Friday, May 25, 2012
Queridos amigos,
I’m sitting at a pay computer in Calzadilla de la Cueza, a spot in the road but which endears itself to me for two reasons. One is that it has two pay computers that work and may have the capacity to send photos. Second is that Calzadilla de la Cueza sits squarely on the 250 mile mark for me. I’m half way there, gracias a Dios.
Seeing more ace bandages around knees, more limps.
To return to our story...
Unable to find the Scots in Castrojeriz, I went to the bar with the patio overlooking a fine piece of Spanish countryside and had a beer. Two young men were leaving as I arrived; they gave me a book: The Defense, by Nabokov. I´ve had this book on my shelf at home, but it left in one of our periodic prunings. I was alone except for a couple in the shade. I loved being there.
Soon I was joined by three Irish nurses and their Irish companion. I had met one of them the night before. We talked about cancer, among other things. I told them I was looking for the Scots; they promised to keep an eye out.
Several ordered beer, one ordered a shandy, beer and lemonade. My beer was gone so I got a shandy too. Drinkable.
One asked what I do. I said I’m a writer. This caused excitement; their understanding of a writer is one who writes best sellers. My shandy gone, one of the nurses ordered me another, her treat. I told her my next novel will be called Shandys in the Sun. She loved it; it was the least I could do.
We were joined by two Americans, both retired bureaucrats from Northern Virginia. They are friends, but one is a boor, the other, George, thoughtful. The specialty of the boor is coarse jokes. One of the nurses thought he was hysterical; I found him rebarbative. I’m grateful the thoughtful one sat next to me.
George said he had an encounter with LLoyd Doggett and came away very impressed. It had to do with Doggett´s people being grossly mistreated by George’s people. Doggett called and invited him to the Hill for a chat. The upshot was that George fired all six people who offended Doggett´s people. I mentioned that Doggett resembles the young Abraham Lincoln. George said he noticed that too.
He told me about relocating from McLean ("the poor side") to unfashionable Woodbridge in a downsizing move. He relates the good luck he has had with VRBO.com, Vacation Rentals by Owner. He had a great time in Kaui at the stunning, 50-acre estate of an Ohio entrepreneur named Michael Dick. He asked Dick why he charges such low rates. Dick said at this stage of his life he just enjoys meeting new people. Hawaii, anyone?
I return to my hotel, eat, and retire.
Long Climb Ahead
As I leave Castrojeriz next morning, I noticed a mountain right in the middle of the Camino path sliced with a pathway at a 35 degree angle. Steep, hard climb. As I get toward the top and admire the view below, an attractive young woman overtakes me. I ask if she will take my picture with the village below in the background. She says the sun isn't right, but takes it anyway. Can't place her accent, but believe she is German.
The Road Just Traveled
Half up the mountain several pilgrims rest under a canopy. Across the road from them are three Spaniards selling cold drinks and fruit. I ask how much is a banana; they say whatever I want to donate. Very clever, as pilgrim will leave at least twice or three times what the item might cost in a store.
At the very top is a nice shady resting place, provided by the government. No water or restroom, but shade and a place to sit. I slip off my pack and drink water. It’s a warm and bright day. I push up the sleeves of my long sleeve jersey and slather on sun screen.
The Rest Stop at the Top of the Mountain
I overhear two women talking. "Agony is a lottery," says one. The other tells of a man she spoke with last night who can only walk two hours a day because of the pain in his feet.
I leave, but on the way out I hear two English speakers. They are from Canada and Uruguay and plan to go all the way.
On the down side of the mountain the view is even more spectacular. The land is a flat, colorful patchwork as far as the eye can see. The young woman who took my picture is taking a photo of what we see. "Magnificent," she says. It is, but no words or pictures or movies can come close to capturing this glorious vista. You just have to be there.
I’m told that not much farther ahead the landscape become dry and barren. Perhaps so, but so far I’ve been surrounded by unbelievable beauty all day, every day. I hadn’t thought much about the scenery when I planned my trip. It’s just overwhelming.
The young woman asks if I would like her to take my picture on this side; now that the sun is right, she says. She takes the pic and moves off.
Attractive American Lawyer Heads West
I stop for lunch at a tiny restaurant in Itero de la Vega, am served by a gruff old man I rather like for some reason. I order an egg dish for the first course, and an egg dish for the second course. No, he won´t do that. So I order fish, along with bread and wine.
