Monday, June 4, 2012
Time for a correction and an apology. I find overstatement as tedious and offputting as anyone. Yet I am forced to admit that I am occasionally carried away on the wings of my own rhetoric.
To that end I have edited my blog to remove the paragraph about the hair shirt. That was a metaphor too far. Please know that I have never owned, nor have any intention of ever acquiring, a hair shirt. [I should mention, however, that my younger sister wrote to remind me that St. Francis of Assisi said living in voluntary poverty was like being married to the most beautiful woman in town.]
And that little piece of colored paper given by the nun. Most definitely I would relinquish that before turning loose of my boots, water, etc. I may be sentimental, but I'm not daft.
I also made a denigrating statement about continental breakfasts being no breakfast at all. In point of fact, my daily breakfast at home is a variation of a continental breakfast, and that is fine for walking the dog, logging computer time, and perhaps walking to Central Market. It is not fine for walking 16 miles of challenging terrain with a 24-pound pack.
Back to the Camino. There was a Benedictine monastery, run by Bavarian monks, just across the street from my hotel in Rabanal del Camino. Had I taken the trouble to read the brief overview of Rabanal del Camino in my guidebook, I would have known the monks offer vespers every evening at 7, along with Gregorian chant. Deeply sorry to miss that unique encounter, especially since Susan was a Benedictine oblate.
As I leave town I notice two women taking each other's picture. I offer to take them together and they agree. One takes a picture of me with her friend. They are Danish, the one I pose with, Annie Nielsen, speaks good English. And I push on.
With Annie Nielsen of Denmark
Although it rained the previous night, the day is perfect; cool, blue skies. Lots of climbing, but spectacular mountains, some snow spattered, and deep, deep, green valleys. If you have ever taken the 2-day mountain route from Monterrey through Ciudad Mante to Mexico City, you know exactly was the view was like. Mountain tops emerging through the clouds and mist. Lower down there was beautiful birdsong, but higher up there is silence.
Early in the climb there are many pilgrims, but the number thins out. I hear English spoken behind me and slow down. As the woman comes even with me I tell her I am having trouble placing her accent. She says she is English, but now lives in France. I tell her I am from Texas. She says I speak good English. I think she's just trying to flatter me.
Along with light boot prints in the sandy road are deep hoof prints from the last big rain. I pass a donation booth, unattended. A bowl of fruit and a money box, that's all. I take a banana and leave a euro in the green money box.
A Donativo Stall
The day before, in the middle of nowhere, a man was sitting under a small tree trying to carve some image into a piece of sandstone. The table next to him displayed his handiwork. It was all terribly ugly. I left a euro and thanked him. This was wrong, I think. I should have taken one of his pieces.
The Stone Carver at Work in the Shade
In the nursing homes of Mexico, great care is taken to preserve the dignidad of the patients. Everybody is given something to do to feel they are earning their keep. A woman knits a sweater, and man carves something out of a small tree branch, for sale at their gift shop. It may not seem like much, but it is all the difference in world from being warehoused on Medicaid. I may have stepped on this man's dignidad.
Later, the woman who admired my English and I are walking together; the fact that I am a native speaker has dawned on her. She says she lived in Adelaide, Australia for 30 years but couldn't take the heat and humidity. She lives in a small village in France and her three companions are all French women from the same village. Two are walking for spiritual reasons but she is walking just to see if she can do it. I ask her where she started; she says, Leon. Good so far, but she has developed a rash from the pollen. Here she raises her trouser leg so I can see the rash.
She has a son in London and one in Australia. She is originally from North England. I tell her I once had lunch with a couple in Durham. They said one difference between North and South England is that when you invite someone to dinner in the north, it is understood that the children are included. In the south, it is understood children are definitely not invited.
She asks, ‘Could you understand them?’ Yes, I say, they were Irish. We talk briefly about accents, and I mention the movie Kes. She is familiar with the movie. I tell her I could only understand about half of it.
