Sunday, May 27, 2012
Queridos amigos,
On the TVs in bars and hotels there are plenty of signs of unrest in Spain, mainly demonstrations featuring angry, impassioned speakers. No one knows what lies ahead. At one hotel I was asked whether I wanted to pay in dollars or euros. I said it didn’t matter. From now on, if I have a choice, I’ll pay with euros. The end could be near, especially if France begins to wobble, as some have suggested it might.
Apologies for overstating the case against spandex. It’s not slimy, it's slinky. Big difference. I’ve corrected this in my blog, as well as the line about how we’d love to have this landscape in Texas. When I get back to Austin, I’ll include more pictures in the blog and add things I forgot along the way.
Everybody here wants to know where you are from, nobody wants to know your name, at least your last name. Perhaps that is to establish some kind of connection. The German I posed with said he had a sister living in Forth Worth. I should have told him I have good friends in Darmstadt, Bamberg, and Munich.
The Scotsman who wrote the poem for me wrote it without knowing my name. The only reason I know his is that he wrote the poem on the back of his hotel bill, which included his name - Trevor Anthony Jones.
Part of my loneliness last night was the hotel I was staying in. Big, modern, soulless, no computer. Big wedding reception held there, lots of beautiful little girls in white dresses running around with painted faces.
At a restaurant in town, the waitress appeared anxious. Delivering food to my table, she stumbled, knocked my (empty) wine glass on the tile floor, shattering it, and knocking over the full bottle of wine, leaving a puddle on the table but only a drop or two on me and my journal.
Back at the hotel I console myself with a hot soaking bath. Among the goodies on the bathtub tray are two vials of bath salts and one vial of lavender bubble bath. I pour all three under the gushing faucet. You're only young once.
No rubber ducky, of course, but I am not without diversion. I have a small pumice stone I brought along to deal with calluses. I find to my delight that it floats. A stone that floats! I mentally file this in my We Never Stop Learning folder.
There is a disco for the wedding party downstairs but I can´t hear it. Despite my ear plugs, I'm awakened at 1 a.m. by loud shouting and carrying on; the young swains have quit the disco and are returning to their rooms. The noise is loud and obnoxious. One option I consider is racing into the hall nude, waving my arms and screaming. This would certainly put a damper on their high spirits. Then I cool off and recall all the times I was young, drunk, and inconsiderate. After 20 minutes, all is quiet.
In the morning, in the twilight between sleep and wakefulness, I have another, much more vivid vision of Susan.
Another perfect day and I get an early start. As I leave town, I encounter the young Irishman I thought was a Serb. I ask him where his traveling companion is, the pretty blonde girl he was sharing a table with in Calzadilla de la Cueza. He says she is taking it easy on the Camino.
There´s a nice old bridge, centuries old, across the river out of town. A young woman is taking a picture of it. She sees me, and asks if I will take her picture with the bridge in the background. I do. I gather she's French. Wrong, she´s Italian.
The landscape is flat, featureless, yet beautiful.
Many wildflowers along the trail, white, purple, yellow, shot through with brilliant scarlet poppies. Yesterday, the way was lined by hundreds of yards of evenly spaced aspen trees, providing a bit of shade. Today there are miles of sycamores, all about 50 feet apart.
Poppies and Wildflowers
Sycamore Shade on the Meseta
A few pilgrims are visible, but essentially, I am alone.
I come across a true monument to a fallen pilgrim in 1998. It is of white marble, with the intaglio letters gilded. The cross on top has been broken off, but lies respectfully at the bottom of the piece.
Monument to a Fallen Pilgrim
Lately the fields have been full of some kind of grain, but it's different. I break off a bit and will ask at my next stop.
I make a quick stop at a cafe in Bercianos del Camino Real. The cafe is immaculately clean. It is run by a man and his wife, who is easily 8.5 months pregnant. Nice shade, comfortable chair. The couple radiates goodness. I compliment them on this place. They beam; it has been in operation for only three weeks. They live on the premises. They are Franco and Andrea .
