Day 18 or Living Like God in France

Notes on Day 18, March 13th, Castrojeriz to Fromista



Despite the charmed quaintness of our albergue last night, it was fucking freezing in there. In fact, most albergues lack heat. Even when there is a radiator in the room, it is not on (either because it is broken or because some Ebeneezer Scrooge is withholding the heat). You get into the albergue, see the radiator, thank God and the saints that there is going to be heat for the night, and then walk up to it with your eager hands outstretched... and nada. Zip, zilch, niente.

And this brings me to my latest stupid ass decision regarding gear: my girl Angela offered me her sub-zero, Antarctica tested, Himalayas approved supper cozy warm sleeping bag before I left. But my dumbass was all, ¨Naw, naw, naw. I have to travel light! I´m getting this special lightweight Rick Steves ´sleep sac´.¨ The "sleep sac" is basically two pieces of muslin sewn together - smart.

¨I´ll take your little travel pillow though.¨

So my ignorant ass has been saved by the fact that so far, each albergue has had extra blankets, heavy wool (even if stinky) ones too. And I pile about 18 of them on top of my special sheet to keep from imitating a frozen fish fillet while I watch the other peregrinos in their snugly warm, micro stretch, space fiber sleeping bags. What was I thinking? I was coming to Spain for fuck´s sake. And in winter!

But even with the blankets it is still balls cold in the mornings and I finally figured out why they withhold the heat in the albergues. It´s so you can´t wait to get the fuck out of there in the morning.



But Corina and I moved slowly today and it was 9:00 before we left. Corina had to take a laxative poor girl. I don´t blame her. Veg is still mysteriously difficult to come by. And when we did get on the road we had to stop at the Oficina del Correo (Post office), to mail my recently deemed useless gear to Santiago. We had the guy weigh it and it was two kilograms. It doesn´t sound like much, but believe me, it is a lot. You feel every extra feather you are carrying.



Corina and I walked again together today. We talked about some heavy stuff (her father´s cheating on her mother and its affects on the family), fun things like our shared joy of cooking, and silly things like our mutual obsession with peanut butter (she acquired hers in the states when she was an exchange student). I told her about the oral orgasm in a carton that is Peanut Butter N Chip ice cream and we squealed over Reese´s Peanut Butter cups. I told her my last name and she fawned over the cuteness of its meaning: ¨little cow."

I realized I have no real idea what is going on in the world. I don´t know much about the outcome of the Clinton-Obama primary in early March. More importantly, I don´t know who one Project Runway. I think I have a $700 credit card bill that is overdue somewhere. But this place is so removed from ´real life´, none of it seems to matter here.



We played leap frog with the intensely German Peter and Mattias today. Corina was reminded of the German fable of the rabbit and the porcupine. The porcupine races the rabbit and won by having his wife (who looks just like him), switch places with him and meet the rabbit at each successive destination in the race. ¨It´s quite a sad tale really,¨ Corina said. ¨The Rabbit goes mad because he can´t understand how the porcupine is beating him and then the Rabbit dies.¨ I burst out laughing. ¨Why to all German fairytales have these completely wretched endings?¨ I thought she was going to tell me the German version of the Rabbit and the Hare, but no.

Corina laughed and we joked about the general grotesqueness that is the compendium of German children´s stories. In Cinderella, the step sisters cut off their heels and toes and blood soaks the fabled slipper. Corina told me of the Struwel Peter tales (I think I remember my dad mentioning these once). The Slovenly Peter stories include such dire warnings as little boys who starve to death because they refuse to eat their soup and the like. Corina thinks they are positively brutal.



And in the afternoon we stopped in Boadillo to visit the Albergue which had a cafe. We entered through an archway in an old wall and found a secret sanctuary tucked away. It was a lovely garden in a sunny high walled courtyard with mini grass and stone statues and blossoming cherry trees. The hostess made us delicious fresh bocadillos de tortilla (tortilla sandwiches) and we sat in the sunny courtyard eating our lunch. Corina says there is a saying in German: ¨Leben wie Gott in Frankreich.¨ Living with God in France. It means the same thing as La Dolce Vita, the sweet life, or the good life. Corina has no idea why the maxim references France of all places, but so it does.

She sat on an old wooden bench and leaned back against the warm yellow stucco garden wall. I sprawled out on the spongy grass and absorbed the light and the heat. And here we were basking in the warm afternoon sun, in Boadilla, Spain, living like God in France.