The climb is a real one; this will be the highest point on the Camino, some 5,000 feet above sea level. As I come to top, I see the Cruz de Ferro.
The Cruz de Ferro Straight Ahead
This is the place pilgrims leave rocks and other mementos of their loved ones in a big pile, topped by a tall iron cross. It really is quite moving, this outpouring of remembrances, written on rocks, photographs, many things.
Messages and Rocks at the Base of the Cruz de Ferro
I find I no longer have the two rocks I brought from the park next to my son's house in Virginia, both quartz, stones that in a curious way symbolized something of Susan and of me. So I climb the pile of rocks and place locks under a big rock at the top.
Mementos at the Cruz de Ferro
Many people milling around the pile, a number of tour buses have emptied their cargo.
When I descend, Annie Nielsen, the Danish woman I had my picture taken with earlier, says she photographed me at the top. If I give her my email address, she will send me a copy. I hand her my card and depart.
Annie’s Photo of Your Correspondent
It's Starting to Look Like Galicia
The way down offers spectacular views and a treacherous road, very steep, covered with large, sharp pieces of shale.
Rocky Road
Rockier Road
Pure Rock Road
A woman passes me, and we both agree this is worse than the descent into Zubiri. It's longer, for one thing. We also agree that we are grateful for our walking sticks. She says she uses hers to get around at home in the mountains of northern California.
She pulls up her trousers to show me a band that stretches around her leg, just below her knee. Around the band, pressing against the back of her knee, is a tube. This really does give support and reduce stress, she says. Curious that in the past hour, two women have raised their trousers to show me something.
She pulls ahead and 10 seconds later I fall. My backpack assures my landing will not be a soft one. My first concern is that I have torn the only long pair of pants I have. My second concern is my shell. I heard it hit hard and expect to find it in pieces. Both fabric and shell are tough, all well.
The Californian comes back and helps to me feet. I have small cuts on my knees, one on my arm. She asks, "Would you like me to do Reiki on you?" I have no idea what that entails, but why not?
She asks me to sit or stand. The trail is narrow and other pilgrims are passing, so I lean back against the mountain side and support myself on my poles. She kneels down and places her cupped hands on my kneecaps. She explains that she is a Reiki master, and meets weekly with her Reiki circle back home. She says if I believe, I will be helped. I believe. As pilgrims pass, they ask if I am okay. Nothing really damaged but my self-confidence. As the football announcers like to say, "a bit shaken up on the play."
After some minutes, I tell her I'm ready to go on. She says good, she can feel it coming out. Not sure what ‘it’ refers to, possibly trauma. Not sure if this helped or not but having a not unattractive woman kneeling before you, holding your kneecaps for five minutes or so is not unpleasant. [After returning to Austin, I learn that I had cracked a rib. Wish I had known this; having this woman holding my rib might have been more healing and more engaging than holding my knee.]
She pushes ahead and at length I come to the charming village of Acebo, where I stop for a large lunch.
Entering Acebo
Many pilgrims at my restaurant under the shade of big umbrellas (although I get stuck with a table in the sun). There are recliners, and two young women (one of them Maria, the woman in the red sweater at Meson El Llar) who are traveling with two men, Americans, and another young couple, bask in the sun. Then they leave.
I arrive in the next town, Riego de Ambros, and see Maria, looking stunned. She said, "I've lost the most important thing I have." She apparently had her passport, money, etc. in a belt or a pouch and it is missing. I tell her I saw nothing on the road. The two Americans and I agree it had to be the restaurant. She asks them, "Did I use the toilet?" No, one answers. They make plans to call a taxi and return to Acebo.
I push on to another stretch of a most challenging stony path. A sweet-faced woman I had seen at breakfast in the hotel passes me. She appears to be a little younger than I am, but heavy. Still, she is as light on her feet as a mountain goat. Women in general seem to negotiate difficult stony paths more easily than men.
More beautiful scenery. I can't get over all this splendid isolation.