I ask if getting a bank loan is difficult. Yes, it is. They plan to add an albergue in a few years. I mention, as I did to Rosa Gonzalez, that the Camino, over a thousand years old and growing rapidly, seems a good bet. Many people around the world seem to need something the Camino offers. Prospects look promising for future growth.
I ask about the grain. Franco says it looks like wheat. I suggest it is something else, like oats or barley.
I ask if I may take their picture. Sure. Then Franco takes mine standing next to Andrea with his camera. I hand him my card and we have a small discussion about Sero sed serio and the Sun in his Splendor, and I’m off.
Franco and Andrea
Several miles down the road, and miles from any town, there sits a lone figure on a bench located right on the trail. He is wearing shorts, is tanned and hatless, the sun gleaming from his pate. He´s playing a ukulele. I ask if I may take his picture. He says yes. He is French, speaks good English. He says he plays guitar but a ukulele is much more convenient on the Camino. It is brand knew; he's just starting to explore it. Although ukulele strings are nylon, he has substituted a steel string for the bottom string to strengthen the bass. The guy is a serious musician.
I tell him I used to play the ukulele and this excites him. How long did I play? How long ago? My father showed me how to tune and play a ukulele in early adolescence. I took it along on Boy Scout camping trips, but there was zero interest in the ukulele at high school parties so I gave it up. Now I think I might take it up again.
French Pilgrim and Musician
He offers the instrument to me to play. Alas, it's tuned for a left hander. I notice a curious device on the end of the ukulele neck, next to the tuning pegs. It has a screen; I ask about it. He says it is an electronic tuner that senses the vibrations through the neck and lets you know when each string is perfectly tuned. I immediately file this in my Miracles of Modern Technology folder.
I press on; behind me I hear him play Malagueña perfectly. Could this be the first time that piece has been attempted on a ukulele? Could be.
I arrive in El Burgo Ranero, check into the hostal, and go through my routine. Go to my room, shed my gear, take a shower, slip on my shorts, sandals, and wrinkle-free shirt, tilt my boina to a rakish angle, and voila! instant boulevardier, ready for a night on the town.
Café Society in El Burgo Ranero
Trouble is, in a place like El Burgo Ranero, with a population of only 100, cafe society is less than vibrant. No problem. I quickly re-adjust my boina to a dorkish angle and voila! instant computer nerd, on the prowl for a vacant keyboard. At the hostal, my prowl is a short one. A bank of four pay computers, all empty, face me blankly in the room next to the dining room. Bingo!
Never have I seen so many men with bare, smooth legs as I have seen on the Camino. Do they shave? Are their limbs worn smooth by the heavy wool pants they need for the cold European winters? It's not a question you ask a guy.
I´ve received several inquiries from my correspondents about my trekking poles. The author of my guidebook strongly recommended hiking poles (as do many other hiking guides), but said get the kind with the slanted handle to ease pressure on the wrist. That is a most important feature.
No major American outfitter that I could find has poles with slanted handles. Finally found some on the Santiago Forum. Check out pacerpole.com The slanted handle means you can hold them with almost no pressure yet can press down on them really hard, a nice combination. They come from England, and England alone.
I bought the lightweight pair made with carbon fiber. I used them only 20 seconds before deciding that I will never again carry a pack without them. They are indispensable.
I wrote to the company and asked if they have any dealers in the U.S., or in northern Spain where I might get extra parts if needed. They answered that they are not trying to sell as many Pacer Poles as they can. Rather, they are trying to educate people about the proper way to walk with sticks. On the Camino, I have seen many hundreds of hiking poles; only mine has slanted handles.
That’s it for a while. Tomorrow night I’ll be in Mansilla de las Mulas; the following two nights in the San Marcos parador in Leon, Dios mediante.
Today is Pentecost; I’m off to see what the local church will offer.
Un abrazo para todos,
John
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