I was at the computer this morning when Manolo came in to get me. We walked to a nearby bodega which had long been his father´s, but which had come to Manolo last year and needed a new roof. My help was required to take the necessary measurements.
Manolo used a huge key to open the ancient wooden door. The outside of the bodega is rough adobe, the roof is tile on top of wood. Inside, big hand-hewn wood beams support the roof, but only indifferently. An adobe wall separates two big rooms, one several steps above the other; in the back of the upper the roof has collapsed into a pile of tiles and beams, letting the sun into the dark and dusty interior. Down a set of stairs is a vaulted cellar, smelling of age and mildew. There are several empty barrels, and a large rack of empty bottles. In one corner sit two big wooden basins filled with potatoes.
Manolo hooked one end of a measuring tape to a slot in the end of a stick, which he handed to me, and we proceeded to measure the dimensions of the two rooms. I held the stick over my head up to the rafters and cobwebs, and Manolo walked to the other end of the room and then wrote down the numbers. Along with a new roof, he plans to knock out the wall separating the two rooms, and to put in a new door and window.
There is little in the upper rooms—an old bird cage, a pile of onions gone to seed, stacks of chipped tiles. When I asked how he intended to use the space, Manolo said he didn´t, that the work was simply for “conservacion.” The merendero he´s also building will serve the family´s entertainment needs, but he doesn´t want the bodega to simply fall down—as many others in the village have.
After we had finished we walked around a corner into a street lined with more bodegas, where a sixtyish couple were outside one cutting weeds. When they saw Manolo they stopped and we all went into the open door of their bodega. They were friends of his, Trini and Miguel, who live in Santander. Trini comes from Espinosa, though, and they return sometimes on weekends to tend their bodega and drink their wine.
Inside, stairs led both down to a cellar and up to a cluttered room for cooking and eating and drinking. The whitewashed walls were festooned with old, cobwebby farm implements. A vinyl tablecloth was stapled to a wooden table, with a wooden bench along one side, a bench seat from a truck along the other. There was a fireplace in a corner, a long stack of wood along the wall.
Miguel went down to the cellar and came back up with an unlabeled bottle of red wine, which he opened. He put glasses on the table and dusted off the seats. Trini pulled a packet of cookies from a cupboard and put them on the table too. Manolo poured out the wine and said to me “angelica.” It´s sweet, he said, and it makes you happy and sleepy. I drank and it was sweet, and strong. Just the one glass had a substantial effect—and indeed a happy one. Soon I was in love with the friendly Trini and and talkative Miguel, though, I think I would´ve liked them regardless of the wine.
I pulled out my camera and took a few pictures, and then Miguel gestured for me to come with him down to the cellar and take some more. He showed me how they made the wine, starting at the top of the stairs, where a large vat was built into the floor. Here they would dump the grapes, and crush them with presses and by foot. When a drain was opened the juice would run down into a smaller basin in the wall of the stairwell, and from there down another drain into a pipe that led to a spigot at the bottom of the stairs; then rubber tubes connected to the spigot could be directed into one of the several big wooden barrels. A whole wall of full wine bottles attested to the success of this operation, which they undertake each October when the local grapes are harvested.
Back upstairs, Miguel eschewed a glass, instead pouring a copious amount of wine into a clear-glass receptacle that looked very much like a bong: wide round bottom, narrow neck, and a bowl sticking out from the side. This is a porron, and the bowl is actually a spout with a very tiny opening. Miguel held the porron over his head and tipped it, and a thin stream of wine squirted from the spout into his barely opened mouth. It looked easier than it probably was. Manolo laughed and said of the porron, “no me gusta,” referring it seemed not so much to the skill required as to the amount of wine so easily consumed. Even a single glass sent me home a bit loopy.
But I wasn´t done with wine drinking, not by a long shot it turned out. Being Sunday, more visiting was in order. Around the time we would usually eat the midday meal, Manolo and Montse put on nice clothes (Montse red pants, the other woman skirts and dresses), and we walked to one of the two bars in town, which was busy with other people dressed up to have a drink. We sat down at a table with their friends and a glass of wine was put in my hand. Numerous children ran in and out of the bar, standing for awhile beside their parents and consuming candy and chips and ice cream, their own means of dissipation. A white dish of green olives sat in the middle of the table, and a Formula One race played on the television. Everyone was intermittently interested because of the great Spanish driver Alonso.
I was quizzed about my Camino experience, my feet were particularly asked after, and then I was mostly ignored while they pursued their own topics. Soon someone went for a second round and another glass of wine appeared before me.
Eventually we all set out together, with three other couples and four children, walking slowly through the village. Towards home and food, I thought and hoped, but no (the thing is I often don´t know what´s going on, or what´s going to happen next). We ended up down by the basketball courts, which we crossed to enter a long rectangular building. Inside the floor was cement, the walls concrete blocks, the high ceiling sprayed with yellow fireproofing material. At one end was a counter behind which two young women were pouring our drinks. Manolo explained that this third bar was open only in summer, and wasn´t strictly legal. But apparently the authorities weren´t too concerned. Another round was soon purchased, and I began on my fourth glass of wine on this still young day.
Not until nearly four o´clock did we all leave the second bar; everyone ambled off in the direction of their own homes, calling out “hasta luego” to each other. Back at the house, Montse served me a huge portion of ensaladilla rusa and Manolo poured me yet another glass of red wine, from one of the three bottles Miguel had sent home with us. Segundo, Montse carved up a beautiful roast chicken and cut me another hunk of bread.
I had planned to write more after the meal, but instead I napped, or maybe passed out would be a more accurate term.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Verena and Lourdes
The morning city was vague with fog and mist, quiet and still as I walked west from the albergue, through the Portico de Camino and back towards the cathedral. Only a few cafe-bars and the occasional tienda were open. I stopped into one of the latter for some bread, and the old man behind the counter asked if I was German. I said no, los Estados Unidos and he brightened. I told him I was taking a train to Palencia, and he smiled and said "muchos barcos" (many boats), thinking I had said Valencia, and I smiled and nodded and didn´t correct him.
The few people in the cafe-bars looked as if they had been up all night, and no doubt had. The night before I had walked through the start of a neighborhood fiesta in the streets near the albergue, and while I wanted to stay out and participate, I had to return to the albergue before the door was locked for the night. Then, people were still fresh and excited, and men were playing music in raggedy groups as they marched along attended by friends drinking from bottles of beer. But in the morning fog the mood was subdued, almost glum. Three teenaged boys inside a cafe sat with their heads close together on a table, starting up sleepily when a waiter brought them cups of coffee. Outside another cafe a man slept on the sidewalk, looking surprisingly comfortable on the paving stones. Young women in rumpled party clothes passed alone along the streets. A pair of young men sat on a stoop talking and smoking cigarettes. A couple blocks away another man sat on the steps of a closed shop puking, while his four friends crowded around solicitously, the women cooing to soothe and console him.
The plazas around the cathedral were deserted, the spires of the giant church hazy in the mist. I stepped inside one more time, drawn by the giant angels holding up the ornate roof above the head of gold and silver St. James. They looked truly otherworldly, no cute cherubs but strange, uncanny beings. The bells tolled the half hour, and I left the cathedral to make my way down to the train station and my 9:00 departure.
The night before when I got back to the albergue, I had sat for a time out in the public room reading. But I soon fell into conversation with a young German woman, Verena. I had spotted her on first coming in and immediately wanted to know her story. At this point in my trip I´m less shy about just asking. She had walked from Sevilla, on the Via de la Plata, and looked tired, though she had arrived four days earlier. She had small eyes and a broad face, two lip piercings, a moon tattoo on her neck, a sun on the back of her hand. And she was traveling with a dog, who lay on the floor at our feet in a sleeping bag.
