Queridos amigos,
As I prepared to enter the hotel dining room last night, a young woman approached me and said, "Remember me?" I am quite sure I'd never seen her face.
Turns out it is the Canadian woman I spoke with at the albergue. She never removed her sunglasses, but now they’re off. Her name is Brenda. I ask if I may join her for dinner. She says yes, she has other dinner companions too.
At her table are two men, Simon and Larry. Simon is from Yorkshire, but has spent the last 8 years or so in Sweden, north of Stockholm. He followed his Swedish girlfriend there, but they broke up two years ago. He now speaks Swedish and is considering requesting permanent residency there.
Larry is older, sixtyish, with a bushy moustache. He is from Ontario, and worked for many years as a landscape architect, but now teaches landscape architecture at a university.
There are at least 40-50 Germans traveling together on a tour. They all sit together. Suddenly, a song arises from them. This is not a bunch of Americans singing Happy Birthday. This is more like a concert. Beautiful song, perfectly performed. Perhaps they are a choir. Just stunning.
I ask my table if they know anything about it. Larry says he’s not familiar with it, but notices that the last word is Amen, so perhaps it is a prayer, a dinner grace.
Larry mentions in passing that he had been in the West Bank. I ask what he was doing there. He said that several years ago Israeli settlers in the Nablus area attacked a little Palestinian village. They killed all the sheep, poisoned the well, and beat up the villagers, who then fled en masse, abandoning their homes. It was the first time since 1948 that a village had been abandoned because of an Israeli attack.
The patriarchs of the major Christian faiths in the area, along with the World Council of Churches, decided to help put the village back on its feet. The call went out for volunteers from around the world to come at live in the village for 90 days, the limit of Israeli visas. They wear vests identifying them as volunteers. Some escort children to school, and are sometimes attacked. Larry was walking with another volunteer when they passed a well-dressed Israeli woman who turned and spat in the face of his friend. The settler teenagers like to wander through the villages with their Uzis and fierce dogs, just to intimidate the villagers. Lovely folks, the settlers.
Larry said the hard part was just being a presence, nothing more. He said, "You know how Westerners are, they want to be doing something. One day I drank 26 cups of tea."
I gave Larry my card, he gave me his address and we agreed to stay in touch.
Simon and Larry both started in St. Jean-Pied-le-Port in France and have carried a full pack every step of the way. They are in it for the duration. Brenda is still daypacking because of her injury.
In the morning, following a continental breakfast, which is hardly breakfast at all, I push off. My Camino guru mentioned that about 5 km out of Astorga there is a wonderful little restaurant featuring fresh juices; it is called Meson El Llar. The word wonderful in her account is all caps, and she had a number of compliments. I’m looking forward to a real breakfast there.
Welcome to Meson El Llar
Sure enough, there it is, with tables on both sides of the road. I drop my pack and poles outside, tear out the page with the glowing description, and walk inside. I ask for the proprietress, who quickly emerges.
I tell her she’s famous. I show her the description of her establishment. She is deeply moved. She calls for a pen, and writes the name of the author of this account: Cristina of Philadelphia. She smoothes the wrinkles in the paper, handling it like a winning lottery ticket. Her hands are on my back, my shoulder, my arm. I ask her to pose with the page.
Pilar Blows a Kiss
I ask about the juice. They have all kinds, but she recommends the house special, a blend of carrot juice, ginger, and four or five other ingredients. I ask for that. Also, for a slice of tortilla and a cup of coffee.
I return to my table and the juice is served first. Haven’t tasted ginger since I left Austin. Good juice.
The Specialty of the House
Pilar Serving My Slice of Tortilla. [To the right of her, in the red sweater, is Maria and her two companions. We’ll hear more about her later.]
Tortilla is usually 1/2 or 3/4 of an inch thick. This is over 2 inches thick; it is so fat it is served on its side.
Pilar brings the tortilla to me and tells me a Spanish proverb. The gist of it is, Providence will bring you what you need, when you need it. She says the pressures on her business have been terrible; she often thinks of closing and going to work for somebody. Then, something like this praise from a foreigner comes along, and she finds reason to go on. She takes both my hands and asks me to pray for her.
After I eat, I bring the dishes back to the bar and ask for the tab. Pilar adds it up and gives me a number. I tell her she has undercharged me and pay double the amount.
Back at my table, as I slip on my pack, a waitress comes with the change. I say no, this is a propina, a tip. She hurries inside saying, "He says it's a tip!"
