Mandy and I set off together from Oliveiroa and climbed up between stony hills topped with big new windmills. We passed scrubby patches of eucalyptus, but most of the trees had been cut or burned off in the not too far past. Stone walls ran up and down and across the slopes, I don´t know why. Later Eddy suggested that they might be firebreaks, but if that was the case they hadn´t been working well.
In the mornings Mandy likes to stop at the first available bar for coffee, and so after five kilometers we got in out of a light rain at a white two-story building all by itself on a ridge top beside a lonely road. A handwritten sign outside warned that the next opportunity for food and drink was fifteen kilometers distant. Mandy ordered her coffee and "tostadas" (toast), while I asked for a queso y tomate bocadillo (cheese and tomato on baguette). I thought 3.25 euros was a little pricey, but the woman behind the bar had cornered the local market.
An older peregrino, a man in his ffties, was already sitting at the bar when we arrived. He introduced himself as Johnny Walker, and then he pointed to his companion, just coming out of the bathroom with a lit cigarette in his hand, and said, "and hees name Jack Daniels." At these words, the second man let out a loud "huey!" in agreement and celebration. The first man was Dutch, and he had walked all the way from Holland, starting off on April 8th. He told us that he had walked the Camino two years ago, and all across Spain "everyday sunny and thirty-five degrees!" (ninety?) He was disappointed with all the rain--and it has rained a lot, twenty of my twenty-nine days on the Camino. But only twice did it rain all day, and several times the rain came after I had finished walking. If it had been ninety everyday the walk would have been much more difficult.
Salima and Eddy appeared as I was finishing eating. Mandy decided to have another coffee, but I went ahead alone. The fifteen kilometers to the next town led over and between mostly naked hills, along ridge tops...until suddenly the ocean came into view. A beautiful sight, the rugged coastline to the south, the sea stretching far far to the east. I descended steeply into the large town of Cee, on a narrow bay. There I found a small grocery store--my first in several days. Buying bananas was a huge pleasure. It had been more than two days since my last platano. I bought oranges and carrots too, bread and chocolate (I´ve become fond of the latter during my time on the Camino; everyone is always sharing chunks of the big bars, and this long ago convinced me to buy--and share--my own).
After I re-supplied I went down to the waterfront and sat on a bench and ate a banana, then the rest of my bocadillo, and breathed in the salt air. Before long Mandy, Salima, and Eddy arrived. Rather than go back into the town, we continued around the bay to the adjacent town of Corcubion. But when the path led steeply uphill towards a ridge, threatening to leave town before we came upon another tienda, I asked a man for directions to a grocery store, and he sent us back down another steep road. Right near the supermercado we came upon a film crew shooting a scene from a movie. A little unexpected.
The scene was short--a half dozen people dressed in the 1930s garb (headscarves and berets) simply walking along--a man carrying a pail of fish, a woman with a basket of eggs, another woman with milk, and, oh, a man on a bike. I watched them shoot the scene repeatedly, while the others shopped in the store. I asked one of the film crew, a young man with shoulder-length hair and sideburns and clearly not local, the name of the film. I think he said "Marina Negra."
From Corcubion I went on alone again. I passed over one more ridge and after four or so kilometers came down to Praia Langosteira, a long, white sand beach wrapping around to the town of Finesterre. A breakwater stretched ufrom the town, sheltering a number of fishing boats. Beyond was the last point of land, finished off with a lighthouse.
But first I went down to the water and had a wade. In that moment, more so than in Santiago, I thought my journey had been completed. I had come from the Pyrennees, through Navarre and Rioja, across la meseta, through hilly Galicia, and finally arrived at the Atlantic. At the start I had thought of the sea as my destination, but there was so much excitement just before and in Santiago among my fellow pilgrims that I had gotten caught up in that destination--and happily so. But the last three days (or the last two, anyway) had been among the best of the trip, the most beautiful, the most fulfilling. Finesterre was necssary.
Later, in the evening after we were settled in the town, we walked the last three kilometers out to the end of the narrow peninusla. There on a bush and boulder covered slope below the lighthouse, overlooking the sea, the peregrinos come to burn things. It´s tradition to sacrifice something important, or maybe just something you´ve used up. Eddy burned a shirt, but I forgot the pair of socks I intended to immolate (the ones I ought in Burgos). We all took lots of pictures of each other, then separated to our own rocks and thoughts. Later we walked back to town, backtracking after moving forward for nine hundred kilometers.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
Some penultimate questions
I left the albergue in the dark before the others and walked most of the day alone. The first stretch led uphill through dark forests on narrow paths, the sort of hiking that the Camino offers only occasionally. Eventually I did indeed come out on a country road, and for much of the day walked along such roads through rolling farmland.
The sun came and went, as did short bouts of rain. Warmth then a chill, the weather changing every few minutes.
In every village, and outside every house, stood a horreo, often more than one. These are granaries, long, narrow structures placed up on stilts and roofed with red tile, built of stone in this part of Galicia, but wood and brick further east. The farmers store potatoes and corn in them, supposedly, but most horreos appear empty; it seems that they are more decorative than practical these days.