She had not started her walk with a dog, only the desire for such a companion. In Zamora she learned that dogs at the local animal shelter were "killed" (a word she apparently preferred to "put to sleep") after twenty days, and she determined to rescue one. There were various complications, but she did end up with a three-month old girl puppy, just what she had wanted. The hospitalera in Zamora where she was staying had called the dog Batussi, after an African tribe, because, Verena explained, "she is all the time running and very fast, and this tribe they are too all the time running and fast." The name had stuck.
But once she had the dog for a companion she was no longer allowed to stay in albergues along the way. At one point she had slept out for five consecutive nights, mostly in the rain, and she had no tent. "This it is hard," she said and gave a pained laugh. At the albergue in Santiago she could least sleep inside, but only in the public room, not in a bed in the dormitorio.
The dog had meant a slower pace too, as it would or could walk no more than twenty kilometers a day. "Only five before a rest," she said. After five the dog would lay down and go to sleep, and Verena would sit and wait an hour or so until it awoke and was ready to continue. "It is young," she said, "too much walking is not good for her bones." When it rained she wrapped the dog in her rain jacket, because "she need it more than me, and it doesn´t matter if I get wet." She said, "we two have to make compromises," but I laughed and said that it sounded like only one of them was sacrificing. She smiled and shrugged. She didn´t seem to mind one bit. She planned to fly Batussi home with her to Germany in a few days, and had already got the dog shots and a chip and a certificate of health. She was still looking for a carrier, but they were "much expensive." In the morning when I left they were asleep together in the sleeping bag, lying back to back.
The seven-hour train ride to Palencia was a lazy pleasure. The fog burned off and I watched the green hills of Galicia pass by, eventually flattening out and giving way to la meseta, where the green wheat has turned to gold in the last weeks.
I spent a couple hours talking with a Spanish woman, Lourdes, who lives with her husband near Negraira and was traveling to the Basque country to see relatives. She was in her mid to late fifties, talkitive and attractive. We sat in facing seats, kitty corner from each other and put our feet up. She has "only the one son," who lives in London with his girlfriend in a flat she, the mother, had bought for them. She has a flat in London too, and one on the coast in Cantabria near Santander. And she told me she owns "places" in Pamplona, and lives off the rents. "But I don´t need much," she said. "I live in teh country and there is no much expense." She had lived and worked in London for a time, and so spoke fairly good English, though she didn´t think so. "I don´t use it so much. My son, his girlfriend is English, but he say to me, no, you must not speak English to her, she must learn Spanish. But when they visit for only a few days I say, it is too short, I will speak to her in Spanish." She shrugged. "It is better."
She told me that people in Galicia eat too much meat. Her son is a vegetarian, which she seemed to think was going a little overbaord, but on the other hand he apparently could do no wrong. She did say that he and his girlfriend could be a little lazy when they came to visit. "They don´t even make the beds," she said. "My husband, he say, why you do all that for them? But it is only for a few days, and I am happy."
Near Ponferrada she pulled down a large, square bag from the overhead shelf. Besides this peice of luggage--which proved to be a soft-sided cooler--she traveled only with a purse and umbrella. The cooler was packed with food and she asked if I was hungry. I was but hesitated politely. She would have none of this.
Lourdes cut me a length of baguette, cut it open and put inside a large chunk of tortilla de patata. I took a bite and spilled a bit on my lap, and she handed me a cloth napkin. This bocadillo alone, along with the plastic cup of apple and piña juice she poured me, made a meal. But when I was finished she opened another container and handed me a large triangle of empanada with tuna. A moment later she held out a couple slices of jamon serrano. Not too much meat, just enough. When I thanked her for this largesse, she said, "it is good to eat," then shrugged and added, "it is better than nothing." Much.
I had three hours in Palencia, where it was hotter than it´s been my entire time in Spain. I walked slowly down the nearly deserted Calle Mayor, under a shaded arcade. A few people began to appear, mostly clerks come to re-open the shops after siesta.
The train to Espinosa was a local and made numerous stops. I got off with one other person and walked into the village. Near the first houses Manolo stood talking to two men. He broke off from them and we shook hands and he asked, ¿que tal?" and I said, "bien, muy bien."
The few people in the cafe-bars looked as if they had been up all night, and no doubt had. The night before I had walked through the start of a neighborhood fiesta in the streets near the albergue, and while I wanted to stay out and participate, I had to return to the albergue before the door was locked for the night. Then, people were still fresh and excited, and men were playing music in raggedy groups as they marched along attended by friends drinking from bottles of beer. But in the morning fog the mood was subdued, almost glum. Three teenaged boys inside a cafe sat with their heads close together on a table, starting up sleepily when a waiter brought them cups of coffee. Outside another cafe a man slept on the sidewalk, looking surprisingly comfortable on the paving stones. Young women in rumpled party clothes passed alone along the streets. A pair of young men sat on a stoop talking and smoking cigarettes. A couple blocks away another man sat on the steps of a closed shop puking, while his four friends crowded around solicitously, the women cooing to soothe and console him.
The plazas around the cathedral were deserted, the spires of the giant church hazy in the mist. I stepped inside one more time, drawn by the giant angels holding up the ornate roof above the head of gold and silver St. James. They looked truly otherworldly, no cute cherubs but strange, uncanny beings. The bells tolled the half hour, and I left the cathedral to make my way down to the train station and my 9:00 departure.
The night before when I got back to the albergue, I had sat for a time out in the public room reading. But I soon fell into conversation with a young German woman, Verena. I had spotted her on first coming in and immediately wanted to know her story. At this point in my trip I´m less shy about just asking. She had walked from Sevilla, on the Via de la Plata, and looked tired, though she had arrived four days earlier. She had small eyes and a broad face, two lip piercings, a moon tattoo on her neck, a sun on the back of her hand. And she was traveling with a dog, who lay on the floor at our feet in a sleeping bag.
She had not started her walk with a dog, only the desire for such a companion. In Zamora she learned that dogs at the local animal shelter were "killed" (a word she apparently preferred to "put to sleep") after twenty days, and she determined to rescue one. There were various complications, but she did end up with a three-month old girl puppy, just what she had wanted. The hospitalera in Zamora where she was staying had called the dog Batussi, after an African tribe, because, Verena explained, "she is all the time running and very fast, and this tribe they are too all the time running and fast." The name had stuck.
But once she had the dog for a companion she was no longer allowed to stay in albergues along the way. At one point she had slept out for five consecutive nights, mostly in the rain, and she had no tent. "This it is hard," she said and gave a pained laugh. At the albergue in Santiago she could least sleep inside, but only in the public room, not in a bed in the dormitorio.
The dog had meant a slower pace too, as it would or could walk no more than twenty kilometers a day. "Only five before a rest," she said. After five the dog would lay down and go to sleep, and Verena would sit and wait an hour or so until it awoke and was ready to continue. "It is young," she said, "too much walking is not good for her bones." When it rained she wrapped the dog in her rain jacket, because "she need it more than me, and it doesn´t matter if I get wet." She said, "we two have to make compromises," but I laughed and said that it sounded like only one of them was sacrificing. She smiled and shrugged. She didn´t seem to mind one bit. She planned to fly Batussi home with her to Germany in a few days, and had already got the dog shots and a chip and a certificate of health. She was still looking for a carrier, but they were "much expensive." In the morning when I left they were asleep together in the sleeping bag, lying back to back.
