant fewer people and fewer villages. There wasn´t a one, village that is, on today´s walk, the longest such stretch of the trip so far. Just fields and fields, an occasional small tree.... I had some wind and rain early on, a muddy path much of the way.
The last two nights, and tonight too I imagine, I´ve been seeing the same people at the albergues. Two nights ago in Terradillos I had the pilgrim menu at the albergue (some offer meals, some have kitchens where people can make their own). I shared a table with six other people, and by good fortune they all spoke English. Ben a Australian, with the ruddy complexion one expects of his nationality, and a singer/songwriter living in New York and making an album; Uly, a talkative German living in London; another German, Mathias, a Berlin cabdriver with the Knowledge; one more German, a young woman, Michelle, who spoke English with an American accent, thanks to a year as an exchange student in North Carolina; and finally two Japanese, Kiro, a sinewy man in his sixties, with impressive stars of wrinkles at the outer corners of his eyes, and his middle-aged daughter whose name I can´t remember. When the food came I pulled out my camera to take a picture, as usual, and explained that one of my daughters was interested in food. In an attmept to ingratiate myself with Kiro, I told him that Alix´s favortie food was sushi. This might have been too obvious, but actually he responded with enthusiasm, and spent the next five minutes explaining to me in broken English some of the secrets of sushi making.
The dinner, you ask? First, garbanzo beans with callos (tripe), then a chuleta or pork chop with a freid egg and salad; bread and wine, of course, and a basket of fruit for dessert.
The conversation ranged from the size of backpacks and what it said about a peregrino, to religion (Uly launched into a long disquistion on the 9th century inspirations for the Camino--directed at Kiro who understood little), to the small number of Americans on the Camino, and so on. It was a great pleasure to spend a whole two hours speaking English. One more subject that came up--the fact that the Japanese couldn´t use email because their English, and the English of their family back in Japan, wasn´t good enough that they could use the Roman alphabet keyboards. No Japanese keyboards available.
Last night most of the people at the table showed up eventually in Calzada de los Hermanillos, which had the smallest albergue I´ve stayed at yet--just sixteen beds. A bit worn but comfy and relaxed. One just picks a bed, choosing from one of the four small alcoves. The sheets smelled a bit of stale sweat, but I covered mine with the blanket provided. I went through my usual routine--shower, shave, wash clothes, read, nap.... Ben showed up after a couple hours, nackered, and took the bunk above mine. Later Uly and I sat at the big table in the public room and he asked to hear more about this ultralight thing we had talked about the night before....
Alright, here at the albergue in Mansillas others are waiting to use the computer.... Tomorrow a short day to Leon, one of the three biggest cities on the Camino....
Friday, June 8, 2007
Buen dia
The night before last Manolo came in late for dinner, after a session baling hay. He has the only large empacadora, or baler, in the village, and so he bales not only his own cut fields but those of others. Baling is a matter of timing, depending on moisture: in the mornings the dew is too heavy, while the midday sun renders the grasses too dry. The best hours are from just before sunset until a few hours after midnight—and so that is when Manolo works.
For la cena we had first a soup his mother made—like bean soup, but made with “titos,” which Manolo explained were similar to but not the same as frijoles. My dictionary was no help with this word. Manolo said that during the Civil War in the late 30s the local people ate “muchos titos” because there wasn´t anything else. His mother, who´s 79, nodded in agreement. Besides the soup we ate leftover huevos llenos and jamon. Manolo had opened a bottle of Rioja for me at lunch, and I continued working on that, while he drank the cheaper wine he has with every meal and to which he adds “agua con gas.” I´d tried to insist that the regular wine was fine with me, but Manolo said no.
After we were done, about eleven, I began to clean up but Manolo waved me off. Instead he had me drive him, in the Suzuki, back out to the field where the tractor and empacadora were waiting. We left town, turned off on a narrow dirt road, carefully crossed a set of railroad tracks, and after a mile or so came to the tractor. Manolo directed me into a field of already baled hay to turn the Suzuki around so I could go back the way I´d come. Fine, I can handle that, but then instead of getting back up on the two-track road, I went right over it in the dark (I just didn´t see it) and into the other, unbaled field. While I would like to every once in awhile perform competently, this is not my Spanish fate. We both laughed and I wrestled the Suzuki around once again. But when I came to the short embankment, ready this time to make the turn, Manolo shouted “piedra!” just as I nailed a big rock. Luckily just with the left front tire. I bounced back, reversed, then made the necessary turn and got back up on the road. No problem.
A hundred or so uneventful feet back down the road I pulled up next to the tractor and Manolo got out. I waited till he climbed in the cab and turned on the bright lights, then I set off for home, taking care once again—as Manolo had reminded me—at the railroad tracks. He baled hay until 2:30 in the morning.
The next morning when I asked if I could do a load of laundry, Manolo directed me to his mother, who was standing with us when I made the request. Apparently he doesn´t know how to use the washing machine (I´m not being sarcastic—he told me as much). She had come over the night before and asked if I needed anything washed, but I had said I no, expecting to do it myself. Not to be. She took the armful of clothes not only willingly but seemingly with great satisfaction.
When I asked to use the washing machine, I also asked about where I could buy some fruit, to take with me when I set off the next day. Here abuela (it would be impossible for me to call her by her name, Pura) once again intervened. After she started my clothes, she said, she would take me to the tienda.
At the small store, after abuela identified me as American and Naomi´s father, she and the woman behind the counter, Maria Jesus, immediately launched into a discussion of the Camino, and as usual the fact that I had on one day walked fifty kilometers was trotted out. Like others, Maria Jesus laughed at such absurdity. I selected oranges and bananas from baskets arrayed along one wall and put them on the counter. Maria Jesus weighed the fruit and asked me about Naomi (whom she knows) and her niños. When I tried to pay, abuela pushed my hand away and opened up her own small wallet.