I felt strong on the second day out of Santiago and walked the thirty-five kilometers to Olveiroa with much greater ease than the shorter distance the day before. The albergue wasn´t yet open, but a small Spanish man was sitting on the steps outside. I had seen him the night before in Negreira; he was declaiming loudly in the albergue that the United States was "the number five worse country in the world." I can handle criticism, but a martinet not so much. Salima was a little frightened of him, having seen him in other albergues and decided he wasn´t completely stable. She also said he reminded her of the oompah-loompah in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. When I arrived in Olveiroa he explained to me the eating situation--two restaurants, one expensive and so to be avoided, one more reasonable--and the sleeping situation at the albergue, concluding with a pat facial expression that said, "and now you know all that you need to know."
The albergue did not open for a couple hours, but I went around back and washed my socks and shirt in an outdoor sink. Then sat in the sun and ate a bocadillo I´d brought from Negreira, while reading from Dombey and Son. By the time the woman in charge showed up and unlocked the door, twenty or so peregrinos had arrived and were loitering about outside. We all rushed in; after Mandy and Salima and Eddy and I got two bunks together, I headed for the showers, and then shared a sink with an accommodating Frenchman to shave.
When we were selecting bunks I took a lower, Salima the bed above. I felt bad for a moment because I knew that Eddy would´ve taken the bed I´d chosen if given a chance. He is devoted to Salima. Not in a creepy way, but he is attentive. He´s 48 from Heidleberg, a thin friendly man with a wife and two teenaged kids. Last night he called home, for his daughter´s birthday, and afterwards told us that his wife had asked how his "girlfriend" was, referring to Salima. So it sounds like he´s keeping his spouse informed.
At dinner (at the expensive restaurant the Spaniard had criticized), Salima said, "so I´ll be Rachael," and she asked us a series of questions about our Camino experience, and we went around the table one by one answering. The questions included "did you have questions that were answered?"; "what was the most under-utilized item you brought along?" (for me it was the history guide to the Camino, an answer Salima rightfully deemed "boring"); "what will you miss from the Camino?"; and "how do you feel about coming to the last day?" We sat for a couple hours intently discussing these and other concluding questions.
As far as how I felt about coming to the end, I would say mixed. I look forward to returning home (though that´s not for another two weeks), but I like being on the Camino, I like the simplicity and pleasure of this life. I walk. I walk from albergue to albergue. I wash, I eat, I rest, I talk to other pergrinos. Then I sleep and get up and walk again. Such days are satisfying, interesting, uncomplicated. But of course not enough, not indefinitely anyway. Way back in Rabanal I met a man who had been on the Camino more or less permanently for fifteen years. That sounded and sounds like a personal problem. Arrival will be good, but it will also be a bit of a jar, I imagine. When I do stop and return home, I think I´m going to have to keep walking pretty regularly. I also am thinking of adopting the primero, segundo, dessert, wine and bread way of eating. What will I miss? Among other things, the menu pergrino each night.
The sun came and went, as did short bouts of rain. Warmth then a chill, the weather changing every few minutes.
In every village, and outside every house, stood a horreo, often more than one. These are granaries, long, narrow structures placed up on stilts and roofed with red tile, built of stone in this part of Galicia, but wood and brick further east. The farmers store potatoes and corn in them, supposedly, but most horreos appear empty; it seems that they are more decorative than practical these days.
I felt strong on the second day out of Santiago and walked the thirty-five kilometers to Olveiroa with much greater ease than the shorter distance the day before. The albergue wasn´t yet open, but a small Spanish man was sitting on the steps outside. I had seen him the night before in Negreira; he was declaiming loudly in the albergue that the United States was "the number five worse country in the world." I can handle criticism, but a martinet not so much. Salima was a little frightened of him, having seen him in other albergues and decided he wasn´t completely stable. She also said he reminded her of the oompah-loompah in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. When I arrived in Olveiroa he explained to me the eating situation--two restaurants, one expensive and so to be avoided, one more reasonable--and the sleeping situation at the albergue, concluding with a pat facial expression that said, "and now you know all that you need to know."
The albergue did not open for a couple hours, but I went around back and washed my socks and shirt in an outdoor sink. Then sat in the sun and ate a bocadillo I´d brought from Negreira, while reading from Dombey and Son. By the time the woman in charge showed up and unlocked the door, twenty or so peregrinos had arrived and were loitering about outside. We all rushed in; after Mandy and Salima and Eddy and I got two bunks together, I headed for the showers, and then shared a sink with an accommodating Frenchman to shave.
When we were selecting bunks I took a lower, Salima the bed above. I felt bad for a moment because I knew that Eddy would´ve taken the bed I´d chosen if given a chance. He is devoted to Salima. Not in a creepy way, but he is attentive. He´s 48 from Heidleberg, a thin friendly man with a wife and two teenaged kids. Last night he called home, for his daughter´s birthday, and afterwards told us that his wife had asked how his "girlfriend" was, referring to Salima. So it sounds like he´s keeping his spouse informed.