The seven-hour train ride to Palencia was a lazy pleasure. The fog burned off and I watched the green hills of Galicia pass by, eventually flattening out and giving way to la meseta, where the green wheat has turned to gold in the last weeks.
I spent a couple hours talking with a Spanish woman, Lourdes, who lives with her husband near Negraira and was traveling to the Basque country to see relatives. She was in her mid to late fifties, talkitive and attractive. We sat in facing seats, kitty corner from each other and put our feet up. She has "only the one son," who lives in London with his girlfriend in a flat she, the mother, had bought for them. She has a flat in London too, and one on the coast in Cantabria near Santander. And she told me she owns "places" in Pamplona, and lives off the rents. "But I don´t need much," she said. "I live in teh country and there is no much expense." She had lived and worked in London for a time, and so spoke fairly good English, though she didn´t think so. "I don´t use it so much. My son, his girlfriend is English, but he say to me, no, you must not speak English to her, she must learn Spanish. But when they visit for only a few days I say, it is too short, I will speak to her in Spanish." She shrugged. "It is better."
She told me that people in Galicia eat too much meat. Her son is a vegetarian, which she seemed to think was going a little overbaord, but on the other hand he apparently could do no wrong. She did say that he and his girlfriend could be a little lazy when they came to visit. "They don´t even make the beds," she said. "My husband, he say, why you do all that for them? But it is only for a few days, and I am happy."
Near Ponferrada she pulled down a large, square bag from the overhead shelf. Besides this peice of luggage--which proved to be a soft-sided cooler--she traveled only with a purse and umbrella. The cooler was packed with food and she asked if I was hungry. I was but hesitated politely. She would have none of this.
Lourdes cut me a length of baguette, cut it open and put inside a large chunk of tortilla de patata. I took a bite and spilled a bit on my lap, and she handed me a cloth napkin. This bocadillo alone, along with the plastic cup of apple and piña juice she poured me, made a meal. But when I was finished she opened another container and handed me a large triangle of empanada with tuna. A moment later she held out a couple slices of jamon serrano. Not too much meat, just enough. When I thanked her for this largesse, she said, "it is good to eat," then shrugged and added, "it is better than nothing." Much.
I had three hours in Palencia, where it was hotter than it´s been my entire time in Spain. I walked slowly down the nearly deserted Calle Mayor, under a shaded arcade. A few people began to appear, mostly clerks come to re-open the shops after siesta.
The train to Espinosa was a local and made numerous stops. I got off with one other person and walked into the village. Near the first houses Manolo stood talking to two men. He broke off from them and we shook hands and he asked, ¿que tal?" and I said, "bien, muy bien."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Feeling good in Santiago
So often for me everything seems to fall into place at the end of a trip, and I experience a near perfect sense of well-being and satisfaction. That´s what I felt this afternoon sitting on a bench in a lovely green park in Santiago, where the city people take their paseos on wide gravel paths. Not that my trip is quite over, but the main part is done, and now I´m on to a couple bonus parts.
I left Muxia at 7:30 this morning via bus. Strange to be moving at such a speed after weeks of the more reasonable walking pace. Once in Santiago I walked from the bus station to Acuario Albergue, my last albergue. A pretty Spanish woman wearing lots of make-up took my credencial and wrote my name in her book. Incense was burning and the radio was playing Spanish pop music. The walls were brightly colored and draped with hangings, one dominated by large printed pot leaves. A hippy refuge. The woman walked me to the connected dormitorio, a dog-legged room with twenty-five or so bunkbeds, and chose an upper for me. Nearly all the beds were already taken. As I unpacked she took up a broom to sweep, singing along to a song on the radio.
After a little time on the single, unoccupied computer (again, everything was going my way), I walked into the old city, around the cathedral on already familiar streets to the tourist office. I got a map and walked down through busier and newer streets to the train station. There I found that a train left for Palencia at nine the next morning, and that I could make a connection in Palencia for Espinosa and arrive in plenty of time for dinner. After this great good luck I wandered through the city--which is maybe my favorite, right up there with Leon--and ended up on the bench at the park at the foot of a venerable eucalyptus.
I slept well last night, but at first my rest was in question. The man who had the upper bunk above me showed up only after dark, so I never saw him. I did sense, though, that he was smallish and middle-aged--and I could hear that he was Italian. As soon as he climbed up into his bed he started whispering to himself. At first this seemed maybe just a pre-bedtime conversation, maybe a companionable way to finish off the day. Nothing wrong with talking to one´s self, if one doesn´t go on too long. But it soon became apparent that his mutterings expressed not pleasantries but dissatisfaction, and not with himself: he did not like the snoring that was going on nearby. Now, this was strange to me. Muxia is at the end of the Camino for most people, meaning the communal sleep situation should be old hat. I´ve long been broken in to the snoring, which has been a feature of nearly every night. I don´t have a problem with it anymore; I can sleep through it. So for someone to be so annoyed and worked up about the night noise... I just didn´t get it. But the man did succeed in communicating a certain unpleasant tension.
After a few minutes of complaining in whispers to himself, the man began to talk louder--as if this would help? Then he loudly shushed a man snoring three bunkbeds over. To my surprise the snoring paused--but only for a moment. Then the rather high pitched sawing recommenced, each breath finished off with a short emphatic grumble. The man above me spoke out loud again, appealing to the dark in his indignation. Then he fell to angry mutterings. By this time I was getting uncomfortable. The snoring I could handle, but this man´s frustration was harder to sleep through. I thought he might get down and go over to interrupt the snorer´s sleep. Maybe things would get ugly. But he stayed in his bed and stuck with the muttering and complaining, tossing in a few more loud and useless shushes. Eventually I´m gusessing he accepted his fate, since he fell quiet and I fell asleep. And like I said, I slept well.
From the park I took my map and wandered the town, finding out all the large stone churches and convents, and walking up and down the narrowest streets. I poked into a number of souvenir shops but could find nothing worth buying for the folks back home. When traveling I am incapable of shopping; nothing ever looks remotely interesting.
In the Cafe Dakar I re-discovered that a tortilla is sometimes an omelette, not the tortilla de patata I´d expected. Still, I ate with good appetite, and drank a glass of beer.
By evening the city had become more interesting than ever. People filled the tables outside cafes, and hordes of small children ran about in the streets; a wedding spilled out of a church, and a large group of people in long black robes and pointy black hats went past carrying instruments, mostly bagpipes and drums. In the cathedral evening mass was in progress, and I went in to once more admire the giant angels holding up the golden roof over the head of St. James and over the altar below. Outside in a covered passage beside the cathedral two people played violin; nearby two men played clarinet and guitar together. In the Praza Praterias on the sotuh side of the cathedral, a man and a woman in black and yellow performed a song and dance and juggling act. They did a gymnastic number to a song from Dirty Dancing. When they were done another performer took up in the nearby Praza Quintana, entertaining the kids with funny hats and balloon animals and ring tossing....
In the Praza Obradoiro, on the front side of the cathedral, bands of peregrinos loitered, talking to each other and gazing up at the spires. Just as I had with my own group of pilgrims a week ago. All day long I saw people with backpacks around town, but they were all strange to me. Not a single familiar face. But more than once I saw these people recognize their own Camino frinds and fall on each other´s necks. Just as my own group had a week ago. All day long I was loving Santiago, but I also came to feel it was time to go.