In a first class restaurant, all the used silverware is removed with the dirty dishes and new silverware put in place for the next course. In a less elegant restaurant, if the used silverware is not already removed from the dishes, it will be, and set on the side. This man just lifted up the plate and let the fork slide off.
Dinner is served; an English-speaking couple express surprised disapproval: wine? at lunch? I assure them it is well watered.
On the road again, the young woman overtakes me. We walk on together for the next 5 miles. It is the fastest I´ve walked yet.
She is from Connecticut, now lives in Paris working in international law. She says her father is from Graz, Austria, same home town as Arnold Schwarzenegger. She says her father sounds just like the actor. Whenever her parents have a dinner party, the guests insist that her father say "I’ll be back." Her mother is Polish, so she grew up with European accents.
She is staying in albergues. I tell her I’m staying in hotels because I need my sleep. She says the night before a man on the other side of the room where she was staying snored so loudly that she could feel her chest vibrate. Unable to sleep, she recorded the snore on her cell phone and lets me hear him. Beastly!
She was an English major at Georgetown, likes and writes poetry and plays. She is traveling alone, but her boyfriend stayed with her for three days in Burgos. She´s on the Camino to help her deal with the loss of a dear friend to cancer.
I tell her Susan´s story, and begin to tell her about the man with a tattoo. She says she knows him; he told her my story. "You´re John?" she asks. Word gets around.
She says she is a Catholic and the Camino is revitalizing her faith. She had gone to mass that morning at a convent and found it very moving.
As we get to Boadilla del Camino, she leaves for her albergue; she walks about 30 kilometers a day and this is her stop.
There is a character in a play, Waiting for Godot, I think, who has a kind of breakdown and says, "I can´t go on." Then, after a long pause, "I’ll go on." I´ve had several such moments, but in Boadilla I have my strongest. I keep getting lost on the way out of town and have to backtrack. I ask directions in an albergue; the guests are scattered around the lawn in varied states of undress, luxuriating in the sunshine.
I am listing about 4-6 degrees to port. There is a stabbing pain in my lower back and my toes are threatening a general strike. Stubbornness and a reservation in the next town push me onward. Just out of town, when I think I’m going to collapse, I see something I´ve yet to see on the Camino: a field of soft grass. No crops, just grass. Looks a little like the unkempt front yards in Hyde Park; mine, for example.
I walked out into the field, slipped off my pack and lay down. Wonderful to be prone with the sun on my face. I’d rested no more than five minutes when I heard a car stop and a door open. I raised my head; it was the Guardia Civil.
"Every thing alright?"
All well.
"Any problems?"
No problems.
I give them two thumbs up, and they leave. I am comforted by the thought that if I do keel over, the Guardia Civil will probably get to me before the buzzards do.
I finally reach Frómista. Before going to my hotel, I stop at the Manchego bar for a cold Coca-Cola. At home, I might drink a Coke every three or four years. I’m developing a renewed interest in them on the Camino.
The Manchego Bar
My hotel is the San Telmo, which is to say, Saint Elmo, the patron saint of sailors. There is a handsome bronze statue of him in one of the town squares, in a boat.
I look into one of the restaurants. The Irish nurses and their companion are there and invite me to sit with them. One of them comments on my shirt. "Not a wrinkle in it. You must pack very carefully." Ah, the beauty of Permanent Press.
After dinner I return to the Manchego Bar to use the computer, planning to keep at it until I’m too tired to continue. After a couple of hours, I looked around and saw a handsome young man, blond, waiting at the bar. I try to ask him how much time he needs. He has hearing aids in both ears. He says, I’m deaf. I write out the question. He writes, “About an hour.”
I feel bad for hogging the machine for hours. I tell him one more hour, but he finally leaves. I know exactly how he feels. This has happened several times to me, including last night. The thought that I denied access to a person so handicapped haunts me still.
The next morning I have breakfast at the Manchego Bar and push on. The landscape is flat, but lush.
As I come to the tiny hamlet of Villarmentero de Campos, I hear a strange sound and see a strange sight. The sound is of loud and fast Celtic music--fiddles, tin whistles, drums. The sight is of teepees behind a dwelling. This is the Chiringito Bar and Albergue, a throwback to the 60s.