At dinner (at the expensive restaurant the Spaniard had criticized), Salima said, "so I´ll be Rachael," and she asked us a series of questions about our Camino experience, and we went around the table one by one answering. The questions included "did you have questions that were answered?"; "what was the most under-utilized item you brought along?" (for me it was the history guide to the Camino, an answer Salima rightfully deemed "boring"); "what will you miss from the Camino?"; and "how do you feel about coming to the last day?" We sat for a couple hours intently discussing these and other concluding questions.
As far as how I felt about coming to the end, I would say mixed. I look forward to returning home (though that´s not for another two weeks), but I like being on the Camino, I like the simplicity and pleasure of this life. I walk. I walk from albergue to albergue. I wash, I eat, I rest, I talk to other pergrinos. Then I sleep and get up and walk again. Such days are satisfying, interesting, uncomplicated. But of course not enough, not indefinitely anyway. Way back in Rabanal I met a man who had been on the Camino more or less permanently for fifteen years. That sounded and sounds like a personal problem. Arrival will be good, but it will also be a bit of a jar, I imagine. When I do stop and return home, I think I´m going to have to keep walking pretty regularly. I also am thinking of adopting the primero, segundo, dessert, wine and bread way of eating. What will I miss? Among other things, the menu pergrino each night.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
On to Negreira
In the morning about nine I walked through nearly empty Sunday streets, down to the Cathedral once again, which was open. Inside I descended a narrow passage to St. James´ crypt, where a silver treasure chest held his remains. All the walking and seeking, all the churches built to honor him, the rise of the city of Santiago itself, a whole bunch of European history--all because a man´s bones supposedly traveled by sea (in a scallop shell?) from the Levant to a lonely spot on the far Iberian peninsula, and were brought to a starry field, where they lay undiscovered for eight centuries.... Then 1200 hundred years ago what was lost was found, and people from all over Europe began to wend their way to Santiago.
Outside I sat on a stone bench built into a wall of the cathedral and waited for my travel companions. Mandy and Salima and a German man named Eddy and I had decided to go on to Finisterre together. Earlier I had said goodbye to Rachael, with reluctance, and she went off to the bus station to start her journey back to Brighton.
At ten we set off around the cathedral. In the vast plaza in front, four drunk men stumbled over the cobblestones, one carrying a large cardboard box of wine on his shoulder. Clearly they had been up all night. Their shirts and pants were covered with purple wine stains, and their faces suggested not a pleasant debauch but a disturbing depravity. And so I started off from Santiago for the sea.
The morning sky had begun clear but soon clouded over. Dreary and humid. I felt out of sorts, I´m not sure why. Maybe Santiago had been the goal, and further walking was anti-climactic. After a couple hours Salima asked us to rate our snse of well-eing on a one to five scale. None of us was too chipper, but I gave a hopeful four.
The country we were walking through was certainly worthy of better feeling. Rolling hills, patches of eucalyptus forest, ferns covering the forest floor, ivy-wrapped oaks scattered along the path. There were farms all along the way too, busy with small groups of animals, cows and sheep and chickens and horses. Every house had a dog or two, and cats lurked through the streets of the small villages. In Porte Maceira we crossed a lovely river on a long 15th-century stone bridge. In a field nearby four kids were playing around a trash fire, chasing each other with smoking sticks and burning magazines.
We only walked twenty-two kilometers, but it semed much farther. I was tired, maybe becase of the humidity, maybe because of a slower pace. We reached Negreira, a good-sized town, about three in the afernoon. All the beds a the small albergue were taken. But we were offered blue mats, which later we could lay on the floor in the public room by the soda machine. Not ideal, but a place to sleep. The woman in charge was quite helpful and friendly--and would become more so later on, after we returned from town (where we visited an internet cafe and ate at a bar--nothing else was open on a Sunday). When we got back one of the mats had been filched, and there wasn´t enough room to put the others down until all the bucketheads with beds upstairs went to them. But they seemed intent on lingering downstairs, cluttering up our would-be bedroom. I sat in a corner with Dickens and sulked.
But then the hospitalera gestured to myself and my companions and led us to the "handicap room." Apparently no people needing such facilities had shown up. She opened the door and there were two bunkbeds, with a private bathroom through another door. We had ended up with the best accomodations in the albergue. I´ve been with a lot of people (ok, women) who like to say things like, "you just have to trust," and "you always get what you need," etc. I pretty much consider such sentiments ridiculous, but when they were invoked in this situation, I did not argue. I had a lower bunk by a window, and it was cool enough to sleep inside my down bag, and what else could a person ask for.
Outside I sat on a stone bench built into a wall of the cathedral and waited for my travel companions. Mandy and Salima and a German man named Eddy and I had decided to go on to Finisterre together. Earlier I had said goodbye to Rachael, with reluctance, and she went off to the bus station to start her journey back to Brighton.
At ten we set off around the cathedral. In the vast plaza in front, four drunk men stumbled over the cobblestones, one carrying a large cardboard box of wine on his shoulder. Clearly they had been up all night. Their shirts and pants were covered with purple wine stains, and their faces suggested not a pleasant debauch but a disturbing depravity. And so I started off from Santiago for the sea.
