Day 22 or The Gros Opa Shuffle

Notes on Day 22, March 17, Sahagun to El Burgo Ranero



It is as Rachel feared. I am stuck in a Spanish backwater. I knocked out my 18km by noon today. It is now 7:30pm and I have been sitting in the one bar in this piece of a town since 1:00pm. I know some of you (particularly Angela) are saying, ¨sitting in a bar for six and a half hours? I don´t exactly see a problem here,¨ but this bar blows chunky and this town does too. There is no internet here so I can´t even catch up on my woefully behind blogging. And there is nothing to see here in this place because this town is fugly. I mean really fugly.

This is the consequence of having looked at the map last night and deciding to save myself 4km by taking the Senda (the ¨developed¨ pilgrim trail) rather than the Calzada Romana (the continuation of the Roman road I was on the day before yesterday). I would have preferred the isolated charm of the Roman road, but I sold out and took the Senda, which landed me in this one mule town (well, 90% of these towns we pass through are pretty much one mule towns, but as I said, this one is fugly).

So I am sitting in the smoke filled bar feeling my lungs asphyxiate with every inhale and watching Spanish soaps on TV with very swarthy looking male actors and very flawlessly waxed buxom actresses. The Spanish soaps are almost entertaining. Almost. It is probably a good thing that I can´t understand a word those wretched, love sick, fabulously coiffed senoritas are saying because I´d probably ralph. As it is I can just marvel at the intensity of their tearless sobbing. I myself was so wretched that at one point I walked to the one mercado (it´s too close by to take my mule), to buy a new notebook so I could at least sit and ¨blog¨ the old fashioned way. I mean really, these days it is just rude not to provide internet.

But the good news is that I must be getting some fabulous back because a really fossilized old Spanish man at the bar bought my Fanta and sent over a little slice of bread with some jamon on it for me and then winked at me. Hey, at least I am turning heads again, even if they are solidly grey ones. Cheeky old perv.

Speaking of old men... In my family we called my Grandfather ¨Opa,¨ which is German for Grandpa. When his first great grandchild was born he became ¨Gros Opa.¨ Toward the end of his life he developed this distinct shuffle. His short legs spread wide, his knees bowed outward, his feet scooting along barely leaving the ground, with a slight limp on the left side (the result of a gimpy knee). My brother and I have decreed that my dad, who is now an Opa, definitely has the ¨Gros Opa Shuffle¨ too. And I have discovered, after three weeks of incessant trudging on my wee feet, I do too. The Camino did it to me. I shuffled into this backwater today marvelling at how, at 33, I walk like my grandfather did at 83.

Earlier in the albergue a Spanish woman saw me nursing my feet and promptly sat down on the ground in front of me, grabbed my leg, and commenced to massaging my calf using rosemary infused olive oil. ¨Ees good for de salad, but also for de legs.¨ Um. Ok. But I wasn´t going to quibble over being rubbed with salad oil; the massage felt wonderful, especially since I have been babying a pulled calf muscle for the last few days. And it turns out that she is a homeopathic physician anyway and not just some wacky person whose elevator is not servicing the top floor and likes to give complete strangers calf massages with salad dressing.

It was actually very kind of her. She asked me if I stretched everyday, before and after hiking. I said no and that I knew I should. I felt guilty like when the dental hygienist asks you if you´ve been flossing and you have to tell the truth because they can tell anyway. ¨Jou still have over 300km to go to Santiago,¨ she said warningly, like a mother. I nodded with my head down and vowed to stretch from then on.

But things looked up after Ana massaged me. The chicken I ate for dinner in the one restaurant was fall off the bone tender and homey and cozy compared to the icky drizzle outside. The bottle of red wine was made right there in this shithole backwater, amazingly, and wasn´t half bad. I sat at my table and tried to swill my wine in my glass like blue-eyed Italian Eddie taught me to do the night we went bar hoping in Logrono. His wine a perfect whirlpool of magenta in his glass. Mine only sloshed sloppily up the sides of the glass, just like it was doing now. Maybe I should practice this before I drink a half a bottle of wine.