Yesterday in Muxia I was sitting outside the tourist office waiting for it to open, when an old and heavy-set German man hobbled up and sat down beside me with a great sigh. We remained silent for a few minutes, and then he offered me a cookie from a white plastic bag. He said he had just bought them at the panaderia. I said no at first, and he said are you sure, and I said, ok, yes, I will have one. I´d seen him moving slowly along the path outside Corcubion a few days before, one of those people who seem to get along on desire more than physical strength. There in Muxia he told me that he had come all the way from Roncesvalles. I don´t know how long it took him, but I would guess some long time. When the office opened we both went in and got our credencials stamped. The old man shook the Spanish man´s hand and said now he was done. Tomorrow, he said, he would take a train east. In a couple days he planned to be back in Roncesvalles, and to start walking the Camino once again.
I left Muxia at 7:30 this morning via bus. Strange to be moving at such a speed after weeks of the more reasonable walking pace. Once in Santiago I walked from the bus station to Acuario Albergue, my last albergue. A pretty Spanish woman wearing lots of make-up took my credencial and wrote my name in her book. Incense was burning and the radio was playing Spanish pop music. The walls were brightly colored and draped with hangings, one dominated by large printed pot leaves. A hippy refuge. The woman walked me to the connected dormitorio, a dog-legged room with twenty-five or so bunkbeds, and chose an upper for me. Nearly all the beds were already taken. As I unpacked she took up a broom to sweep, singing along to a song on the radio.
After a little time on the single, unoccupied computer (again, everything was going my way), I walked into the old city, around the cathedral on already familiar streets to the tourist office. I got a map and walked down through busier and newer streets to the train station. There I found that a train left for Palencia at nine the next morning, and that I could make a connection in Palencia for Espinosa and arrive in plenty of time for dinner. After this great good luck I wandered through the city--which is maybe my favorite, right up there with Leon--and ended up on the bench at the park at the foot of a venerable eucalyptus.
I slept well last night, but at first my rest was in question. The man who had the upper bunk above me showed up only after dark, so I never saw him. I did sense, though, that he was smallish and middle-aged--and I could hear that he was Italian. As soon as he climbed up into his bed he started whispering to himself. At first this seemed maybe just a pre-bedtime conversation, maybe a companionable way to finish off the day. Nothing wrong with talking to one´s self, if one doesn´t go on too long. But it soon became apparent that his mutterings expressed not pleasantries but dissatisfaction, and not with himself: he did not like the snoring that was going on nearby. Now, this was strange to me. Muxia is at the end of the Camino for most people, meaning the communal sleep situation should be old hat. I´ve long been broken in to the snoring, which has been a feature of nearly every night. I don´t have a problem with it anymore; I can sleep through it. So for someone to be so annoyed and worked up about the night noise... I just didn´t get it. But the man did succeed in communicating a certain unpleasant tension.
After a few minutes of complaining in whispers to himself, the man began to talk louder--as if this would help? Then he loudly shushed a man snoring three bunkbeds over. To my surprise the snoring paused--but only for a moment. Then the rather high pitched sawing recommenced, each breath finished off with a short emphatic grumble. The man above me spoke out loud again, appealing to the dark in his indignation. Then he fell to angry mutterings. By this time I was getting uncomfortable. The snoring I could handle, but this man´s frustration was harder to sleep through. I thought he might get down and go over to interrupt the snorer´s sleep. Maybe things would get ugly. But he stayed in his bed and stuck with the muttering and complaining, tossing in a few more loud and useless shushes. Eventually I´m gusessing he accepted his fate, since he fell quiet and I fell asleep. And like I said, I slept well.
From the park I took my map and wandered the town, finding out all the large stone churches and convents, and walking up and down the narrowest streets. I poked into a number of souvenir shops but could find nothing worth buying for the folks back home. When traveling I am incapable of shopping; nothing ever looks remotely interesting.
In the Cafe Dakar I re-discovered that a tortilla is sometimes an omelette, not the tortilla de patata I´d expected. Still, I ate with good appetite, and drank a glass of beer.
By evening the city had become more interesting than ever. People filled the tables outside cafes, and hordes of small children ran about in the streets; a wedding spilled out of a church, and a large group of people in long black robes and pointy black hats went past carrying instruments, mostly bagpipes and drums. In the cathedral evening mass was in progress, and I went in to once more admire the giant angels holding up the golden roof over the head of St. James and over the altar below. Outside in a covered passage beside the cathedral two people played violin; nearby two men played clarinet and guitar together. In the Praza Praterias on the sotuh side of the cathedral, a man and a woman in black and yellow performed a song and dance and juggling act. They did a gymnastic number to a song from Dirty Dancing. When they were done another performer took up in the nearby Praza Quintana, entertaining the kids with funny hats and balloon animals and ring tossing....
In the Praza Obradoiro, on the front side of the cathedral, bands of peregrinos loitered, talking to each other and gazing up at the spires. Just as I had with my own group of pilgrims a week ago. All day long I saw people with backpacks around town, but they were all strange to me. Not a single familiar face. But more than once I saw these people recognize their own Camino frinds and fall on each other´s necks. Just as my own group had a week ago. All day long I was loving Santiago, but I also came to feel it was time to go.
Yesterday in Muxia I was sitting outside the tourist office waiting for it to open, when an old and heavy-set German man hobbled up and sat down beside me with a great sigh. We remained silent for a few minutes, and then he offered me a cookie from a white plastic bag. He said he had just bought them at the panaderia. I said no at first, and he said are you sure, and I said, ok, yes, I will have one. I´d seen him moving slowly along the path outside Corcubion a few days before, one of those people who seem to get along on desire more than physical strength. There in Muxia he told me that he had come all the way from Roncesvalles. I don´t know how long it took him, but I would guess some long time. When the office opened we both went in and got our credencials stamped. The old man shook the Spanish man´s hand and said now he was done. Tomorrow, he said, he would take a train east. In a couple days he planned to be back in Roncesvalles, and to start walking the Camino once again.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Dogs don´t like me
(longish bonus entry for the 28th, and for the dogs)
I haven´t been using my walking stick hardly at all the last couple weeks, but in a moment I can reach over my shoulder and pull it out of the side pocket of my pack. And why would I want to do that? To defend myself.
I have passed literally thousands of dogs in my walk across Spain. Most have ignored me, some have barked, some have strained against their chains in an effort to kill me. But until the walk from Finesterre to Muxia only two loose dogs (and most are loose) had charged me. After today´s morning walk I can add a dozen or so to that number.
The first attack came early. A large brown and white dog lay in the middle of the street outside a house; when I saw that our paths would cross I reached for my stick, merely as a precautionary measure. I thought I might slide by, but as I came close the dog rose up and began to growl in the back of its throat. I pointed the stick at it and tried to look menacing, but it rushed me anyway. I shouted "fuck off!" which is my standard request of an angry dog. It stopped for a moment, then rushed me again. I repeated my wish, this time puncuating the words by banging my stick on the pavement. The dog snarled, charged, stopped; I repeated my moves too--and after a few more dance steps backwards I was past and out of its range of concern.
Shortly after in a wood, I came around a bend in the path, on a stretch where tall ferns hemmed in the peregrino. I stopped when I saw two german shepards waiting for me a few quick leaps ahead. We looked at each other for a long moment... and then I said, "get on with you now." To my relief they complied, running up the trail before me and disappearing into the woods.
A few moments later, though, when I was stopped to have a pee, an ugly black and brown dog with death in its eyes came running silently up the path at me. I pissed all over myself as I hurriedly tried to switch hands from the little to the big stick. The dog turned around and ran back to its nearby house--to wait for me. And I had no choice, I had to pass its way. As I came alongside the farmhouse, the dog paced up and down a head-high wall, barking and growling and making ready to pounce on me. Luckily a man came out of a shed into the small adjacent garden, and he said something to dissuade the dog. The dog hesitated, clearly torn between the compulsion of obedience and the desire to rip out my neck. It seemed to be saying, "come on, man, I want him, I really want him. I need this, man, come on, come on! Let me do it, come on...."