The morning sky had begun clear but soon clouded over. Dreary and humid. I felt out of sorts, I´m not sure why. Maybe Santiago had been the goal, and further walking was anti-climactic. After a couple hours Salima asked us to rate our snse of well-eing on a one to five scale. None of us was too chipper, but I gave a hopeful four.
The country we were walking through was certainly worthy of better feeling. Rolling hills, patches of eucalyptus forest, ferns covering the forest floor, ivy-wrapped oaks scattered along the path. There were farms all along the way too, busy with small groups of animals, cows and sheep and chickens and horses. Every house had a dog or two, and cats lurked through the streets of the small villages. In Porte Maceira we crossed a lovely river on a long 15th-century stone bridge. In a field nearby four kids were playing around a trash fire, chasing each other with smoking sticks and burning magazines.
We only walked twenty-two kilometers, but it semed much farther. I was tired, maybe becase of the humidity, maybe because of a slower pace. We reached Negreira, a good-sized town, about three in the afernoon. All the beds a the small albergue were taken. But we were offered blue mats, which later we could lay on the floor in the public room by the soda machine. Not ideal, but a place to sleep. The woman in charge was quite helpful and friendly--and would become more so later on, after we returned from town (where we visited an internet cafe and ate at a bar--nothing else was open on a Sunday). When we got back one of the mats had been filched, and there wasn´t enough room to put the others down until all the bucketheads with beds upstairs went to them. But they seemed intent on lingering downstairs, cluttering up our would-be bedroom. I sat in a corner with Dickens and sulked.
But then the hospitalera gestured to myself and my companions and led us to the "handicap room." Apparently no people needing such facilities had shown up. She opened the door and there were two bunkbeds, with a private bathroom through another door. We had ended up with the best accomodations in the albergue. I´ve been with a lot of people (ok, women) who like to say things like, "you just have to trust," and "you always get what you need," etc. I pretty much consider such sentiments ridiculous, but when they were invoked in this situation, I did not argue. I had a lower bunk by a window, and it was cool enough to sleep inside my down bag, and what else could a person ask for.
Saturday, June 23, 2007
Santiago
Today I arrived in Santiago de Compostela.
I left at six and walked through a dark eucalyptus forest with my headlamp on. I climbed over two big hills and started to drop down into the city of Santiago. The closer I got the more people I saw on the path, all streaming towards the Cathedral and the end of their journies.
I came upon a German man carving a heart in the soft path with his walking stick. People often leave messages for those who are behind--writing in the dirt, arranging stones to spell out a message, writing on a piece of bark, using nail polish on a rock, or sometimes simply pinning down a piece of paper with rocks or sticks. There´s actually also a lot cellphone texting and calling, but that seems less interesting.
The suburbs of Santiago were not promising, but eventually I passed through the Portico de Camino and into the Old City, which was much more handsome. Narrow streets, rain-stained stone buildings, many churches and plazas, and finally the massive cathedral itself. Inside I wanted to put my hand on the marble column, the Tree of Jesse, where millions of pilgrims have worn down the stone, but it was fenced off for some reason. Too many pilgrims, I suppose. Behind the massive altar ("held up" by huge and almost Asian-looking angels) one ducks through a small passage and up several steps to the back of the head of St. James--a golden idol looking out over the congregation. Traditionally people hug him around his shoulders and kiss the back of his neck. I settled for a touch of the silver scallop shell (symbol of the Camino) protruding from his back.
In the cathedral I came upon Mandy, and we went to the nearby Pilgrim´s Office to get our compostelas--a certificate of Camino completion. A long line wound up a stairway into a small room. I recognized most of the people on the stairs; everyone was excited and hugging, and some were crying. At the counter I had to fill in my name and age and nationality on a sheet of paper, then choose one of three reasons for walking the Camino: "religiosas," "religiosas y otras," or "no religiosas." I put an x in the last column. The young woman quizzed me on this choice, as if I might have made a mistake. I repeated "no religiosas," and so she got out an alternative certifcate--one plainer, in Spanish rather than Latin. A sort of half-hearted congratulations. Yes, I had done it--or so my credencial said--but I had not done it for a reason that the Oficina de Pergrinos considered worthy of full approbation.
At noon I attended he Pilgrim´s Mass in the cathedral. Afterwards I sat with my people out on the steps in the sun--no rain for the first day in a week--and we basked in the glory of arrival. Eight hundred kilometers from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela. Twenty-seven days walking, twenty-seven different beds, hundreds of villages and cities, many different people from all over the world....
In the evening a large group of peregrinos from my cadre met in the vast plaza before the Cathedral, and we all sat in a circle and showed our bare feet. No one was unmarked. Later we went out to dinner together, and afterwards I had to say good-bye to many of the people, including Ben and Yasko and Bart (whom I had come to have a grudging affection for). At the end Bart asked if he could say a blessing, and then he did, the first time he had invoked God in all the evenings I spent in his company.