Day 21 or Semana Santa 2008

Notes on Day 21, March 16, Terradillos de Templarios to Sahagun

Pablo and I continued the BS straight out of the albergue. Pablo started walking the Camino three years ago. No, it has not taken him that long to get halfway. Like many Spaniards, he does a week a year around spring break and will take five or so years to complete it. So Pablo had driven his car to Carrion yesterday and picked up where he left off last year when I met him. He kept tempting me with his car, ¨I khave a car, we can go to Santiago in three hours, ee jou want!¨ Punk.



¨Look! There is the albergue!¨ He shouted and pointed to the most decrepit old building, it´s half timbered and tiled roof caved in on itself. This resulted in peels of laughter. ¨No!¨ I said, ¨there is the albergue,¨ and pointed to a rusted tin can of a horse trailer abandoned on the roadside. ¨It holds 50 peregrinos.¨ More roars. Apparently there is an entire sense of humor that belongs only to the camino.

Pablo told me he had to spend a year in compulsory military service. He stood in a guard tower in the middle of bucolic Spanish countryside, like where we were walking, with a military rifle. ¨I am thinking, ´what am I doing here? Look out! There is a rabbit!´¨ He mimed aiming a rifle at the imaginary fuzzball.

It was a damn good time walking with Pablo. And he enhanced by depravity by introducing me to Oroju, a liqueur made from distilled grape skins. Tasty to be sure, but no pacharan.

But when we reached Sahagun, I decided I simply had to stop for the day. Pablo seemed genuinely sad. ¨In my country, it is tradition to geev a kiss on each cheek.¨ He said this so timidly and sweetly and followed with, ¨eef jou want, of course!¨ ¨Of course I want, Pablo! It is Spanish tradition!¨ And he paid for my tortilla and beer in the little bar we had stopped at (¨you are in my country. I pay!¨) and kissed me on each cheek and left the bar.

In the afternoon, after my shower I had to fight the urge to indulge in a siesta (I am beginning to believe this is an utterly civilized cultural tradition, mind you), but it was Domingo (Sunday) and I had to get to the pharmacia for more blister bandaids before it closed. I am glad I forced my sleepy, saggy self out the door, because in front of the albergue were about 100 people gathered, all carrying branches. And it dawned on me, today was Palm Sunday. Sure enough in the center of the throng was a statue of Jesus astride a mule anchored high on a wooden barge.



And so it was that I happened on and got completely enchanted by this somber procession of Christ on the mule through the winding streets of medieval Sahagun to the Church of San Lorenzo.



A band beat a steady thrum, thrum...thrum, thrum on drums. The barge carrying the statue and adorned with purple and peach gladiolas, was borne on the shoulders of about twenty young people, their black robes accented by boutineers of palm fronds. They swayed in unison with each step, rocking the barge from side to side as they processed to the square in front of the church.



The church of San Lorezno was built in the 1200´s, but in a different style than I have seen thus far. It is called Mudejar and is made with thousands of sun kissed thin bricks culminating in an impressive tiered bell tower.



I followed the swelling procession into the church square. I was moved, feeling the beat of the drums in my throat. The procession halted, the crescendo of drums spurring the swaying of the barge bearers. And then the crowd erupted in applause and the barge was carried into the church.



What a happy accident that I needed bandaids right then.



Later this evening I sat in the bar across from the albergue and planned my next week of the trip. Despite being more than halfway to Santiago, I am still daunted by what is ahead of me. There are two mountain ranges yet to get my butt over, one with the highest summit and another with the steepest ascent of the trip. I still seem to doubt if I can do this.

And Pablo told me about the processions during holy week in Leon and that I should try to catch at least one. Indeed I was wondering what all the posters in shop windows featuring hooded figures and advertising Semana Santa 2008 were all about. Now I realize that Semana Santa is Holy Week. Spanish people advertise their Holy Week festivities like Americans advertise movies and cell phone plans.

