Day 8 or the Salvation Shoes

Notes on Day 8, March 3, Los Arcos to Logrono.



Today´s stage was a blistering (ha ha) 27.8km trek. But I´ve been popping Aleve like a junkie and after the massage of last night I felt pretty hearty this morning. Everyone in the Albergue was on the road before the sun was up, knowing we had a long day ahead of us. It was a soul stirring vision to watch the sun come up over the mountains and vineyards.



The morning was actually pretty good. I made the decision to keep up with Elena and Sonjia and their mad dash pace for the morning, and indeed, we made it to Viana around 11:30, a record pace for me. The whole way Elena gave me Spanish lessons. I´ve noticed that my limited Spanish (Tortilla, Gordita, y Chalupa) is not helping me much here, and I have plagued Elena every five minutes to teach me how to say things. See, in Castillian Spanish, the c sound is pronounced th. So "Gracias" is actually pronounced "grathias." Elena worked with me on my pronunciation, but it was hard not to feel like everyone in Spain is speaking with a massive lisp.



We reviewed the days of the week, the names of the months, and we counted. And we talked about TV shows and movies. We squealed about Lost, we consoled each other over Harry Potter (Sonjia just started reading the newly released Spanish version of book seven, and had to post it home today because it was too heavy to carry), and we relished the bit of gossip that Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem are now an item. I am amazed that so much Spanish is spoken everyday in Atlanta where I live, and yet I had to come all the way to Spain to want to make an effort to learn it.

In Viana we separated (I had to slow down before my feet exploded), and I continued alone until Logrono.



As I walked I remembered something my ex said to me a long time ago. By the time I was married at 23 I had been to Europe twice, once on a high school trip and once on an 8 week backpacking adventure with my brother. Somehow those visits did not manage to quench my yearning for travel, but only whetted my appetite. Later in my married life when I expressed a desire to return to Europe, my ex said to me ¨You´ve been to Europe twice, how many times do you need to go? Most people never get to go,¨ as if that settled it. I had seen enough of the world according to his sensibilities, and to wish for any more was the wish of a petulant, spoiled child yearning for a hobby that was the privilege of a wealthy, self indulgent, and shallow play girl. Ohhh, the guilt.



But somehow on this trip, I don´t exactly feel like Paris Hilton. I am staying in hostels with other weary peregrinos for between 3 and 7 euros a night, sharing showers, toilets, meals. It is not the Ritz or the Savoy to be sure. And even if it was, is it self indulgent to learn? to broaden? to bridge the gap of understanding between people with no nationalities or native languages in common? Somehow I don´t feel very selfish. I feel tired, and tested, but open.

I have not shaved my armpits, or anything else for that matter, for two weeks. So today I shaved my pitters and my legs. Standing in a shower in Europe is a bit like standing in a coffin. Showers here weren´t designed for maneuverability, so I guess it would be more accurate to say that I shaved patches of my legs.

In the albergue we all had a consultation about my evil boots and determined that they are, in fact, completely wrong for this type of hike and therefore are the reason for all my foot pain. Italian Eddie and Ladio pronounced them to be rock climbing boots, not hiking boots. They are too heavy, too stiff, too thick and they are punishing my feet with every step.

I am not sure whether to be mad at myself or at the hearty sales clerk at REI who never hiked and sold me these boots anyway. But Sonjia and Elena took me out tonight and helped me buy a new pair of lightweight, gore-tex, flexible shoes that should work much better. In the next town tomorrow I can ship my evil boots to Santiago if I don´t want to ditch them and then pick them up when I get there. I finally feel there is hope for my feet. Some salvation in these 100 Euro shoes.

Tonight Sonjia, Elena, Eddie, Geunthar and I bar hopped Spanish style. We went to six bars sampling the wine of the famous La Rioja region of Spain, and in each bar sampled the tapas. Grilled mushrooms with garlic, potatoes with sour cream and some kind of picante sauce, delicately breaded calamari, some strange sandwich with a roasted chili and an anchovy, and a sumptuous skewer of mystery meat (I hope it wasn´t horse) in a delectable curry sauce.



We stumbled back through the medieval streets of Logrono with one minute to spare before the host at the albergue locked the door.