The teepees of El Chiringuito Bar
Entrance to El Chiringuito Bar & Albergue
Chiringito means ‘beach bar.’ Except for one girlfriend, all the patrons are young men. On the wall are scribbled anti-establishment slogans, such as, in Spanish, "We believe in Utopia because reality seems to us incredible." And so forth, all clustered around a huge image of Bob Marley, who has an opinion on marijuana.
Interior of El Chiringuito Bar
I buy two bottles of water and a banana here, one the bottles is half ice. Later, when I stop for a drink, it is ice cold.
Back on the road, a woman catches up with me and we talk and walk. She´s from Vancouver Island. She´s had two mishaps along the way. One day she spent in her sleeping bag with a fever. Next she had a urinary tract infection and had to seek medical treatment. She had to take a bus for a while after that. But she says she is stronger now than when she started. So am I.
I tell her about the woman who returned my money. She says I told her that story last time we talked. Oops. Can’t place this gal for the life of me. Anyway, she says, you would have done the same for her. True, and probably true of 99 percent…or more…of the pilgrims.
We arrive in Carrion de los Condes and go our separate ways. I’m staying in a former monastery, now a fancy hotel. It is next door to a Carmel.
I disrobe to shower and notice in the full length mirror that I’m listing to the right.
This is a town of some size. I buy dental floss in a farmacia and take money from an ATM.
I decide to go to 8 p.m. mass at St. Mary´s church. It's early, but I poke my head in the church for a quick look and see the Irish nurses on the back pew. I tell them it’s only 7. The head nurse is embarrassed; she forgot to change the times zone on her cell phone. They leave, and tell me they are staying at the same albergue as the Scots and offer to guide me to them. One of them leads me through the labyrinth of the albergue and I see the room where they sleep, but no Scots.
But there is a computer, and I fall on it hungrily and begin writing my report. After half an hour or so, Trevor Anthony Jones, the man who wrote the poem, comes in. I greet him, and thank him for the poem. He says only, "Well, I could see that someone was walkin’ with ya."
I invite him and his brother to dinner. He says thanks, but the nuns are planning something special for them.
I go to mass and sit near the front. There are a few older Spanish women around me; none comes up to my sternum. But they sing with strong, clear voices, and I notice with delight, two-part harmony.
After mass all the pilgrims are invited to the front for a blessing. There are more than a hundred of us. The priest asks where we are from. A woman from Malaysia, a couple from New Zealand, a couple from South Korea, a couple from Australia. Canadians and Germans predominate, with the Irish a close third. Only two from Scotland and one from the U.S.
It puzzles me that there are so many Canadians and so few Americans. Sometimes I feel like shouting, in the manner of Eliza Doolittle, "Come on, America...move yer bloomin’ arse!"
The priest lays hands on the head of each pilgrim with a blessing. A nun distributes curious little colored six-point stars to each pilgrim.
The Scots return to their albergue and I go to dinner alone. Afterward, I return to the albergue to use the computer, but the door to the computer room is closed, and heavenly singing comes from the other side. Yes, the sisters had something very nice planned.
I return to my hotel for a soaking hot bath. Afterward, I notice that I’m straight again.
There is such an enormous difference between the way I feel when I check into my lodgings and the way I feel when I check out.
Today is the longest stretch without a town or a fountain I have walked. Along the road I see a couple taking each other’s picture. I offer to take them together and do, with both of their cameras. He is from Cologne, she from Frankfurt. I ask them to take my picture with the man, which amuses them, but they do it.
With a Pilgrim from Cologne
The road I walked today is the Via Aquitania, built 2,000 years ago by the Romans. Nice stands of aspens, carefully spaced, sometimes hundreds of yards long, offer some shade.
It is now 4:30 p.m. and I think I’m just about caught up on my report.
Several of you have suggested that this will become my journal of the trip. I had not planned it that way. I was going to send brief email reports and save the details for my handwritten journal. But it has worked out that emails constitute the only record I have.
Several of you have suggested I would have been well served by an iPad. I had no idea they weighed only a pound. Next time.
Now to see if I can upload some photos. A bit uneasy that something will happen to my camera before I can save these.
Abrazos para todos,
John
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