So I looked at the map and figured I can be in Leon by Holy Thursday and Astorga by Easter Sunday if my feet hold out and I don´t contract a mysterious case of anthrax that lays me up this week. But this means I am most definitely going to have to extend my trip, maybe by as much as a week.

When my guidebook said it is possible to do the Camino in 33 days (I originally gave myself 36), the author didn´t say that this is if you a) are in bitch-ass good shape, b) are a masochist, or c) you have something really bangin´ motivating you to go that fast, like Gerard Butler waiting to make love to you when you arrive in Santiago. Since I am, nor have, none of these things (maybe I am a masochist for undertaking this to begin with), I need more time.

Day 20 or Pablo on the Path

Notes on Day 20, March 15, Carrion de los Condes to Terradillos de Templarios

This morning the trail passed through respectably pleasant countryside and farmland. The path was lined with a bank of pussywillows, their nascent blossoms looking like thousands of tiny silvery rabbits feet, or like velvety opalescent pearls in the morning sun.



And for 12 curious kilometers the trail was on a section of the Via Trajana, the Trajan Way, a section of Roman road that connected France with Astorga (a city which seems weeks away on my journey). The road is astoundingly straight for a 2000 year old highway, and I can easily imagine horses and carts trundling down this road, roman soldiers marching, or pilgrims clad in wool cloaks making their way to Santiago.

Rain was coming; I could see it in the distance. The sky had turned that telltale color of slate. I am always enchanted by storms, except when I am walking in them, that is. But the coalescing clouds and changing light fascinate me.



I stopped on the road side for a drink and a pee and to put on my rain pants, which was smart because the soaking commenced just minutes after I had done this. And this little fit of weather brought rain and hail. And the wind gusted like it had a point to make and wasn´t going to stop until you knew what it was. I have noticed that since I am hiking from east to west, and weather generally moves from west to east, there is always, always damnit, a headwind.

But I really am a schmoe for complaining. Other than the snow in Navarette and Najera, the hail storm slogging into Burgos, and this, the weather has been abnormally and mercifully mild this winter (or so I am constantly told), so I am thinking global warming may not be soooo horrific. Okay, yes it is, but I am still enjoying whatever respite from typically frosty winters northern Spain is currently having and I hope on Budda´s belly that it continues.

It was just enough wet and cold to make me think twice about going all the way to Terradillos, though. I decided I would wimp out and stop in Ledigos once I got there. And then the rain decided it was finished with it´s little hissy, and the sun decided to come out and play a little, and that´s when I was overtaken on the trail by Pablo.



Pablo is from near Burgos, and his English is just good enough to tell jokes, which was all good. So for the last few km into the little wayside town of Caldadilla de la Cueza, we just talked bullshit. Pablo taught me to cuss in Spanish, an essential skill if ever there was one. Merda, by the way, is shit. And joder is fuck. Pablo told me he didn´t understand the difference between ¨fuck you,¨ and ¨fuck off¨ in English. I did my best to explain the subtle but crucial difference.



Pablo is a gambler. He pulled out his card with his soccer picks for this season with the zeal and fervor only a European football fan can have (but, he assured me, he was not one of those lunatic fans. Um. Ok.) If his team, Atletico Sociedad wins tomorrow, he´ll be 1,000,000 € richer! (He announced this with such hope and supplication I had to laugh). He was horrified to learn that betting on sports was illegal in the U.S. He was relieved when I told him people do it anyway.

I lamented that I had yet to try any Spanish beer on this trip, that so far my debauchery has only extended to copious amounts of red wine and pacharan. He was the right person to rectify this travesty and in Caldadilla he bought me a Mahau, my new favorite beer. But it is a total bummer that in Spain they pour your beer in an itty bitty wine glass. What the hell is that? Irish Charlie would´ve drank it and then said to the bar keep, ¨yeah, I´ll have some of that.¨ So I ordered another.