Eventually the road flattens a little and there is a shady glade. The woman who passed me is taking a break and I decide to also. We sit with a tree between us. She is Swiss, and has walked from Geneva! She stays at albergues. She tells me about the Benedictine vespers, how different prayers were read by pilgrims in their own languages.
A young pilgrim approaches us. I have passed him several times. He is tall, very thin, handsome, with a great black wooly beard. As he walks up, the woman explains that he read his prayer in French. And they proceed to converse in French.
A Gathering of Pilgrims
The young man in the foreground, with shorts and a grey pack, is the one who read his prayer in French. This was some sort of religious meeting or service that I passed by.
I push ahead and arrive in the village of Molinaseca. It has one main, narrow, twisty street. It appears great care has been taken in preserving much of the original medieval foundations and buildings. Population is 800. Since it is Sunday, the street and surrounding squares are filled with people drinking, smoking, talking, pushing baby carriages and strollers.
I check into my hotel; the clerk looks at me and waves my passport away; she trusts me. I shave, shower and emerge. (I only shave every two or three days, but usually when I am in a town of any size. It is hard enough to pass for a boulevardier wearing short pants; needing a shave would just sink it.)
I ask about public computers. The hotel clerk tells me there are none in town. I order a pot of chamomile tea and sit in the sun to drink it. Up walk Brenda and Simon. They are off to dinner and invite me to come along. I tell them I'm not hungry yet but may join them later.
Main Street of Molinaseca in Early Morning
Later I do join them at the restaurant. They have been served; I order a caña. Brenda has on her plate the two largest asparagus stalks I've ever seen. She says they are not asparagus, they are pickled leeks. She says that although she is not a religious person, she began crying when she approached the Cruz de Ferro. They report that Larry was very emotional as he tossed rocks over his shoulder with his eyes closed.
She asks what I will do when I return home. I say the first thing will be to savor the sedentary life after so much strenuous life. I tell her I hope to collaborate with her on a book to be entitled, No Greater Gift -- Recollections of a Canadian Mother. Simon likes it; Brenda is not so sure.
They too are going to stop short of the recommended hike tomorrow and spend the night in Cacabelos, which has been my plan all along. She tells me of a good hostal, the Santa Maria, and I bid them goodnight.
Return to my hotel, and the kindly woman running the desk and everything else helps me make a reservation at the Santa Maria in the next town. I stroll around taking pictures, then go for dinner, then return to the hotel to find the clerk relaxing in front. I ask if I may join her and she says yes.
I ask her if she is the owner. She says no, merely the...and here I forget the word she used, but I think she meant the chambermaid. I protest, "But you do everything!" She laughs and says it is true. The owner is a fat man who, from what I’ve seen, occasionally puts in a appearance, sitting at a table, drinking something with a friend.
She says she has been working at the hotel for 13 years. She has one child and one grandchild in nearby Ponferrada. I tell her of my family and of Susan. She stands, places her hand on my arm and kisses my cheek. You don't get that kind of response at a five-star hotel.
I’m the first one at breakfast in the morning. Not real juice but great coffee, toast, ham, and cheese. I'm on the road by 8:15.
The day before, I tried to use my cell phone. On this phone, you need to type in a PIN number before placing a call. I entered the wrong one, perhaps three times. This caused my phone to be locked. That is why I needed help making my reservation. Since I will soon be in a city of 60,000, I decide to get it straightened out there.
My Camino guru said the castle of the Knights Templar was a must see in Ponferrada. I haven't done much sightseeing and am really looking forward to this one. I arrive, see the impressive castle, and am told it is Monday, so it is closed.
The Castle at Ponferrada
I go to a telephone store. Numbers are extracted, a call is placed, and I am told that my cell phone should work in about an hour and a half. Great. [In fact, it will not work again for the remainder of my stay in Spain.]
I try to pick up the Camino trail again but cannot. A young pilgrim approaches me and asks if I know where to go. I do not. I pull out my guidebook and we consult a passing resident who shows us the way, and off we go.
