Sunday, May 27, 2012
A few days ago, as I was leaving a town, I passed a man on the other side of the road walking the opposite direction. As I took his measure, I decided not to joke with him, i.e., saying that he was walking in the wrong direction. We approached each other to talk, but a car came and I went to the other side of the road. He waited.
When the car passed, we talked. He was about 10 years younger than I, grizzled, strong, radiating strength and determination. He had been to Santiago, and was heading back to Roncesvalles. This is more difficult as many of the yellow arrows are on the other side of posted signs. There was something hugely impressive about him. I would never bet against him. Have no idea of his nationality.
I couldn't capture how moving the pilgrim blessing was a few days back. I came close to breaking down several times. After the priest gave us his hands-on blessing, a nun, following with a small basket of tokens, handed one to each pilgrim. These were small, six-pointed stars, about an inch and a half in diameter, on light card stock, white on one side, colored on the other. The work of a child.
Will I pitch mine? This piece of nothing? Perhaps. After I pitch my water, boots, hat, and pack and they pry my cold dead fingers off it. I share my father's extravagant sentimentality.
The ukulele player surfaces at an albergue in El Burgo Ranero. He is surrounded by young Frenchmen, all singing. The French take the prize for singing on the Camino. They often sing together on the road. I bid him good afternoon. Once again he offer me the instrument, then remembers I'm right handed. He is a handsome man.
When Susan and I finished our fourth visit to Spain in January 2007, I could honestly say that I had never seen an obese Spaniard. I can no longer say that. Not sure what happened, but there are many, mainly older men with big paunches.
Like all Europeans, the Spanish are big smokers. They do a pretty good job of keeping smokers out of public places, and include strong warnings on cigarette packs: Smoking Kills. It seems to have no impact.
In the computer room there is a card game. Cigar and cigarette smoking, cards slammed down, voices raised, money on the table. Four men playing, perhaps another three watching.
In the bar itself, a bigger game is in progress. Four players, with perhaps 15 men looking on. Above them, on a large screen TV, is a handball match, something derived from jai lai, perhaps. Loud voices, much passion. Such is cafe society in El Burgo Ranero.
Several times I have seen Spanish women approach bald men and lay their hands affectionately on their pate. This is a tradition I would like to see take hold in America.
Among the items I have lost on the way is a universal stopper, which will provide a perfect seal over any drain so you can wash your clothes. Also, my BPA-free one liter water bottle. Also, all my electrolyte powders and my sunglasses. But I'm still here.
Nutrition wise, I am sorely missing that staple of what in the U.S. is generally agreed an essential: dark green, leafy vegetables. Have yet to see one.
The protective pouch around my neck contains the absolute essentials: U.S. passport, pilgrim passports, credit and money cards, Susan´s locks. Naked, with this collection of documents, I could press on. Without it, I'm toast. So I care for it. It bulges under my shirt, but I feel it is secure there. Sometimes when I walk, I place it in my side pocket with a velcro closure. No one anywhere near me. And anyone near me has no interest in it. Does that make me feel secure? No. I have to have it around my neck, even though it looks like I’m concealing a hamster under my t-shirt. Such are the ways of paranoia.
It is about 10 o'clock at night, and I have to deal with my toes and compressor pack. Just wanted to get these items on the record.
A restful night to all of you,
John
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