Salima had arrived too in the morning, and she and Mandy and Rachael and I went to a hotel (one star) rather than an albergue. Tomorrow Rachael leaves for England, but along with the other two women I´ll be setting off for Finisterre and the sea.
I left at six and walked through a dark eucalyptus forest with my headlamp on. I climbed over two big hills and started to drop down into the city of Santiago. The closer I got the more people I saw on the path, all streaming towards the Cathedral and the end of their journies.
I came upon a German man carving a heart in the soft path with his walking stick. People often leave messages for those who are behind--writing in the dirt, arranging stones to spell out a message, writing on a piece of bark, using nail polish on a rock, or sometimes simply pinning down a piece of paper with rocks or sticks. There´s actually also a lot cellphone texting and calling, but that seems less interesting.
The suburbs of Santiago were not promising, but eventually I passed through the Portico de Camino and into the Old City, which was much more handsome. Narrow streets, rain-stained stone buildings, many churches and plazas, and finally the massive cathedral itself. Inside I wanted to put my hand on the marble column, the Tree of Jesse, where millions of pilgrims have worn down the stone, but it was fenced off for some reason. Too many pilgrims, I suppose. Behind the massive altar ("held up" by huge and almost Asian-looking angels) one ducks through a small passage and up several steps to the back of the head of St. James--a golden idol looking out over the congregation. Traditionally people hug him around his shoulders and kiss the back of his neck. I settled for a touch of the silver scallop shell (symbol of the Camino) protruding from his back.
In the cathedral I came upon Mandy, and we went to the nearby Pilgrim´s Office to get our compostelas--a certificate of Camino completion. A long line wound up a stairway into a small room. I recognized most of the people on the stairs; everyone was excited and hugging, and some were crying. At the counter I had to fill in my name and age and nationality on a sheet of paper, then choose one of three reasons for walking the Camino: "religiosas," "religiosas y otras," or "no religiosas." I put an x in the last column. The young woman quizzed me on this choice, as if I might have made a mistake. I repeated "no religiosas," and so she got out an alternative certifcate--one plainer, in Spanish rather than Latin. A sort of half-hearted congratulations. Yes, I had done it--or so my credencial said--but I had not done it for a reason that the Oficina de Pergrinos considered worthy of full approbation.
At noon I attended he Pilgrim´s Mass in the cathedral. Afterwards I sat with my people out on the steps in the sun--no rain for the first day in a week--and we basked in the glory of arrival. Eight hundred kilometers from St. Jean Pied de Port to Santiago de Compostela. Twenty-seven days walking, twenty-seven different beds, hundreds of villages and cities, many different people from all over the world....
In the evening a large group of peregrinos from my cadre met in the vast plaza before the Cathedral, and we all sat in a circle and showed our bare feet. No one was unmarked. Later we went out to dinner together, and afterwards I had to say good-bye to many of the people, including Ben and Yasko and Bart (whom I had come to have a grudging affection for). At the end Bart asked if he could say a blessing, and then he did, the first time he had invoked God in all the evenings I spent in his company.
Salima had arrived too in the morning, and she and Mandy and Rachael and I went to a hotel (one star) rather than an albergue. Tomorrow Rachael leaves for England, but along with the other two women I´ll be setting off for Finisterre and the sea.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Bad albergue
The albergue in Melide last night was the worst albergue of the walk. The municipal albergues in Galicia are all pretty bad (private are much better, but there are fewer of those), but Melide wins for the dirtiest and most unpleasant. Peeling walls, black mold around the windows, filthy floors, strange and terrifying odors, sheets and pillows one hesitates to touch.... When we (Mandy, Rachael, and I) first arrived the woman at the front desk put down her knitting nad stamped our credencials. Once we were upstairs and saw the conditions, Rachael said, "why doesn´t the fat cow get off her ass and do some cleaning." The price was "donativo," which we all refused to do, which of course doesn´t help. Later Rachael packed up her gear and went up the street and got a room at a small and appealing hotel.
But first we had a picnic up on the third floor of the albergue, using a small table we set at the end of the long room, beneath two big windows. We pulled pillows off as yet unclaimed beds and sat on the floor. Outside the weather was cloudy, raining on and off, and a bit coolish. We had shopped earlier, and now set out bread and sheep´s cheese and blue cheese and beets and bananas and chocolate. Such food always improves one´s mood, which had been seriously damaged by our temporary living space and the blustery weather.
Later we walked down into the largish city and found an internet cafe. In a back room young teenagers sat playing with a puppy and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Young boys with mullets and rat tails (surprisngly popular with the youth here) greeted young girls in tight jeans by kissing them on both cheeks. Then they all lit up together.
Later I went out to dinner with Rachael and Mandy and Bart, who had appeared at the albergue not long after we arrived. We stopped first at Pulperia Ezequial to try the octopus, which is a regional specialty. A man behind a small counter pulled a pink octopus from a boiling vat of oil (water?), and then sliced the long tentacles into wafers using a pair of scissors. He poured olive oil and sprinkled spices on top of the pile then handed the wooden plate over to us. This version of pulpo was considerably better than what I´d had at the Christening feast. Less bouncy, more flavor. After our pulpo, we walked across the busy street for pizza, which should´ve been better. It had sounded good.
