Sunday, May 20, 2012
Queridos amigos,
The population of Villafranca Montes de Oca must be zero; the staff probably drive in from other places. But the hotel, San Anton Abad, provided a wonderful stop. It's built on the ruins of a pilgrim hospice, faux royal decor. The best thing was the harmony of the staff. Old and young, male and female, collectively they had a glow about them that I have never experienced anywhere else in the world. It was as though a group of close friends and relatives got together and said, Look, the economy terrible, so let's go to Villafranca and run the hotel together.
The woman I see sweeping the floor serves my dinner that night. The young lady who serves my breakfast checks me out. Everyone does everything. The sign by the computer, which sits next to the reception desk, limits use to a certain number of minutes. I ask the receptionist if I may continue using it if no one is waiting. She smiles and says, ‘Use it as long as you like.’
The climb out of Villafranca is steep, the air chilly, the breeze stronger. The way is made easier by beautiful birdsong. As I near the summit, the baton is passed to a cuckoo.
At the next rest stop there are several concrete tables and benches. Also, a stone monument marking the place some 300 persons were massacred by Franco's troops.
As I make my way downhill, two Spanish bicyclists race past me, one singing fortissimo and con brio.
I arrived at the Cafe Marcela, a popular pilgrim stop with many pilgrims resting, boots and socks off. Two members of the Guardia Civil stop in. When I slipped off my pack, one of my pads slipped to the ground and a Guardia Civil officer picked it up and handed it to me.
A fortyish woman sat near me. She was the fourth American I've met. She was from the San Francisco area. She said she had made harder treks but they were shorter. It's the length of the Camino that was posing mental challenges to her. She said her heel hurts.
At dinner the night before at the hotel, I saw a French-speaking couple and their female companion who are doing the Camino. Now they passed the group at the cafe. The wife pulled a device somewhat like a wheel barrow without the shell/container. She had each hand on a handle; the Swiss-made device had one tiny wheel; her backpack was strapped to the rails.
I walked behind them as we passed through a cow pasture, cattle guards at the beginning and end, but no fences. Cows with sharp horns are right next to us on the road.
Home on the Range
I finally caught up with the threesome. The husband walked ahead. I asked the wife if I might take her photo. She said yes, she was very popular with photographers. They were from Quebec. When her husband retired, she decided it was time to walk the Camino, although she said her husband preferred to watch television. For a chubby couch potato, he was a strong walker.
A French Canadian Pilgrim with a Different MO
She said they started in Le Puy, France. They had to use a bus part of the way to the France-Spain border. She said the passage over the Pyrenees was difficult. I asked her about the rocky descent into Zubiri. She grimaced and groaned.
The clouds had burned off and it had warmed up by the time I reached Atapuerca. I went to the casa rural which I called earlier. It was all locked up, but the keys were dangling from the door. I called Rosa Gonzalez, the proprietress. She was shocked to hear the keys had been left in the door. She said she would pick me up in front of the cantina at 4:15, and hour from then. I told her I would bring the keys.
Cantina Where I Met Sra. Gonzalez -- My Red Pack is Seen on a Chair in the Shade
She arrived on time in a red station wagon. Through the car window I saw big-eyed Ines, about three years old, in her car seat. Ines smiled; instant rapport. The mother quickly drove the 10 kilometers to her home in Fresno de Rodilla. A number of nice new houses were there, some attached to crumbling ruins.
La Casa de los Gonzales
Once inside, Rosa, the
mother, told me that Ines loves music. So I sang a Spanish rocking song, Duermete mi Niña (Sleep, my child) to
Ines; the rapport increased. Then Rosa
went outside to do things and left me with Ines. I thought, this would not happen in the U.S.: leaving a three-year girl with a strange
man. But the Spaniards' trust of
pilgrims is strong.
I was the only guest that evening. Since I wanted a private bath, my room is on the third floor. I asked about the pilgrim's stamp; she said they don't have one. I expressed regret and she said the coffee shop in town, which opens early in the morning, has one.
Can’t Believe I got a Shot of Ines’ Name Plate but Not of Ines -- I Never Saw a Toddler with Bigger Eyes
Being the only guest, I wondered if I would dine with the family. I did not. I sat alone in the dining room as Rosa brought in supper. A brown clay pot was full of a local specialty, bread and garlic soup. Wine was served in a brown ceramic pitcher, water in a glass pitcher. A basket of bread and a dessert rounded out the meal. No prisoners are taken; only crumbs are left on my plate.
We talked as she brought things in. She produced maps of Burgos and marked where I will be staying. She said I must see the church of San Nicolas in Burgos. I told her I also wanted to visit the Museum of Evolution; she marked that on the map also. I heard her husband arrive, but he did not appear. She asked when I would like to have breakfast, and I said around 7:30.
Next morning, around 7:30, I came down, dressed packed. There was only silence. Several minutes passed before I heard stirrings. Rafael, the husband appeared. He bears a strong resemblance to Nick van Bavel, an Austin neighbor. He laid out a breakfast of muesli, bread, jam, coffee, and canned orange juice, and showed me the toaster.
I manage to burn 4 pieces of bread to a blackened crisp. Smelling smoke, Rafael reappears. I tell him it's my fault. He says it is not good to eat burned toast. I tried to explain that we are carbon-based life forms. He listened patiently but was not buying it.
After breakfast, Rafael asked me to sign their guest book. He says Texas is far away, but they have had a visitor from farther away. He shows me the note from a visitor from Singapore. I leaf through the book; most visitors are Spaniards, one is an Israeli.
Hanging in the hall way are two long gowns; they look like witches' gowns.
Ceremonial Gowns of Rafael and His Wife
We depart in his truck. He tells me it rained the night before and to expect mud. He takes a different route into town, almost cross country. He says it's half the distance his wife needs on the highway, but her car could never make it. I believe it, as the truck fishtails through a muddy pasture.
Ahead of us are two large, attractive birds. They race ahead; when we get close, they fly 40-50 yards ahead and start racing again. This happens several times and then he hits the brakes, points sharply to his right, and cries, Corzo! There, making big leaps through the wheat field, is a pronged antelope. He said come autumn, both the birds and the antelope will be hunted. I asked if he is a hunter. He said no, but hunting was a huge part of the local economy. Rich Basques loved to come there to hunt.
I asked about the long gowns. One is his, the other his wife's. They are used once a year for a festival in August in town that draws many people. It's a pretty big deal.
We arrived at the cafe. Everybody greets Rafael. I get my passports stamped, he orders a coffee at the bar. I ask him to take my picture and he does.
At the Cafe in Atapuerca
I ask if I can take his; he consents. I take his picture at the bar with a pretty barmaid/barista. I had hoped to have my picture taken with Ines.
Rafael Gonzales, My Host in Atapuerca
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