My pack mounted, I enter the restaurant again and tell Pilar that actually it is for an unforgettable memory. I kiss her on both cheeks and leave. An emotional encounter at Meson El Llar.
Spain is having a real hard time. Their overall unemployment rate, 25 percent, is as bad as America's in the depths of the Great Depression. The rate for those under 30 is double that. It is referred to as “the crisis.”
After the woman returned my bankroll some weeks ago, I started doubling the tips I leave for the chamber maids and waiters. Then I started paying more for everything I buy from merchants. These honest merchants are being squeezed in a vise. They still have their overhead, inventory and all the expenses running a small business entails but nobody is buying because nobody has money.
Let me be absolutely clear that I am not doing this to be a good guy. This is strictly for myself. If I buy 100 grams of cherries, and the cherry seller gives me his pitifully small bill, from which he will extract an even more pitiful profit, and if I pay the stated amount, I feel pinched, bloated, selfish, despicable. If I pay more, especially if I pay much more, I feel lighter, cleaner, less burdened. There is no way I will ever miss this money.
What is happening to the small business owners is not their fault. They are trying to hold on to what they have, to survive. As an American, over which I had no control, my challenge is different: just find the next ATM.
At the risk of overstating the case, let me put it this way. Imagine you have done hard, manual labor under a broiling sun for 8 or 9 hours. Finally, the sun begins to sink and you step into a deep shade, drink a glass of ice water, and slip off your hair shirt. That’s kind of what it feels like to drop money on the Camino.
After leaving Meson El Llar, I pass two women, one of whom has a Swedish flag patch on her pack. I tell her she is the first Swede I have seen on the Camino. Her friend says, "I'm number two!" One is from Stockholm. I tell her I have fond memories of the Salu Halle in Stockholm.
Last year they walked from St. Jean in France to Belorado. This year they started in Belorado and plan to go all the way.
When I ask most pilgrims if they will go all the say to Santiago, they get a curious expression on their faces and add some qualifying remark, such as, "At least that's the plan." or "God willing." Most of us have had some close calls, and know how little it would take to stop our Camino.
I push ahead and come across a woman who is wobbling back and forth. I study her poles carefully to see if they are unbalanced. She could use about 15 minutes of instruction in the proper use of poles, but I’m not the man to do it.
For some reason I know she is Canadian; perhaps she had a Canadian flag or pin on her pack. As I overtake her, I sing The Maple Leaf Forever. Wrong song. Turns out she’s from Quebec, speaks almost no English, which is a bit rare for the Quebecois in my experience. She does say she really enjoys singing. I sing the melody of Si Les Bateaux, which I thought was a mainstay of French Canadian folksongs. She's never heard it. So I push ahead, singing every verse I can remember of Alouette.
A Stork at Home
I come to the hamlet of El Ganso, the goose. The guidebook says El Ganso is a good example of a ghost town. There is some interest in trying to revive it. There are several bars/restaurants. I enter the one I find most intriguing: The Cowboy Bar.
The Cowboy Bar in El Ganso
Old Paint at the Cowboy Bar
I order a Coke with ice and sip it outside under an umbrella, enjoying the drawing of a horse and a saguaro cactus on the wall. When I leave, I tell the elderly owner, “Señor, I'm from Texas, and in Texas we have lots of cowboys.” Visibly moved, he shakes my hand gravely, and I push on.
In the bar adjacent to The Cowboy Bar, there was a group of five Asian women taking a break. They speak in a happy chatter, and leave just as I am sitting down.
Now I come upon them sitting down with their shoes off, taking a rest. They are well kitted out, with knickers and even gloves. Odds are they are Japanese.
Thinking they might like to hear a familiar word, I ask, Nippon? Yes, yes...they are all from Nippon. I pass them and shortly come to a fork in the road that is puzzling. I decided to take the road marked for cyclists and they go the foot route. I quickly see we are traveling parallel paths, so I re-enter the foot path. Along one side is a wire fences fill with handmade pilgrim crosses. There must be at least a thousand, all made by pilgrims.
A Cross for Susan, Where I Left a Lock
Once again I stop to make one for Susan, leaving a lock underneath it. The Japanese pass me, but soon I find them sitting down again with their shoes off. I ask if they are Christians. They do not understand. I make a cross with my index fingers. No, no...they are not Christians.
I push on, and finally arrive in Rabanal del Camino, another charming medieval town, and check in, shower, and have lunch.
A chill wind has arisen. It was supposed to have rained today, and most likely will tomorrow.
Un abrazo para todos,
John
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