Today in Spain was old people scything day. Again and again I came upon old men and woman wielding ancient black scythes on patches of overgrown grass--sometimes in small drainage ditches, sometimes in the corner of a large field. They piled the cuttings in great heaps on various types of aged wheelbarrows. Rachael said "Buenas dias" to one old and toothless scything man, and he paused from his work to correct her: it was too late in the day--he had already eaten his midday meal, he said--for one to use "dias." "Buenas tardes," he told her, would be the correct phrase. But then as we were walking off he said, "buen dia," and Rachael said to me, "so what´s up with that?"
I walked with Rachael much of the day; her ankles were swollen and painful and we moved slowly. In the village of Santa Irena I did surge ahead, walking the last three kilometers into Arca de Pino alone (for a total of thirty for the day). I got a bed in big room at the bottom of the large albergue--which smelled of feet, but wasn´t as bad as Melide--then had a shower and shave and washed my socks. By this time I expected Rachael to show up. I asked a few people I knew who came in after me if they had seen her, but no one had. A little worried, I ended up walking back to Santa Irena, to see if she had decided to stay in the albergue there. But no. Back in Arca, Mandy and I checked the few pensions. Finally we gave up and went to dinner (spaghetti, some sort of Galician beef specialty with potatoes, and natillas for dessert: quite good). Afterwards I checked email and there was a message from Rachael. She had missed the turn to the town and gone on; by the time she had discovered her mistake she´d had no desire to turn back, and so carried on a full ten kilometers more before stopping. She´d taken ibprofun just before we parted, and apparently this palliative carried her through.
Communication among the peregrinos spread over the Camino takes various forms (or lack of communication)--but more on that tomorrow....
But first we had a picnic up on the third floor of the albergue, using a small table we set at the end of the long room, beneath two big windows. We pulled pillows off as yet unclaimed beds and sat on the floor. Outside the weather was cloudy, raining on and off, and a bit coolish. We had shopped earlier, and now set out bread and sheep´s cheese and blue cheese and beets and bananas and chocolate. Such food always improves one´s mood, which had been seriously damaged by our temporary living space and the blustery weather.
Later we walked down into the largish city and found an internet cafe. In a back room young teenagers sat playing with a puppy and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Young boys with mullets and rat tails (surprisngly popular with the youth here) greeted young girls in tight jeans by kissing them on both cheeks. Then they all lit up together.
Later I went out to dinner with Rachael and Mandy and Bart, who had appeared at the albergue not long after we arrived. We stopped first at Pulperia Ezequial to try the octopus, which is a regional specialty. A man behind a small counter pulled a pink octopus from a boiling vat of oil (water?), and then sliced the long tentacles into wafers using a pair of scissors. He poured olive oil and sprinkled spices on top of the pile then handed the wooden plate over to us. This version of pulpo was considerably better than what I´d had at the Christening feast. Less bouncy, more flavor. After our pulpo, we walked across the busy street for pizza, which should´ve been better. It had sounded good.
Today in Spain was old people scything day. Again and again I came upon old men and woman wielding ancient black scythes on patches of overgrown grass--sometimes in small drainage ditches, sometimes in the corner of a large field. They piled the cuttings in great heaps on various types of aged wheelbarrows. Rachael said "Buenas dias" to one old and toothless scything man, and he paused from his work to correct her: it was too late in the day--he had already eaten his midday meal, he said--for one to use "dias." "Buenas tardes," he told her, would be the correct phrase. But then as we were walking off he said, "buen dia," and Rachael said to me, "so what´s up with that?"
I walked with Rachael much of the day; her ankles were swollen and painful and we moved slowly. In the village of Santa Irena I did surge ahead, walking the last three kilometers into Arca de Pino alone (for a total of thirty for the day). I got a bed in big room at the bottom of the large albergue--which smelled of feet, but wasn´t as bad as Melide--then had a shower and shave and washed my socks. By this time I expected Rachael to show up. I asked a few people I knew who came in after me if they had seen her, but no one had. A little worried, I ended up walking back to Santa Irena, to see if she had decided to stay in the albergue there. But no. Back in Arca, Mandy and I checked the few pensions. Finally we gave up and went to dinner (spaghetti, some sort of Galician beef specialty with potatoes, and natillas for dessert: quite good). Afterwards I checked email and there was a message from Rachael. She had missed the turn to the town and gone on; by the time she had discovered her mistake she´d had no desire to turn back, and so carried on a full ten kilometers more before stopping. She´d taken ibprofun just before we parted, and apparently this palliative carried her through.
Communication among the peregrinos spread over the Camino takes various forms (or lack of communication)--but more on that tomorrow....
