May 29, 2012
Queridos amigos,
These small medieval Spanish towns, with their narrow, twisting streets, are wonderful to roam around in. Just talking to shopkeepers makes me happy. You might wonder what motivates people in a town like this with a population less than 2,000. I’m finding that even the smallest towns have at least one annual blowout. Costumes, processions, bands, dignitaries, etc. and this one celebration is huge in the lives of the population.
A generation ago there was a book called The City of Joy, written by the authors of Is Paris Burning? It concerned a young Belgian priest who goes to Calcutta to live with the poor. He makes his way to the City of Joy, the city's worst slum. Beggars, families sleeping on the sidewalks, lepers. He is outraged to find people spending their precious money for joss sticks and meager costumes to celebrate festivals. Then it dawns on him: it is the anticipation of the festivals that is holding the whole starving, poverty-stricken, disease-ridden mass together. Something to look forward to.
As I stroll through the town, I come upon a group of perhaps six young gypsy men. One is standing in the street, playing flamenco guitar and singing cante jondo -- deep song. The young men around him are into it, clapping their hands rhythmically, "palmadas" I believe it is called.
They see me trying to take their photo and want to pose. I take several. This is the last thing I expected in northern Spain. Susan and I had two encounters with gypsies during earlier visits to Pamplona and Mallorca, both unpleasant in the extreme.
Cante Jondo
This one excites me. It transports me back to the time I was a regular at the outdoor stage of the little hole-in-wall bar by the San Antonio River near Santa Rosa hospital when El Curro played. It was called Patio Flamenco del Curro. A curro is a dandy. Warm summer nights, gigantic shadows of the dancers thrown upon the concrete wall behind them, everyone silent and absorbed in the music and the dance. Couldn't get enough of it.
Yesterday I bought cherries and bananas in a fruit shop, and enjoyed chatting with the woman in charge. I told her I needed dark chocolate, and she found some 85% cacao Lindt. Perfect. She advised me to start early to avoid the sun.
Lots of Cottonwoods here in full bloom; the air is full of it. I had lunch yesterday outside, the air filled with floating cotton puffs. It accumulates in thick drifts along the sidewalk.
Disappointing breakfast at my hotel; coffee, toast, margarine. It is a small hostal, only four rooms for guests. I check out and push off early (for me) -- 8 o'clock. Just as I leave town, a street sweeper rumbles by. It stirs up all the cotton that had been packed down. Like walking through a heavy snow storm.
Drifts from the Cottonwood Trees
Much of today's walk is by the side of the highway, with some harrowing encounters on narrow bridges when large tour busses and trucks roar through. No silence breaks today. But I did note that dandelions are now showing up in large numbers among the wildflowers. And virtually no foot pain. Things are looking up.
In small sections away from the highway one hears cheerful birdsong. I should mention here perhaps that the cuckoo has limits on its charms. Three-four minutes in the morning is somewhat rousing. But after 20 minutes non-stop one understands why cuckoo is synonymous with batty. Imagine sitting under cuckoo clock that won´t stop.
I soon come to three story white building by the side of the road outside Villarente, the Casa Blanca hotel and restaurant. I decided to stop and have the breakfast I missed. The striking thing is that the fourth movement of Beethoven's Ninth is blasting out of the bar. In front, at a table under an umbrella, are two truly good-looking young women, one wearing a black mini-tennis skirt, and their male companion. The women are singing prettily in German along with the chorus. Very nice moment.
Yesterday I introduced the spiffy walker but didn’t finish the story. We leapfrogged each other through the day. He had a supercilious air, condescending to the rest of us. The last time he passed me he made his point on the scallop shell on the back of his pack. Most pilgrims have one dangling from their packs; I do. But his is fastened tightly so people can read it: Lyons to Santiago. In case anyone fails to be impressed, he has also written 1220 kilometers, or, about 420 more than most of us are walking. Insufferable!
(Quick background: the scallop shell is the symbol of the Camino de Santiago. It is the same shell and the same reason for the dish Coquilles St. Jacques. They are available all along the Way, different sizes and colors, but almost always with the cross of Santiago emblazoned in red. The basic signpost of the Camino is a stylized shell and a stylized pilgrim, with staff and gourd.)
The Cross of St. James
Lots of political graffiti as I get close to Leon. One sign says, ‘Leon Solo’...Leon only. They want to break up the old Castile and Leon region and have their own.
Secessionist Fever
Also starting to see hammers and sickles, and signs calling for a general strike today. Nobody is striking.
A call for a Strike That Went Unanswered
Leon is Spanish for lion. The lion frequently appears on coats of arms in Europe, and on one of the entrances to the city there is an enormous metal silhouette of a lion rampant. But that's not where the city got its name. Back in the day, this place was where the Seventh Roman Legion was garrisoned; Leon is a corruption of the Latin word for legion.
Hostal San Marcos
The San Marcos parador where I'm staying is one of the grander ones. I’ll try to send a photo later. It is part of an old pilgrim hospice, decorated in a heavy plateresque style. A five star hotel with, mercifully, three new computers, free and well maintained. Por fin!
Adios for now,
John
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