And one painkiller and two beers later, I was feeling fortified enough to make it all the way to Terradillos de Templarios (but not before we stopped in Ledigos to sample a glass of San Miguel).

I am glad I finished the day´s stage. The albergue has barrels of hot water to shower with, the dining room is charmingly decorated with the cross of the Knights Templar, the town´s namesake), I´ve run into Yentz, the German from Lake Konstance, again, and for dinner I got a whole plate of vegetables cooked in bacon fat! And tonight, at dinner, Pablo and Yentz and I toasted having achieved the official halfway point to Santiago de Compostela.

Only 396.1km (246.1 miles) to go!

Informational update

I am in Terradillos de los Templarios, the official halfway mark from a kilometers walked perspective.

I am only planning on walking to Sahagun tomorrow.

XOXOX

Day 19 or I Am Really Annoying

Notes on Day 19, March 14, Fromista to Carrion de los Condes

Today was just my day to be annoyed with absolutely everything. Leaving the haven at Boadilla yesterday and continuing on to Fromista in the afternoon was a mistake. Something happens during the last 5km after you´ve already hiked 20 that means the difference between being pleasantly tired from the day´s efforts and wishing like hell you could be reborn into a younger, stronger, more flexible body. Those last five transformed Corina and I from blissfully contented peregrinos to sick, hobbling, whimpering grouches by the time we got to Fromista.



And I was so looking forward to enjoying the obnoxiously perfect 11th century Iglesia de San Martin in Fromista that afternoon. I tried to let myself be awed by its harmonious proportions, its plethora of carved corbels, each one different, and it´s simple, honest interior. But I was wiped. Completely wiped.



And this morning I said goodbye to Corina. I will miss her and I hope fate or fortune or both bring us together again. She was feeling ill and decided to take a bus ahead to Mansilla where she could stay at an albergue there that is reputed to be run by some lovely Germans. I understand the longing for the comforts of the familiar. Other than the Middleberry Sisterhood, I am the only American I have met on the Camino so far. The only one. I am actually happy about that, but there are moments, however brief, when an accent from home would be heartening.

But today, about a quarter of the way out of Fromista, I encountered the next best thing: a Brit and an Aussie. Kai and Pete. And together the Triumvirate of the British Empire hiked about 10km griping about Bush, Blair, and Howard. Lamenting over environmental destruction and poor inner city diets and corporate greed. Unabashedly bitching about the war in Iraq and the infuriating ¨reasons¨ behind the whole nightmare. We exclaimed, we swore, we protested. We were sure the sheer passion and vehemence of our complaints must ensure the righteousness of our grievances. It was a grand old bitch fest I tell you. And then, at Villasirga, the wind went out of our sails. We fell silent. We were finished. We had a drink in a bar. We separated and I continued on alone.



It was fun to holler and cuss for three hours, but I found I was still in a foul mood. And continuing on alone gave me ample time to dwell and obsess on all my current annoyances. I was annoyed again with my feet. (The feet, by the way, have been better, but they never fully recovered from the punishment of the evil boots. The shooting pains in my heels have waned, but new blisters are threatening to erupt, and my arches are starting to talk back). I was annoyed that I got lost coming out of Fromista this morning because road construction had fucked with the trail markers and Extremely German Peter had to whistle at me from 200 meters away to get my oblivious ass's attention. I was annoyed with my sweat, which has soaked my pants in the general region of my ass so that I have some new chafing to enjoy. I was annoyed with the bugs, which formed a cloud around me on the trail today like Pigpen´s cloud of dirt. Jesus do I reek that bad? I guess I do. I was annoyed with the Provincial government of Palencia for ¨paving¨ this section of trail with large stone gravel instead of pulverized gravel. People, that is just mean.



And I was annoyed with my guidebook for inventing a snide little acronym for this section of the pilgrim trail, which was ¨developed¨ by the provincial government which named it the pilgrim ¨Senda¨, or road. My guidebook calls the Senda ¨soulless errors of national development agencies¨ and I was annoyed that the author had imposed his disapproving and crotchety judgement on a part of the Camino I hadn´t even experienced yet. And then, 5km later, I was annoyed to realize he was completely right. The government had ruined every last inkling of natural trail on this section of the camino. Punks.