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Rachael and the priest
So yesterday evening, after Rachael and Mandy and I had settled into our own private albergue, Bart the Jesuit came over to visit us. He wanted Mandy to walk on his back. Apparently he´d be making the same request for days, and Mandy had repeatedly demurred, as she did once again. But Rachael said she´d have a go. He lay down on the floor between two bunkbeds and she stepped aboard. For the next five minutes or so she expertly worked her feet over his back, while he groaned loudly and apparently with pleasure. Turns out she has trained as a massage therapist. After Bart left she said, "I just wanted to shut him up."
At lunch she had asked him if he missed having sex. He said, "my brother only has sex twice a month, so I figure I´m not missing much." But as Rachael pointed out later, "he talks an awful lot about sex for a priest."
At dinner last night he told us that during the first weeks on the Camino he had repeatedly dreamed of ex-girlfriends. Rachael said, "were they sexual dreams?" He said no, but then said, "Well, one was." Rachael asked him to elaborate but he became shy. Then Rachael said that she had only ever had three sex dreams: one involving Steve Martin, one with Patrick Swayze, and one with Starsky and Hutch. The latter she described to Mandy and I later back in our room; it involved a tent in the desert and Bedouin outfits.
At dinner Mandy turned the conversation from sex dreams to occult topics: palm reading, fortune telling, and astrology. She and Rachael entered into an animated discussion, while Bart became visibly bored. He ordered a hierbas liquer. Earlier he´d told us he´d had two whiskeys on arriving at the albergue. The life of a Jesuit priest seems pretty sweet. Full ride for doctoral work in Madrid, a month on the Camino (with ample funds for alcoholic beverages)--and he had studied for his undergrad degree in London. Of course there´s service of some sort too, at least later. Also, he told Mandy that the Jesuits take a vow of poverty. I´m not quite sure what that means these days.
This morning I set off at six gain, in the company of Rachael and Mandy. We walked about thirty kilometers, through off and on rain, through more rolling farmland, green and lush and occasionally forested. A mole ran out in front of and almost under the feet of Rachael and she screamed. We ended up in the largish town of Melide, which is not particularly attractive; the albergue is awful, the worst I´ve stayed in: dirty and run-down and unpleasant. A come-down after recent nights.
I´m only fifty kilometers from Santiago, so I´ll arrive at the end of the pilgrimage in just two more days. After a day of rest I plan to walk on another three days to the sea.
At lunch she had asked him if he missed having sex. He said, "my brother only has sex twice a month, so I figure I´m not missing much." But as Rachael pointed out later, "he talks an awful lot about sex for a priest."
At dinner last night he told us that during the first weeks on the Camino he had repeatedly dreamed of ex-girlfriends. Rachael said, "were they sexual dreams?" He said no, but then said, "Well, one was." Rachael asked him to elaborate but he became shy. Then Rachael said that she had only ever had three sex dreams: one involving Steve Martin, one with Patrick Swayze, and one with Starsky and Hutch. The latter she described to Mandy and I later back in our room; it involved a tent in the desert and Bedouin outfits.
At dinner Mandy turned the conversation from sex dreams to occult topics: palm reading, fortune telling, and astrology. She and Rachael entered into an animated discussion, while Bart became visibly bored. He ordered a hierbas liquer. Earlier he´d told us he´d had two whiskeys on arriving at the albergue. The life of a Jesuit priest seems pretty sweet. Full ride for doctoral work in Madrid, a month on the Camino (with ample funds for alcoholic beverages)--and he had studied for his undergrad degree in London. Of course there´s service of some sort too, at least later. Also, he told Mandy that the Jesuits take a vow of poverty. I´m not quite sure what that means these days.
This morning I set off at six gain, in the company of Rachael and Mandy. We walked about thirty kilometers, through off and on rain, through more rolling farmland, green and lush and occasionally forested. A mole ran out in front of and almost under the feet of Rachael and she screamed. We ended up in the largish town of Melide, which is not particularly attractive; the albergue is awful, the worst I´ve stayed in: dirty and run-down and unpleasant. A come-down after recent nights.
I´m only fifty kilometers from Santiago, so I´ll arrive at the end of the pilgrimage in just two more days. After a day of rest I plan to walk on another three days to the sea.
Wednesday, June 20, 2007
It rains in Galicia, but not all the time
After walking for all these days, I have become easy to please. Yesterday it was a great pleasure to simply be out of the rain.
I stopped early, in Sarria. I should say "we," since my decision making had become a group matter. Ben and Rachael and Mandy and I agreed that it would be good to stay at the O Durmiento albergue (privado, which in this case means fancy), and to stay together. Once up in our two bunkbed room, we all took off our wet gear, and Rachael and Mandy were content to crawl in their sleeping bags to warm up. I took a hot shower, which worked the same magic. Then I sat on the floor in the room and we talked and napped and read through much of the afternoon. To be dry and warm, to have a bed, and to have companionship--that was pretty good.
Later I went out into the city to walk around, to see the sights, to find a ciber cafe, to visit a grocery store. I came across Rachael, and we soon met up with Mandy for dinner, in a small stone restaurant. When Rachael said to the waitress "vegetariano?" (referring to her food wishes) the woman simply shook her head. Usually there´s at least some attempt to negotiate a solution. Rachael settled for fish. I had chicken with the inevitable french fries. Pretty good, not fabulous. The red wine was served at room temperature--an oddity, since it´s almost always brought to the table in a chilled bottle.