She is from Hanover. I tell her a German friend told me that the purest German is spoken in Hanover. Is that true? Yes, she says, we speak the clearest German.
I lag behind a bit to take pictures, get wrong directions and follow them, lose her, and finally get back on the track.
I stop in dusty Camponaraya for scrambled eggs and ham, with a Coca-Cola. Eggs and Coke, this is a first. Actually. the Coke is finished long before the eggs arrive.
I pass a row of cherry trees, filled with beautiful cherries. No doubt these trees have tempted pilgrims for years. The best the farmer can do is put signs up on the trees with a skull and crossbones and the word: Veneno! (poisonous!)
Back on the road I pass the two Danish women again. They have taken a break off the road in the shade of a tree. I shout to them, “Wherever I go, there you are.”
Farther along I pass a young woman who is draped in muslin. Looks like wings on her arms. She's Irish, trying to protect herself from the sun. She's from Cork, where the Irish side of my family is from.
I come to a shady glade in the middle of nowhere and there is young man operating a donativo station. He has tea and freshly squeezed juice and small cups of cherries and other fruit. Another good looking guy with a beard. He wears a bluejean jacket. On the sleeve is an embroidered patch, in English: Rage against the machine. Over his heart is an embroidered the iconic image of Che Guevarra.
His equipment is a knife and a wee plastic orange squeezer, the stationary kind, a small, ridged, rounded cone upon which the orange must be pressed and rotated. The plastic cup he will fill is tiny, but it takes several half oranges to fill it.
I tell him this way is more work. He says, yes, but there is more artistry. Unhurriedly, he pushes the pulp around with his knife to extract all the juice. He also cuts pieces of a wilted stalk of mint and inserts it into two cups half full of tea.
The Irish girl walks up and I treat her to an OJ. The two Danish women stop a distance away and sing The Yellow Rose of Texas in Danish. I try to respond with a German drinking song that begins, Trink, trink... but the words elude me. I offer them juice or fruit or tea.
Annie Nielsen (right) and Her Friend Taking Tea
The English speaker takes the tea. And the total? A donation. I drop a 10 euro note on the table and study his reaction. He seems confused.
This young man belongs to a cohort for whom there is no work at all. He has enough get-up-and-go to pull together this helpful service which is appreciated by the pilgrims who pass. How I would love to drop thousands of euros on his small table.
As I walk through the narrow medieval street of the next town I enter, Cacabelos, searching for my hotel, Simon walks towards me. He and Brenda have checked in. I tell him I’m also staying at the Santa Maria. I also tell him that when I finish the book with Brenda, I want to collaborate with him on one, tentatively titled, North Towards Home -- Recollections of a Transplanted Yorkshireman. He likes it. He says it will probably be better than the one he is writing based on his Camino diary, which he produces from his pocket.
I check in, freshen up, emerge with a badly crushed boina, and make my way to the Monclova Restaurant, strongly recommended for lunch my Camino guru. On the way, I see the Swiss woman, still with her pack, standing in a line with other pilgrims hoping to get into an albergue.
At the restaurant, I order the Monclova salad, roasted red peppers, onions, raisins, and big chunks of tuna. Excellent. Would like to return in the evening for dinner. Also enjoy roaming through their gift shop. I check my cell phone; still blocked.
As I return to the hotel, I run into the Swiss woman, still carrying her pack. She says the albergue was full. I invite her to try the Santa Maria, which is highly recommended in some guidebooks. She says she fears it is 45 euros. I tell her I think it is 35, and she agrees to give it a try. I say it is air-conditioned; she says she hates air conditioning.
We arrive and the cost is 30 euros, which is acceptable. At least you won’t have to put up with snoring, I say. She says that doesn't bother her. What she looks forward to is being able to open a window.
I ask the clerks if there is a public computer anywhere close, such as a bar. Oh, we have one, she says. And that's where I am now. Free, good keyboard, Windows XP, no one else interested in using it. What's not to love?
Time to say goodbye for today.
Un abrazo para todos,
John
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