And finally, I was annoyed with myself. Because today I came face to face with a part of myself I really do not like. When I met Kai and Pete on the trail today, I had already decided these jokers were cool. Carmel skinned Kai and Pete with the eyes like pale green sea glass. They were good looking for sure, but they were cool. And when I meet people I have already decided I think are cool, I grow, by degrees in proportion to their coolness, decidedly uncool. I immediately fall into that fawning, simpering, hang on your every word, validate your every idea, grotesque imitation of a 15 year old trying to score a party invitation from the head of the cheerleading squad. And my voice almost autonomously decides to grow about three octaves higher so that I sound like an idiot who just inhaled a balloon full of helium. How annoying is that? How is it that at 33 we can still be afflicted with spasms of inferiority complexes?

And it´s not that I want them to think I am attractive like I thought them (I realize that is pretty much a lost cause on this camino of unshaven armpits and uneven sunburn and uncombed hair), but I just wanted them to think I was cool. You know, this cool chick from the states who is out here roughing it and all that shit. Why can´t I be that nonchalant, distant but evidently sophisticated chick that could give a rat's ass if you like her or not? Which of course ensures that everyone will like her and think she´s cool and flock to her.

But then I was annoyed because that nonchalant, laissez faire, oozing cool chick is just and act too. A facade, as Corina liked to say. And the magic of the Camino is that you need no facade here. The roles we play at home, the things we think define who we are: our jobs, our hobbies, where we live, our Ikea sofa and Crate & Barrel dishes, they don´t exist here. And there is no one to judge you for what you have or have not done with your life. No one to presume if you are cool or not, and no one who really cares. Because here those labels are meaningless.

And so I arrived in Carrion de los Condes a little grumpy, a little self pitying, and not very pleasant. So it was probably a blessing that no other pilgrims I knew were in the albergue in the 13th century monastery.



But I am glad I had a chance to meet this ¨person¨ that I can sometimes be on the camino today. Because she is not me. And maybe I can say goodbye to her here too.

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.

Day 17 or High on the Meseta

Notes on Day 17, March 12th, Hornillos del Camino to Castrojeriz



Last night in the albergue, over some shared wine, Corina and I agreed we should walk together today. She and another German, Hans, are from near Munster, Germany. ¨Ah, the cheese!¨ I said. ¨No, not the cheese.¨ Apparently my much beloved German cheese comes from America.



So Corina and I walked together and gabbed all morning long and by 10:30 we were already halfway to Castrojeriz and sitting comfortably in a bar having a cafe con leche and tortilla. (By the way, tortilla in Spain is nothing like a tortilla in the states. It is basically an egg omelette, sometimes with potatos, sometimes with ham, but always pretty tasty. I finally put two and two together that a tortilla sandwich comprised my carb-bomb lunch a few days back.



Corina and I chatted about our love lives, (my ex-it, her ex-boyfriend, her new boyfriend), we yakked about religion and its hypocrisies (apparently she is taxed to support the Catholic church in Germany). We philosophized about being alone and being lonely and the difference between the two, and we covered all this conversational territory as we hiked through the most splendid scenic territory I´ve seen since Navarra.



Both yesterday and today the trail took us out onto a Meseta, a high sierra or plateau of considerable elevation (950m at the highest point). And all yesterday and today the trail flowed gloriously through this shadeless haven of wind and birds and Spanish Big Sky Country.



And the time spent with Corina flowed by effortlessly by too. Soon enough we were passing through the arches of the ruined gothic monastery just outside of Castrojeriz.



Castrojeriz is a great town in the valley below the Meseta. Its medieval winding streets cling to the base of a substantial and steep hill on the top of which sits a ruined castillo of pretty impressive proportions. At first I looked at the climb and then looked at Corina and shook my head. The spirit was willing but the feet were weak. But later after a rest in the albergue, Hans convinced Corina and I to suck it up and climb.