This morning I left Sarria at six with Rachael, and we walked through the dark city to the top of a hill where a stone church was illuminated by floodlights. The morning walk was one of the prettiest yet. The path ran along stone walls, beneath long, shady lines of big oak trees, through a hilly pastoral landscape. We passed numerous dairy cows, herds of sheep and goats, flocks of chickens. The narrow streets of the tiny villages were dotted with cow shit, but this did not detract (much) from their charm.
Mandy caught up with us and we stopped at a cafe in one of the villages so they could have coffee. By the end of the morning we reached Portomarin, a town above only the second lake on the Camino. We crossed a long bridge in the first significant rain of the day and climbed a long flight of stone steps and passed under an arch into the town. Ben had slept in at Sarria and would only be going as far as Portomarin (I expect, though, to see him again in Santiago). We only stopped for lunch--poor bocadillos quesos at a cafe on an arcade across from a large church.
We ran into Bart the Jesuit priest and he joined us for lunch.
The afternoon was long and less picturesque. Much of the path lay along paved roads. But the rain had ceased. The weather has been quite unpredictable in recent days, a mix of rain and sun and clouds, quickly changing from one to the other.
We three ended up walking 36 kilometers for the day, finishing up in a very small village, Ventas de Naron, where there were two albergues. We found that Bart had already arrived at the one we chose; but there were two separate buildings, an old and a new one. Bart was in the old one, but the woman at the attached bar offered us the new one--a yellow, parquet-floored room with six fresh bunkbeds. We ended up the only ones in the room, which was nice--and rare. Albergues are generally noisy affairs, but for two nights in a row this was not the case.
It occurred to me as I walked along today that I´ve had a number of different Caminos over the last weeks. The experience keeps changing. The last couple days I´ve been with the same people, not only at night but during the day, walking. This took a little getting used to, and I even contemplated surging foward on my own. But really I wanted to stay, and so I have.
I stopped early, in Sarria. I should say "we," since my decision making had become a group matter. Ben and Rachael and Mandy and I agreed that it would be good to stay at the O Durmiento albergue (privado, which in this case means fancy), and to stay together. Once up in our two bunkbed room, we all took off our wet gear, and Rachael and Mandy were content to crawl in their sleeping bags to warm up. I took a hot shower, which worked the same magic. Then I sat on the floor in the room and we talked and napped and read through much of the afternoon. To be dry and warm, to have a bed, and to have companionship--that was pretty good.
Later I went out into the city to walk around, to see the sights, to find a ciber cafe, to visit a grocery store. I came across Rachael, and we soon met up with Mandy for dinner, in a small stone restaurant. When Rachael said to the waitress "vegetariano?" (referring to her food wishes) the woman simply shook her head. Usually there´s at least some attempt to negotiate a solution. Rachael settled for fish. I had chicken with the inevitable french fries. Pretty good, not fabulous. The red wine was served at room temperature--an oddity, since it´s almost always brought to the table in a chilled bottle.
This morning I left Sarria at six with Rachael, and we walked through the dark city to the top of a hill where a stone church was illuminated by floodlights. The morning walk was one of the prettiest yet. The path ran along stone walls, beneath long, shady lines of big oak trees, through a hilly pastoral landscape. We passed numerous dairy cows, herds of sheep and goats, flocks of chickens. The narrow streets of the tiny villages were dotted with cow shit, but this did not detract (much) from their charm.
Mandy caught up with us and we stopped at a cafe in one of the villages so they could have coffee. By the end of the morning we reached Portomarin, a town above only the second lake on the Camino. We crossed a long bridge in the first significant rain of the day and climbed a long flight of stone steps and passed under an arch into the town. Ben had slept in at Sarria and would only be going as far as Portomarin (I expect, though, to see him again in Santiago). We only stopped for lunch--poor bocadillos quesos at a cafe on an arcade across from a large church.
We ran into Bart the Jesuit priest and he joined us for lunch.
The afternoon was long and less picturesque. Much of the path lay along paved roads. But the rain had ceased. The weather has been quite unpredictable in recent days, a mix of rain and sun and clouds, quickly changing from one to the other.
We three ended up walking 36 kilometers for the day, finishing up in a very small village, Ventas de Naron, where there were two albergues. We found that Bart had already arrived at the one we chose; but there were two separate buildings, an old and a new one. Bart was in the old one, but the woman at the attached bar offered us the new one--a yellow, parquet-floored room with six fresh bunkbeds. We ended up the only ones in the room, which was nice--and rare. Albergues are generally noisy affairs, but for two nights in a row this was not the case.
It occurred to me as I walked along today that I´ve had a number of different Caminos over the last weeks. The experience keeps changing. The last couple days I´ve been with the same people, not only at night but during the day, walking. This took a little getting used to, and I even contemplated surging foward on my own. But really I wanted to stay, and so I have.
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