My last day in Espinosa was beautiful, sunny and warm and fresh. Walking slowly back from the store, abuela said, “buen dia,” and I answered “si, si, buen dia.”
The generosity and solicitude of abuela and Manolo, of Montse and Maite and Sergio, has been unwavering, substantial, and humbling. Care is provided so unself-consciously, so naturally, as if to behave in any other way was simply not possible. I´m reading a book about Greece by Patrick Leigh Fermor, published in 1958, and he has something apt to say about the people he has met in small villages: “…hospitality has an almost religious importance. This is based on a genuine and deep-seated kindness, the feeling of pity and charity toward a stranger that is far from his home….” He writes that the villagers seek “to shelter the newcomer from the hazards and privations of solitude in a harsh terrain.” Certainly my own experience of Spain—a terrain if not exactly harsh at least strange (to me)—has been made easier and less lonely because of the wonderful hospitality I have enjoyed here in Espinosa.
Last night I drove out to the same field as the night before to pick Manolo up and bring him back for dinner. But he was having trouble with the empacadora, and so I sat in the Suzuki on the edge of the crickety filed, waiting and watching strange hawks hunt for mice. It took him two hours to fix the twine mechanism and bale the rest of the field in the dark. By the time he finished he´d decided there was no reason to come back. He drove the tractor back to town and I followed, without incident. At the house we had a companionable, if late meal together, our last for awhile.
For la cena we had first a soup his mother made—like bean soup, but made with “titos,” which Manolo explained were similar to but not the same as frijoles. My dictionary was no help with this word. Manolo said that during the Civil War in the late 30s the local people ate “muchos titos” because there wasn´t anything else. His mother, who´s 79, nodded in agreement. Besides the soup we ate leftover huevos llenos and jamon. Manolo had opened a bottle of Rioja for me at lunch, and I continued working on that, while he drank the cheaper wine he has with every meal and to which he adds “agua con gas.” I´d tried to insist that the regular wine was fine with me, but Manolo said no.
After we were done, about eleven, I began to clean up but Manolo waved me off. Instead he had me drive him, in the Suzuki, back out to the field where the tractor and empacadora were waiting. We left town, turned off on a narrow dirt road, carefully crossed a set of railroad tracks, and after a mile or so came to the tractor. Manolo directed me into a field of already baled hay to turn the Suzuki around so I could go back the way I´d come. Fine, I can handle that, but then instead of getting back up on the two-track road, I went right over it in the dark (I just didn´t see it) and into the other, unbaled field. While I would like to every once in awhile perform competently, this is not my Spanish fate. We both laughed and I wrestled the Suzuki around once again. But when I came to the short embankment, ready this time to make the turn, Manolo shouted “piedra!” just as I nailed a big rock. Luckily just with the left front tire. I bounced back, reversed, then made the necessary turn and got back up on the road. No problem.
A hundred or so uneventful feet back down the road I pulled up next to the tractor and Manolo got out. I waited till he climbed in the cab and turned on the bright lights, then I set off for home, taking care once again—as Manolo had reminded me—at the railroad tracks. He baled hay until 2:30 in the morning.
The next morning when I asked if I could do a load of laundry, Manolo directed me to his mother, who was standing with us when I made the request. Apparently he doesn´t know how to use the washing machine (I´m not being sarcastic—he told me as much). She had come over the night before and asked if I needed anything washed, but I had said I no, expecting to do it myself. Not to be. She took the armful of clothes not only willingly but seemingly with great satisfaction.
When I asked to use the washing machine, I also asked about where I could buy some fruit, to take with me when I set off the next day. Here abuela (it would be impossible for me to call her by her name, Pura) once again intervened. After she started my clothes, she said, she would take me to the tienda.
At the small store, after abuela identified me as American and Naomi´s father, she and the woman behind the counter, Maria Jesus, immediately launched into a discussion of the Camino, and as usual the fact that I had on one day walked fifty kilometers was trotted out. Like others, Maria Jesus laughed at such absurdity. I selected oranges and bananas from baskets arrayed along one wall and put them on the counter. Maria Jesus weighed the fruit and asked me about Naomi (whom she knows) and her niños. When I tried to pay, abuela pushed my hand away and opened up her own small wallet.
My last day in Espinosa was beautiful, sunny and warm and fresh. Walking slowly back from the store, abuela said, “buen dia,” and I answered “si, si, buen dia.”
The generosity and solicitude of abuela and Manolo, of Montse and Maite and Sergio, has been unwavering, substantial, and humbling. Care is provided so unself-consciously, so naturally, as if to behave in any other way was simply not possible. I´m reading a book about Greece by Patrick Leigh Fermor, published in 1958, and he has something apt to say about the people he has met in small villages: “…hospitality has an almost religious importance. This is based on a genuine and deep-seated kindness, the feeling of pity and charity toward a stranger that is far from his home….” He writes that the villagers seek “to shelter the newcomer from the hazards and privations of solitude in a harsh terrain.” Certainly my own experience of Spain—a terrain if not exactly harsh at least strange (to me)—has been made easier and less lonely because of the wonderful hospitality I have enjoyed here in Espinosa.
Last night I drove out to the same field as the night before to pick Manolo up and bring him back for dinner. But he was having trouble with the empacadora, and so I sat in the Suzuki on the edge of the crickety filed, waiting and watching strange hawks hunt for mice. It took him two hours to fix the twine mechanism and bale the rest of the field in the dark. By the time he finished he´d decided there was no reason to come back. He drove the tractor back to town and I followed, without incident. At the house we had a companionable, if late meal together, our last for awhile.
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