I spent the entire 25 minute climb, between fits of panting, marvelling at how someone could have built something on this crazy mini-Matterhorn 1000 years ago. And when I reached the base of the castillo (Hans was already at the top of the thing waving down to me, I could see why they did. You had the most vast and panoramic 360º views in all directions. Any village idiot could have seen the enemy coming from miles away.



And from way up on the castillo ramparts you could also look back over the vast meseta down from which we had just come. It is like a mountain range with the tops just sheered clean off 1/3 of the way up. It was crazy and inspiring and Hans turned to me and said ¨Look where we are!¨



The albergue was in the home of a cute young ex-Pamplonan who despised city life and moved here to live at a slower pace. And the foundations of his home are just as 12th century as the iglesia directly across the street. The house was a wacky affair. He had randomly inlaid bits of colorful Spanish tile and jewel toned stones in the floor, he had painted the patches of plaster in between the warped half timbering in shades of pale yellow and sky blue so that the walls looked like a patchwork quilt, the lighting and numerous repairs had been completley jerry-rigged with whatever materials were on hand.



I was torn between feeling like it was an utter architectural travesty and completley adorable. In the end, adorable won out. It was homey, welcoming, and his sitting room had these crazy heavy antique carved oak chairs and settee that were geometric and exhilarating. I would have stolen them if they would´ve fit into my rucksack.

And in the evening Corina, who is a lot more gear savvy than I am, helped me make and honest accounting of the necessity of everything in my rucksack. It was, truth be told, still too heavy. I held up each item for her approval. Fingernail clippers? ¨I don´t have this, why do you?¨ OK, clippers: gone. Washcloth? ¨I have only one towel, no washcloth.¨ Washcloth: gone. Photocopies of pages from other Spain guidebook? ¨You can read it later.¨ Photocopies: gone.¨ Deodorant? At first I thought really, what is the point? Applying deodorant to try and mitigate the wave of malodorous funk coming from my armpits is like trying to drain a swimming pool with a teaspoon. Utterly futile. But then I sniffed my pits again and thought every little bit helps. Deodorant: keep.

And I slept soundly in the knowledge that tomorrow I would mail more deadly kilograms ahead of me to Santiago.

Day 16 or Huelgas Reales Found

Notes on day 16, March 11th, Burgos to Hornillos del Camino



I was not in a hurry to leave my hotel this morning. I stopped at the Cathedral for a last, lingering, incredulous look, and when I finally did hit the grassy trail leading out of Burgos, I met up with some of the Germans. Corina and I began chatting immediately, falling effortlessly into conversation just like we did the night before. But when we reached the end of the park, the Germans turned right, and I turned left.



There was a monastery I wanted to see, and after missing the one at Cenas I thought I would double my efforts to find this one. My guidebook is on my naughty list right now for giving utterly vague directions that got me lost when the monastery was really pathetically easy to find, and I gained an extra 2 km out of the misdirected hunt, thank you Mr. guidebook author, sir.



It is the Monasterio de las Huelgas Reales in a small village outside of Burgos. I entered under the medieval archway and for twenty enchanting and sneaky minutes I poked around undetected and took pictures. But when I tried to squeak through a closed gate, a security guard stopped me. I apologized for my snooping and asked him if the monastery was in fact closed. He told me to wait 15 minutes and it would open.



So I waited, and when it finally did open, I was the only tourist on this expansive campus, and check this: I scored a private tour! :) And check this: it was in Spanish. :( But Ana, my tour guide, spoke slowly enough and used enough hand gestures that I actually followed her pretty decently. See, these past two weeks in Spain I have been collecting Spanish words like a bee gathers nectar, a little bit here, a little bit there. Sweet morsels of understanding. And so when Ana explained to me about the batalla (battle) of Toledo, the Mozarabic parts of the monastery that were from the Siglo doce (twelfth century), and the Christian Romanesque bits that were from the Siglo trece (thirteenth century), I understood! Once again, I am a badass.