Several times in the few moments it took me to pass I thought that its strong wish for my blood would win out, but just when the dog seemed ready to go ahead and be a bad dog the man would once again mutter some few words of remonstration, resulting in hesitation, just enough.
My day was quite tiring, not so much because of the thirty or so kilometers of walking, but because of the repeated experience of the fear response. When it looks and sounds as if a dog is going to attack, the fear starts up my spine, races up the back of my neck, and makes all my hair stand up as the terror rolls over the top of my head. This is draining and unpleasant.
The dog that interrupted my bathroom break lived in the small village of Rial. Picturesque, on a green hillside near the sea, with stone horreos half filled with corn--and way too many dogs. In Rial, and actually across all Galicia, it seems as if every house has at least three dogs, often more. There were lots of cats too, but they give one no trouble. So, I hadn´t gone another fifty feet in Rial when another dog came around a corner barking and snapping, ready for mayhem--and came to the end of its chain. All right, thank you (though my hair still did that standing up thing). But a half minute later, when I turned to walk past a small sawmill, two more loose dogs had at me. Fuck! I made a feint back and this scared off the larger of the two, but the smaller one and I dodged down the street lunging at each other, it barking, me yelling.
Maybe this is getting repetitious, but I´m not done.
I did have a respite for some time. As long as I wasn´t in villages or walking past houses I was fine. The woods were my refuge. And then I came down to Marineto.
I made a wrong turn and passed a group of farm buildings set down below the road. When I came into view of the front of the house, four dogs, graduated in size from smallish to giantish, jumped up and dashed up the hill at me barking bloody murder. Again the smallest was foremost. But I got past with a few jabs of my walking stick. I had surprised them and was nearly by when they reached the road. Imagine, then, my great sadness when after a kilometer or so I realized I had gone the wrong way and I would have to return to Marineto. The dogs were ready the second time, and it took more fencing work and more repetitions of various forms of the word "fuck" to get past them again.
The road led downhill and just five minutes later into another tiny village, Figueiroa. By this time I was dreading all built structures. The road narrowed to a ten foot wide lane between low stone buildings, and at the other end stood two dogs looking out at me. They barked with vicious intent as I came nearer their home, a home they were ready and willing to defend. I slowed, unsure.... But then a woman came out of a house and said a few words and the dogs moved aside, though they didn´t stop barking their displeasure with me. The woman said, "no problema" as I gingerly stepped past. Right. No problem.
Ten seconds later--and that´s not an exaggeration--I was set upon by a black dog in the most serious attack yet. This dog wasn´t kidding. It came in close and low, growling and snarling and baring its front teeth. I jabbed at it with my stick while taking steps backwards, but this only pissed the dog off more. In this moment I was truly terrified because it looked as if this dog was really about to take a chunk out of me with those bared teeth. Then I glanced over my shoudler and saw that there were three more dogs behind me. Shit, I thought, this is bad.
But just as I was looking for a wall against which to make my final stand, an old woman suddenly appeared, coming over a little rise from her garden below. She shouted at the dogs and they fell back. She looked at me and pointed to a turning I had missed while contending with the dog; I fled uphill out of the village, while she picked up a rock to throw at my would-be assasin.
There were a few other episodes, but you get the idea. I shivered to think what would´ve happened if I hadn´t each time been saved by the intervention (if nonchalance) of dog owners.
Later in Muxia along the waterfront I met a Spanish man named Danny. I´d seen him the day before in Finesterre, and he had made the walk to Muxia too, a couple hours behind me. We talked of the path, what we had seen along the way. At the end I said, yes, it was beautiful, but "muchos perros quieren matarme" (many dogs wanted to kill me). He laughed at my words, and then told me that he hadn´t had any trouble at all.
I haven´t been using my walking stick hardly at all the last couple weeks, but in a moment I can reach over my shoulder and pull it out of the side pocket of my pack. And why would I want to do that? To defend myself.
I have passed literally thousands of dogs in my walk across Spain. Most have ignored me, some have barked, some have strained against their chains in an effort to kill me. But until the walk from Finesterre to Muxia only two loose dogs (and most are loose) had charged me. After today´s morning walk I can add a dozen or so to that number.
The first attack came early. A large brown and white dog lay in the middle of the street outside a house; when I saw that our paths would cross I reached for my stick, merely as a precautionary measure. I thought I might slide by, but as I came close the dog rose up and began to growl in the back of its throat. I pointed the stick at it and tried to look menacing, but it rushed me anyway. I shouted "fuck off!" which is my standard request of an angry dog. It stopped for a moment, then rushed me again. I repeated my wish, this time puncuating the words by banging my stick on the pavement. The dog snarled, charged, stopped; I repeated my moves too--and after a few more dance steps backwards I was past and out of its range of concern.
Shortly after in a wood, I came around a bend in the path, on a stretch where tall ferns hemmed in the peregrino. I stopped when I saw two german shepards waiting for me a few quick leaps ahead. We looked at each other for a long moment... and then I said, "get on with you now." To my relief they complied, running up the trail before me and disappearing into the woods.
A few moments later, though, when I was stopped to have a pee, an ugly black and brown dog with death in its eyes came running silently up the path at me. I pissed all over myself as I hurriedly tried to switch hands from the little to the big stick. The dog turned around and ran back to its nearby house--to wait for me. And I had no choice, I had to pass its way. As I came alongside the farmhouse, the dog paced up and down a head-high wall, barking and growling and making ready to pounce on me. Luckily a man came out of a shed into the small adjacent garden, and he said something to dissuade the dog. The dog hesitated, clearly torn between the compulsion of obedience and the desire to rip out my neck. It seemed to be saying, "come on, man, I want him, I really want him. I need this, man, come on, come on! Let me do it, come on...."
Several times in the few moments it took me to pass I thought that its strong wish for my blood would win out, but just when the dog seemed ready to go ahead and be a bad dog the man would once again mutter some few words of remonstration, resulting in hesitation, just enough.
My day was quite tiring, not so much because of the thirty or so kilometers of walking, but because of the repeated experience of the fear response. When it looks and sounds as if a dog is going to attack, the fear starts up my spine, races up the back of my neck, and makes all my hair stand up as the terror rolls over the top of my head. This is draining and unpleasant.
The dog that interrupted my bathroom break lived in the small village of Rial. Picturesque, on a green hillside near the sea, with stone horreos half filled with corn--and way too many dogs. In Rial, and actually across all Galicia, it seems as if every house has at least three dogs, often more. There were lots of cats too, but they give one no trouble. So, I hadn´t gone another fifty feet in Rial when another dog came around a corner barking and snapping, ready for mayhem--and came to the end of its chain. All right, thank you (though my hair still did that standing up thing). But a half minute later, when I turned to walk past a small sawmill, two more loose dogs had at me. Fuck! I made a feint back and this scared off the larger of the two, but the smaller one and I dodged down the street lunging at each other, it barking, me yelling.
Maybe this is getting repetitious, but I´m not done.
I did have a respite for some time. As long as I wasn´t in villages or walking past houses I was fine. The woods were my refuge. And then I came down to Marineto.
I made a wrong turn and passed a group of farm buildings set down below the road. When I came into view of the front of the house, four dogs, graduated in size from smallish to giantish, jumped up and dashed up the hill at me barking bloody murder. Again the smallest was foremost. But I got past with a few jabs of my walking stick. I had surprised them and was nearly by when they reached the road. Imagine, then, my great sadness when after a kilometer or so I realized I had gone the wrong way and I would have to return to Marineto. The dogs were ready the second time, and it took more fencing work and more repetitions of various forms of the word "fuck" to get past them again.
