This morning Liam ¨took the piss¨ out of a hapless peregrino who was just starting in Astorga by informing him that it is tradition to walk the first stage in your socks. I could see this poor guy look up in minor panic, until I caught his eye and gave a slight shake with my head. Poor lad.
I started out wandering around Astorga for a while before I headed on. The cathedral is, of course, exceptional looking, and the second building by Gaudi I've seen is quite evocative, and much like something you would see in a Disney fairy tale. But I can´t figure out how we got the term gaudy to mean over-the-top obnoxiously awful when his buildings are quite simple and nice actually.
But today I missed my bro. There have often been moments on this trip when I´ve been reminded of our trek on the Continent 13 years ago. Like in Burgos or Leon or Pamplona. When I was 20 we got a couple of backpacks and Eurail passes and bummed around the continent for a couple of months. We made vulgar jokes and ate nothing but baguettes and butter and whatever cheap food we could find. We were accosted by Italian passport police, harassed by a Venetian hotel clerk who confiscated our passports, and we amused ourselves by finding unintended and disrespectful uses for certain silly French words like "fromage" (cheese) and "fruits de mer" (seafood).
Anyway, my brother embodies the Indiana Jones spirit, and I know he would love this trip (well, maybe not the freezing albergues or the mystery food), but he would be completely stoked about the architecture and the history and the back country trails.
I have always looked up to my brother. He is one of these unfairly monumentally talented people. At the age of two he was building skyscrapers out of Legos without the instructions. Once, when we were on vacation in Florida, he drew floor plans of our condo building for fun. But even these had a geometric prettiness too them that made anything I drew look like a smudge instead of what it was supposed to resemble. I was so jealous of his blatant talent I tore his artwork. I spent my life wondering what I was talented at and why wasn´t my talent as obvious as Arnold Schwarznegger´s accent like his.
Anyhow, my brother had my back this last year too. He flew down to ATL to visit my divorce lawyer with me, just in case I was too much of a blubbering (or enraged) mess to understand what she said. And last Summer, when I was in such shell shock from the way my divorce was proceeding that I didn´t know at all how to proceed with my life except that I knew I needed a place to live and I knew I needed to get out of my marriage as fast as possible, he flew back down to make a weekend condo-mania tour with me and give me his professional architect´s opinion about the condo I had chosen.
So after all this somber and soap opera year, I found myself reminiscing about the good old days with my bro in Europe and I hope that I´ll be able to take another trip with him and his family again someday.
But not long out of Astorga, my stomach monster started grumbling (this has not changed either since my trip with my brother). I can´t get used to the dining schedule here. Breakfast is about 7:30, but by 10:00 you are hungry again, and lunch in the U.S. is noonish, but here it is 1:30 to 3:00ish, and dinner in the U.S. is 5:00 to 7:00ish, and here it is 8:00 to 10:00ish. So needless to say I always have an excuse to eat. ¨Well, it is lunch time at home,¨ or ¨Well, it is lunch time here.¨ So I stop in this bar and another 4 foot tall grandma made me the best tortilla I´ve had yet, and the bar keep gave me a little slice of ham that made my eyes bulge like I had just seen the resurrection (oh, that´s tomorrow). But this ham was like a jerky, only thicker, softer, chewier, milder. ¨Es jamon?¨ I asked her in my faux Spanish. ¨No, Cecina.¨ I made her write the name down for me and when I left she gave me a little extra slice for the road, for free. So I wrapped up the precious morsel, like a treasured artifact to savor later, and continued on.
The last 2km into Rabanal were bordered by a wire fence into which pilgrims had spontaneously woven hundreds upon hundreds of crosses out of branches. The fence went on for forever, and with the snow falling softly this little section of trail seemed almost like a sacred place. It had the feel of a church, or what I think a church ought to feel like: quiet, intentional, unpretentious.
I am sure many of these crosses were put here because it seemed like the thing to do, but how many were put here with a hope, a prayer, a remembrance, or gratitude? And I don´t know what it is about falling snow, but it settles a peace, a quietness on everything that eases one into contemplation. It was a lovely afternoon, and I was reminded of another poem by Robert Frost.
Whose woods these are I think I know,
His house is in the village though.
He will not see me stopping here,
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer,
To stop without a farmhouse near,
Between the woods and frozen lake,
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep,
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
I entered the town of Rabanal looking for the albergue my book describes as a veritable oasis. Alas, the oasis is shut down for the winter, but as I turned to go back down the main street to the first albergue, I met Roberto and Elainie, a Brazilian couple who were determined to stay in the best albergue they could find. They did not exactly seem like the roughing it type. Roberto has the hurried air of a business executive and Elainie is one of those fine, beautiful Brazilian women, so elegant and olive skinned. So the three of us checked out two more albergues, both closed, and when they told me the first one had no heat, I was the one that caved and went to the hotel.
That night I climbed three flights of stairs to my little attic room with the low ceiling that I hit my head on three times. The only window a skylight above my head as I lay in bed. I watched the snow gather on the window pane, flake by frozen flake, knowing with half apprehension and half anticipation, that tomorrow I would be walking in it.
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