The 12th century cloister was sublime. It was a teensy affair, with delicate double columned arches. Each capital was carved differently but just as intricately as the last. It is officially my favorite cloister in all of Spain thus far, and all I wanted to do was sit and read a romance novel or some transcendentalist poetry in its grassy center.



The collection of tombs in the three naves was straight out of a scene from Lord of the Rings (I don´t remember if there was a scene with a bunch of tombs in that movie, but if there was, I am sure it would´ve looked like this).



The monastery also contains a medieval fabrics museum. I swoon over antique garments people, and these were the oldest I have ever seen. The funerary garments of Eleanor of Angleterre from 1244 were on display, and I had trouble containing myself. The oldest dress I had ever seen was the silver tissue court dress from the 1570´s at the costume museum in Bath, England. But these clothes were 300 years older, phenomenal, rare, and evocative.

In all I spent two hours at the monastery with Ana, which meant I was getting a very late start on the road, but Huelgas Reales was such a divine place, a living monastery with such out of contrl treasures, and so beautifully preserved, that I could not help but be completely adrenalized for the rest of my hike. And I thought how fateful it was that I missed the detour to the monastery at Cenas, and how fortunate it was that I found this one instead.



And later on the trail ran through a little village where I stopped in a little shop for some groceries and supplies, and I exercised my vocabulary even more by pointing to the fruits and vegetables I wanted and naming them like an eager first year Spanish student. The shop keeper asked me where I was from (Estados Unitos), which state, and how close Georgia was to where Hurricane Katrina hit. She asked me if I was alone (solamente) on the Camino and when I said si, she looked surprised. I didn´t know how to say I got divorced in Spanish so I mimed taking a ring off my left hand and chucking it in the trash. ¨Ahhhhh,¨ she said as realization dawned and she laughed. ¨Buen Camino!¨ she called as I took my leave.



And in the evening when I reached the albergue (which was less than 10 meters from the 14th century iglesia), in Hornillos del Camino, the gaggle of Germans had already settled in and begun their binge drinking. The common room was an absolute Oktoberfest. Peter, who wears suspenders that are so reminiscent of lederhosen he might as well be wearing them, is soooo German he is almost a caracature of a German. He speaks English the way you would speak English if you were making fun of a German speaking English. And he speaks German that way too. He pronounces his vowel sounds with that swooping, over-the-top musicality, and he punches his consonants with oooompf. He and some Korean guy I have not seen before and can only describe as an utter spaz spent the evening singing Stevie Wonder and Fleetwood Mac songs. I guess it just goes to prove that you can take the man out of the beer hall, but you can´t take the beer hall out of the man.

I stepped outside to call family, and the wind was warm and the night sky was covered with stars and high blue-grey clouds. I sat alone for a while on the church square overlooking the town and the countryside and listened to the laughter and singing from the Germans inside the ancient albergue. ¨Look where I am,¨ I thought. ¨Look where I am.¨

Day 15 or A Gaggle of Germans

Notes on my day in Burgos, March 10



So I added up my mileage, and my "kilometerage" so far and my little purple pies (feet) have walked 179.9 miles or 289.6km. I am a badass.

This morning I checked myself into a little hotel only a few blocks from the Cathedral as soon as I left the Albergue at 7:30 in the morning. I swear the rules in some of these Albergues (your ass gets locked in at 9:30pm, your ass gets kicked out by 7:30am) are positivly draconian. When I was happily ensconced in my private haven I crashed for another two hours. The Cathedral didn´t open until 10:00 anyway, and I planned to start my day there.