The road led downhill and just five minutes later into another tiny village, Figueiroa. By this time I was dreading all built structures. The road narrowed to a ten foot wide lane between low stone buildings, and at the other end stood two dogs looking out at me. They barked with vicious intent as I came nearer their home, a home they were ready and willing to defend. I slowed, unsure.... But then a woman came out of a house and said a few words and the dogs moved aside, though they didn´t stop barking their displeasure with me. The woman said, "no problema" as I gingerly stepped past. Right. No problem.
Ten seconds later--and that´s not an exaggeration--I was set upon by a black dog in the most serious attack yet. This dog wasn´t kidding. It came in close and low, growling and snarling and baring its front teeth. I jabbed at it with my stick while taking steps backwards, but this only pissed the dog off more. In this moment I was truly terrified because it looked as if this dog was really about to take a chunk out of me with those bared teeth. Then I glanced over my shoudler and saw that there were three more dogs behind me. Shit, I thought, this is bad.
But just as I was looking for a wall against which to make my final stand, an old woman suddenly appeared, coming over a little rise from her garden below. She shouted at the dogs and they fell back. She looked at me and pointed to a turning I had missed while contending with the dog; I fled uphill out of the village, while she picked up a rock to throw at my would-be assasin.
There were a few other episodes, but you get the idea. I shivered to think what would´ve happened if I hadn´t each time been saved by the intervention (if nonchalance) of dog owners.
Later in Muxia along the waterfront I met a Spanish man named Danny. I´d seen him the day before in Finesterre, and he had made the walk to Muxia too, a couple hours behind me. We talked of the path, what we had seen along the way. At the end I said, yes, it was beautiful, but "muchos perros quieren matarme" (many dogs wanted to kill me). He laughed at my words, and then told me that he hadn´t had any trouble at all.
To Muxia, why not
A last day of walking, but a third ending--first Santiago, then Finesterre, and finally, on this day, Muxia. The route led north, inland but parallel and often in sight of the coast. Like Finesterre, Muxia is on the water and a fishing port.
Much of the way was on paths rather than roads, through pine and fern woods. Beautiful, but not in a way I expect or experience woodlands in the U.S. I wasn´t once in a forest in Spain that wasn´t apparently scheduled for eventual cutting. The woods almost always seemed more agricultural than wild. The pastoral landscape, the fields and hedges and stone walls, seemed much older, lasting.
The route was less well-marked than on previous sections, and twice I made wrong turnings. The first was fortunate, as it led me to a gorse-covered hill above the rocky coast. Back on the right way, I soon came down to a beach, where the Rio Lires empties into the ocean. The day had begun with sun, but a thin layer of clouds moved in mid-morning. I followed the river upstream, passing a large and old fish farm; the water below was boiling with some sort of fish, all with their snouts pointing up through the surface. Just beyond I crossed a footbridge into the village of Lires, one of the few villages in which I was not harrassed by dogs (see next post for details).
I saw only seven other peregrinos on this walk of thirty or so kilometers, and they were all going the opposite way, to Finesterre. Several confused looking people stopped me to discuss route finding.
Beyond Lires I came to a smaller stream, Rio Castro, and found that the water had risen up over the large stepping stones placed for crossing. I removed my shoes and waded, having to go thigh deep at the other side where the last two stones were missing. Not long after I came down a very narrow section of trail and discovered a tethered goat. Neither one of us was happy about my need to pass, but I squeezed by without incident.
I came back down to the ocean and walked the last couple kilometers on a road beside the water. To find the albergue I had to ask directions three times, moving closer after each question. I found it high up with the last of the buildings on a rocky slope above the town.
If it wasn´t for the small sign on the outside I would not have guessed I had arrived: a gray concrete block, just a few years old, but suggestive of totalitarian optimism. I slid open a metal grate and stepped into a forecourt, then pushed through a glass door and into a high, squared space: think Soviet youth group lodgings, or maybe accommodations for 70s Olympic athletes. There wasn´t a single other person in the building, and it smelled bad but not of the usual body odor and mildew. More like chlorine gone seedy, if that makes any sense.
Around a corner, past a corrugated metal staircase, I came into a wide-open, high-ceilinged public space, lit with skylights and filled with square orange chairs and smooth metal tables. Upstairs I found the dormitorio, with a dozen white bunkbeds. Just outside the room were more square chairs (blue this time) and tables, arranged in a tableaux suggesting death and abandoment, like the future as imagined in the film 2001. Motion sensitive lights flickered on as I moved through the building (and quickly flickered off as I passed into another part). A giant sliding glass door led out to laundry sinks, in the corner of a high, concrete-walled court. Think prison exercise space. Finally, up on a third floor I found an open patio, squared off, stonewalled and empty; a bit of the harbor could be seen through the spaces between dirty white apartemnt buildings.
I wandered through the albergue intrigued but also a little spooked. But then a German couple appeared to break the spell. Within a few hours the beds were nearly all full.
The town of Muxia was less appealing than Finesterre, maybe in part because it had very little attention to give to visitors. There were numeroous bar-cafes on the waterfront, and a picturesque breakwater sheltering fishing boats... but mostly it felt like a place for people who lived there.
I walked through town and out to a dramatic, be-churched point. The Sanctuario de Nosa Señora de Barca was built out among the huge shore boulders to celebrate the Virgin´s long ago visit to the spot via stone boat (she supposedly came to encourage St. James in his Iberian evangelizing). After the church, I visited the tourist office in town, where I was awarded my third certificate of accomplishment (there was one for Finesterre too). The latter two required no discussion of my religious life.
I returned to town and sat outside the Bar Wimpe in the sun at a plastic table and drank a beer. Later I returned to the south side of the point and sat in among the rocks and gorse, alternating between reading Dickens and watching the sun set towards the sea.
Much of the way was on paths rather than roads, through pine and fern woods. Beautiful, but not in a way I expect or experience woodlands in the U.S. I wasn´t once in a forest in Spain that wasn´t apparently scheduled for eventual cutting. The woods almost always seemed more agricultural than wild. The pastoral landscape, the fields and hedges and stone walls, seemed much older, lasting.
The route was less well-marked than on previous sections, and twice I made wrong turnings. The first was fortunate, as it led me to a gorse-covered hill above the rocky coast. Back on the right way, I soon came down to a beach, where the Rio Lires empties into the ocean. The day had begun with sun, but a thin layer of clouds moved in mid-morning. I followed the river upstream, passing a large and old fish farm; the water below was boiling with some sort of fish, all with their snouts pointing up through the surface. Just beyond I crossed a footbridge into the village of Lires, one of the few villages in which I was not harrassed by dogs (see next post for details).
I saw only seven other peregrinos on this walk of thirty or so kilometers, and they were all going the opposite way, to Finesterre. Several confused looking people stopped me to discuss route finding.
Beyond Lires I came to a smaller stream, Rio Castro, and found that the water had risen up over the large stepping stones placed for crossing. I removed my shoes and waded, having to go thigh deep at the other side where the last two stones were missing. Not long after I came down a very narrow section of trail and discovered a tethered goat. Neither one of us was happy about my need to pass, but I squeezed by without incident.
I came back down to the ocean and walked the last couple kilometers on a road beside the water. To find the albergue I had to ask directions three times, moving closer after each question. I found it high up with the last of the buildings on a rocky slope above the town.