And it is such a glorious thing to be without my pack for a whole day and in my other pair of shoes. I feel so blissfully light, even with the two pastries I ate for breakfast. In a cafe in my hood I was enjoying my desayuno of pastry and cafe, when in walked German Andre and tattooey French Veronique. I had not seen them for a few days and assumed they were probably in Fromista by now. They sat down to join me and then Veronique leaned over the table, all conspiratorial like, and asked me if I had seen Carlos the Argentine lately, and when I told her that he had left the albergue this morning (but without saying goodbye to me), she raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows and looked knowingly at Andre. ¨I sink ee ees in love wiz mee or somezing, because ee waz very nice at furst, tres sympathetique, you know? But zen ee ees changing and I sink eet ees because ee does not like to see mee and Andre so much togezzer, you know?¨ Ahh. Another episode of As The Camino Turns.

And after the drama-rama over Carlos was pondered and pronounced positively inexplicable, I left the two petite amis and headed for the Cathedral.

First let me just get this off my chest. How sacreligious is it to say ¨Holy Fuck¨ about a church? I mean really? Sometimes nothing else gets the job done but Holy Fuck, and this is one of those times.



Every inch of every surface, be it wood, stone, or metal, is elaborately carved. And each motif, and there must be thousands of motifs covering this place, is symbolic. I could have spent a week in there. The sepulchures, sarcophogi, and tombs were carved right down to the marble threads on the marble tassles of the marble pillows on which the marble effigies rested their marble heads. There was a collection of gold and silver chalices (caliz) that blew me away for the sheer minuteness of their intricacies. The most mundane door to the most mundane room in the cathedral was adorned with carvings like it was the entrance to heaven itself. One has the feeling it would take a lifetime to know this place intimately.



Its architecture is mostly Gothic and Renaissance. And the famous El Cid and his wife are buried there, but I was so busy looking up at The Crossing (the glorious Renaissance dome that replaced the collapsed Gothic spire in the central nave) that I fogot to notice I was standing right next his dead self.



But the building is as much a political statement as a religious one, and I don´t feel it is a spiritual place as much as a museum, so saying ¨holy fuck¨ about a museum is not quite as damning I suppose.



It was a blustery day, a good day to spend a lot of time indoors, and for lunch (comida) I stopped in a little restaurant and ordered more paella and some vino tinto (big surprise there), and my very good looking Spanish waiter brought me a whole bottle. And why shouldn´t one drink an entire bottle of lovely red, produced and bottled right there in Burgos, at 2:00 in the afternoon on a cold and drizzly day in early March? That´s exactly what I thought too, so I made a good stab at it. I sat at my little table and nursed my wine and wrote notes on the day for my blog (at one point I scrawled: ¨can´t write. very drunk.¨).

About eight nights ago Elena and I had a discussion about American movie stars after a hospitalero in an albergue showed the movie Seven on a large screen. I asked her if she thought Brad Pitt was cute. ¨Ci, muy guapo,¨ she answered. So embolded by my 3/5 of a bottle of wine I decided it would be a great idea to tell my waiter he was muy guapo. I am sure he thought, ¨Madre mia, what is this pudgy, sunburned, limping American woman doing hitting on me?¨ But Graciously he took pity on me and only said, ¨Gracias."



After comida I returned to my hotel for siesta, and this time it really was a pleasant little afternoon nap instead of an exhausted and desperate bid for unconsciousness. And after siesta I went out window shopping in the old town, and ran into Stephanie from Friebourg, who I had to leave behind in Santo Domingo because her knees were shot. She inivted me to dinner with her and some friends and that´s when I learned that the enitre country of Germany has emptied of citizens and the Krauts have invaded the Camino.



It was a postive gaggle of Germans. Sacha, who played that twangly little mouth instrument that you pluck with your finger, Eva, whose pack is an astonishing 21 kilograms owing to her 7 month old son who she is carrying on her back, and the sweet and lithe Corina, who got soaked in the rain today and had to keep borrowing spare pants from others and changed them five times. There were about 10 Germans in all.

It turns out a popular German actor wrote a best selling camino memoir called ¨I´m On My Way,¨ and it seems to have hit a nerve there and the camino has lurched into the collective awareness of the German population.

I guess I can´t really blame them. I´m on my way too.