If it wasn´t for the small sign on the outside I would not have guessed I had arrived: a gray concrete block, just a few years old, but suggestive of totalitarian optimism. I slid open a metal grate and stepped into a forecourt, then pushed through a glass door and into a high, squared space: think Soviet youth group lodgings, or maybe accommodations for 70s Olympic athletes. There wasn´t a single other person in the building, and it smelled bad but not of the usual body odor and mildew. More like chlorine gone seedy, if that makes any sense.
Around a corner, past a corrugated metal staircase, I came into a wide-open, high-ceilinged public space, lit with skylights and filled with square orange chairs and smooth metal tables. Upstairs I found the dormitorio, with a dozen white bunkbeds. Just outside the room were more square chairs (blue this time) and tables, arranged in a tableaux suggesting death and abandoment, like the future as imagined in the film 2001. Motion sensitive lights flickered on as I moved through the building (and quickly flickered off as I passed into another part). A giant sliding glass door led out to laundry sinks, in the corner of a high, concrete-walled court. Think prison exercise space. Finally, up on a third floor I found an open patio, squared off, stonewalled and empty; a bit of the harbor could be seen through the spaces between dirty white apartemnt buildings.
I wandered through the albergue intrigued but also a little spooked. But then a German couple appeared to break the spell. Within a few hours the beds were nearly all full.
The town of Muxia was less appealing than Finesterre, maybe in part because it had very little attention to give to visitors. There were numeroous bar-cafes on the waterfront, and a picturesque breakwater sheltering fishing boats... but mostly it felt like a place for people who lived there.
I walked through town and out to a dramatic, be-churched point. The Sanctuario de Nosa Señora de Barca was built out among the huge shore boulders to celebrate the Virgin´s long ago visit to the spot via stone boat (she supposedly came to encourage St. James in his Iberian evangelizing). After the church, I visited the tourist office in town, where I was awarded my third certificate of accomplishment (there was one for Finesterre too). The latter two required no discussion of my religious life.
I returned to town and sat outside the Bar Wimpe in the sun at a plastic table and drank a beer. Later I returned to the south side of the point and sat in among the rocks and gorse, alternating between reading Dickens and watching the sun set towards the sea.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
I go swimming
(A bonus post for the 27th, because there is always so much to say)
The albergue in Finisterre opened at five, and I secured a lower bunk by a window. A few minutes later I was headed out of town, crossing the narrow peninsula to Praia de Mar do Fora. From a hill above I admired the lovely beach, a half mile of white sand giving way on either end to black rocks and high green headlands. The clouds had all blown away to the south and the sun shone without the intermittent pauses of recent days.
Down at the nearly deserted beach I sat in the sand shirtless (a rare condition for me in Spain) and ate some bread and cheese and green olives. Then I walked down to the sea and stepped in--very very cold. But in just a moment I dove into the roiling water and swam out among the three and four foot waves. And in just a moment more I didn´t feel cold at all but nearly as happy as a person can be.
After my swim I sat on the beach for hours; the longer I stayed the longer I wanted to stay. The sound of the waves, the sun glittering on their crests, the wind and sand--all of this somehow undermined my usual impatience. I had that particular all-over good feeling that comes only after a swim in a cold sea, and more generally a satisfying sense of well-being so strong it was almost akin to an ache.
Later back in town I ate at a place by the port, Bar Miramar, where old men stood at the bar slowly drinking glasses of beer and smoking. The Miramar was suggested by the beautiful green-eyed woman who works at the albergue. "It is run by a family," she said, "very nice. The grandfather he will come over and talk to you." Actually he didn´t but the people were friendly. I had a good ensalada mixta (though I had to pick out the canned corn) and the best tortilla de patata I´ve had outside Montse´s kitchen. I sat by a window overlooking the port and the fishing boats, and Family Guy played on the television.
At the albergue when I signed in I had seen the Spanish Martinet--he was out front directing everyone within hearing to all the important sights in town. I also saw Carol, the American woman I had dinner with all the way back in Arre near Pamplona; she had been in Oliveiroa too, and you could hear her braying her bad Spanish througout that albergue. At one point she kept repeating the word "Pittsburgh" to someone over and over: "Pittsburgh!" she shouted. "PITTSburgh!" Not to be an ass or anything, but I was glad to discover that neither she nor the Spaniard had a bed near mine. A tall German woman had the bunk above me, and she eyed me with some distaste when I returned from the beach, I don´t know why.
Despite the minor setback of such company, I really liked Finesterre--the tall narrow buildings stacked up on the hillside above the water, the twisty streets, the stone pier reaching out from the town, the working boats behind the breakwater, the constant sound of crying seagulls. I lay in bed after dark and listened to the gulls, and ran over in my head the full day, and the full days of the last weeks.
The albergue in Finisterre opened at five, and I secured a lower bunk by a window. A few minutes later I was headed out of town, crossing the narrow peninsula to Praia de Mar do Fora. From a hill above I admired the lovely beach, a half mile of white sand giving way on either end to black rocks and high green headlands. The clouds had all blown away to the south and the sun shone without the intermittent pauses of recent days.
Down at the nearly deserted beach I sat in the sand shirtless (a rare condition for me in Spain) and ate some bread and cheese and green olives. Then I walked down to the sea and stepped in--very very cold. But in just a moment I dove into the roiling water and swam out among the three and four foot waves. And in just a moment more I didn´t feel cold at all but nearly as happy as a person can be.
After my swim I sat on the beach for hours; the longer I stayed the longer I wanted to stay. The sound of the waves, the sun glittering on their crests, the wind and sand--all of this somehow undermined my usual impatience. I had that particular all-over good feeling that comes only after a swim in a cold sea, and more generally a satisfying sense of well-being so strong it was almost akin to an ache.
Later back in town I ate at a place by the port, Bar Miramar, where old men stood at the bar slowly drinking glasses of beer and smoking. The Miramar was suggested by the beautiful green-eyed woman who works at the albergue. "It is run by a family," she said, "very nice. The grandfather he will come over and talk to you." Actually he didn´t but the people were friendly. I had a good ensalada mixta (though I had to pick out the canned corn) and the best tortilla de patata I´ve had outside Montse´s kitchen. I sat by a window overlooking the port and the fishing boats, and Family Guy played on the television.
At the albergue when I signed in I had seen the Spanish Martinet--he was out front directing everyone within hearing to all the important sights in town. I also saw Carol, the American woman I had dinner with all the way back in Arre near Pamplona; she had been in Oliveiroa too, and you could hear her braying her bad Spanish througout that albergue. At one point she kept repeating the word "Pittsburgh" to someone over and over: "Pittsburgh!" she shouted. "PITTSburgh!" Not to be an ass or anything, but I was glad to discover that neither she nor the Spaniard had a bed near mine. A tall German woman had the bunk above me, and she eyed me with some distaste when I returned from the beach, I don´t know why.
Despite the minor setback of such company, I really liked Finesterre--the tall narrow buildings stacked up on the hillside above the water, the twisty streets, the stone pier reaching out from the town, the working boats behind the breakwater, the constant sound of crying seagulls. I lay in bed after dark and listened to the gulls, and ran over in my head the full day, and the full days of the last weeks.
Burnt toast
When I first met Salima, I thought that she was a sweet, interesting, talkitive young woman (she´s the same age as Naomi). Ten days or so later, my opinion has not changed, but I´ve learned that she is also a person who does not take any shit. This makes her a good travel companion. Though her Spanish is minimal, she does not hesitate to ask for what she wants, and, if she doesn´t get it, to ask again in a more pointed manner. This morning was a mild example--when her toast arrived at our breakfast table more black than brown, she simply sent it back and asked for a less well-done version. And why not. However, I would have just eaten it (and actually did, as my own was darkish as well). I admire forceful people, especially when they can pull off their forcefulness in a way that is reasonable rather than demanding. And Salima manages that. I told her she was indeed a lawyer, but I have a feeling her demeanor predates law school.
Yesterday when we arrived in Finesterre we had decided to get hotel rooms rather than wait for the albergue to open at five. In this Salima took the lead and the rest of us let her. The first couple places were full, but the third, Casa Velay, had one room, a double. Salima tried talking the proprietor into letting us four share the room but he refused. Instead he walked us five minutes along the waterfront to a house and took us inside. It wasn´t a hotel or pension, simply someone´s house with two available rooms upstairs. The problem was that it smelled like shit. Literally. For me this was an immediate deterrent, and it didn´t help that one of the rooms had only one big bed ("matrimonio," they call it here). The man who lived in the house, and who had proceeded us upstairs, might have been the source of the smell but I couldn´t tell. His neck was sort of collapsed, emphasizing his unshaven and massive jaw in a disturbing way, and he could only aspirate his words, which were utterly incomprehensible to me. Noting the pained looks on Salima and Mandy´s faces, I said (in broken Spanish) something like, ok, we´re going back downstairs and we´ll talk about it--just wanting to get back out in the street and have a big clean breath of air.
Once outside we simply said no thanks, and then returned to the Casa Velay. Salima and Mandy took the one room, though with some reluctance, and Eddy and I set off together to find other lodgings. Which we soon did at the Hotel Finesterre--two single rooms, twenty-five euros each. We climbed to the third floor and found the rooms passable, and you could see the harbor out the window if you craned your neck to the right and ignored the construction site just below. Eddy said, "is better than Darth Vader," which was inappropriate I suppose but it made me laugh.
After walking to the point we ate dinner, an excellent menu del dia--first ensalada con arroz, then a big platter of cooked potatoes and two types of fish, all soaking in a delicious orangey sauce. Salima thought the dessert tart one of the best pastries she´d eaten in Spain.
After eating we reprised the previous night´s discussion by addressing a number of further refelctive questions. I had one this time: would you walk the Camino again? The others all said yes, but I would´ve said no until recently (simply because I´ve done it, not because I haven´t liked it), but now I´m thinkng yes. I imagine that each time it would be a much different experience, depending on the people you met, but also on the albergues, the weather, the time of year....
Other questions ranged from the less interesting (to me) "do you have the sense that you´ve done the Camino in a previous life?" to the fascinating "what is a pilgrim and are you still one after you´ve finished the Camino?" Answers varied considerably to this question. I said yes, I was always a pilgrim, because I was always seeking--not so much something like St. James or Jesus or God or the city of Santiago, but simply experience and knowledge. Mandy also spoke of seeking as a constant in her life; Eddy said maybe he wasn´t so much a pilgrim, and that he had more questions at the end than he´d had at the start; Salima said she didn´t think of herself as a pilgrim, that she was trying not to seek but instead to live more in the present, to be happy now rather than always deferring happiness to a time of future accomplishment. Have I said how much I liked these people´s company?
We also spoke in a nostalgic manner of what we had done in recent weeks and would do no longer, all the Camino experience. It´s been something that has encouraged analysis and discussion, more so towards the end, and those are two activities that I sort of enjoy.
Today we ate breakfast together, then wandered around the waterfront. Finally the time came for parting. We shook hands and hugged, and Mandy and Salima and I kissed cheeks, and then they all got on the bus to Santiago (with reluctance--none of us has used such transportation in some time) and drove away.
So now I am again solo, after what seems a long time in company. There are a few people around town that I know. I ran into Susanne, the Hungarian woman, and I might join her on a walk to the end to burn stuff later. Still an acquaintance is different than a companion. I had only known Mandy two weeks, but it seemed much longer, and I´ll miss her.
It turns out that I am not quite done walking. One can walk one more day north along the coast to the town of Muxia. So tomorrow another day afoot. On my own this time, but that´s how I started and so it´s appropriate and even satisfying to finish that way.
Yesterday when we arrived in Finesterre we had decided to get hotel rooms rather than wait for the albergue to open at five. In this Salima took the lead and the rest of us let her. The first couple places were full, but the third, Casa Velay, had one room, a double. Salima tried talking the proprietor into letting us four share the room but he refused. Instead he walked us five minutes along the waterfront to a house and took us inside. It wasn´t a hotel or pension, simply someone´s house with two available rooms upstairs. The problem was that it smelled like shit. Literally. For me this was an immediate deterrent, and it didn´t help that one of the rooms had only one big bed ("matrimonio," they call it here). The man who lived in the house, and who had proceeded us upstairs, might have been the source of the smell but I couldn´t tell. His neck was sort of collapsed, emphasizing his unshaven and massive jaw in a disturbing way, and he could only aspirate his words, which were utterly incomprehensible to me. Noting the pained looks on Salima and Mandy´s faces, I said (in broken Spanish) something like, ok, we´re going back downstairs and we´ll talk about it--just wanting to get back out in the street and have a big clean breath of air.
Once outside we simply said no thanks, and then returned to the Casa Velay. Salima and Mandy took the one room, though with some reluctance, and Eddy and I set off together to find other lodgings. Which we soon did at the Hotel Finesterre--two single rooms, twenty-five euros each. We climbed to the third floor and found the rooms passable, and you could see the harbor out the window if you craned your neck to the right and ignored the construction site just below. Eddy said, "is better than Darth Vader," which was inappropriate I suppose but it made me laugh.
After walking to the point we ate dinner, an excellent menu del dia--first ensalada con arroz, then a big platter of cooked potatoes and two types of fish, all soaking in a delicious orangey sauce. Salima thought the dessert tart one of the best pastries she´d eaten in Spain.
After eating we reprised the previous night´s discussion by addressing a number of further refelctive questions. I had one this time: would you walk the Camino again? The others all said yes, but I would´ve said no until recently (simply because I´ve done it, not because I haven´t liked it), but now I´m thinkng yes. I imagine that each time it would be a much different experience, depending on the people you met, but also on the albergues, the weather, the time of year....
Other questions ranged from the less interesting (to me) "do you have the sense that you´ve done the Camino in a previous life?" to the fascinating "what is a pilgrim and are you still one after you´ve finished the Camino?" Answers varied considerably to this question. I said yes, I was always a pilgrim, because I was always seeking--not so much something like St. James or Jesus or God or the city of Santiago, but simply experience and knowledge. Mandy also spoke of seeking as a constant in her life; Eddy said maybe he wasn´t so much a pilgrim, and that he had more questions at the end than he´d had at the start; Salima said she didn´t think of herself as a pilgrim, that she was trying not to seek but instead to live more in the present, to be happy now rather than always deferring happiness to a time of future accomplishment. Have I said how much I liked these people´s company?
We also spoke in a nostalgic manner of what we had done in recent weeks and would do no longer, all the Camino experience. It´s been something that has encouraged analysis and discussion, more so towards the end, and those are two activities that I sort of enjoy.
Today we ate breakfast together, then wandered around the waterfront. Finally the time came for parting. We shook hands and hugged, and Mandy and Salima and I kissed cheeks, and then they all got on the bus to Santiago (with reluctance--none of us has used such transportation in some time) and drove away.
So now I am again solo, after what seems a long time in company. There are a few people around town that I know. I ran into Susanne, the Hungarian woman, and I might join her on a walk to the end to burn stuff later. Still an acquaintance is different than a companion. I had only known Mandy two weeks, but it seemed much longer, and I´ll miss her.
It turns out that I am not quite done walking. One can walk one more day north along the coast to the town of Muxia. So tomorrow another day afoot. On my own this time, but that´s how I started and so it´s appropriate and even satisfying to finish that way.
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