The Roman Road

Pete stumbled along in the high afternoon sun. The meseta was flat and expanisve with fields of tilled, chunky brown clay. He had already been walking for six hours. His feet felt flatened from his own weight, his toes nearly numb, spasming from the strain of each stride. Pete's legs felt lost and uncontrolable, ocassionaly stubbing the tip of his boot on a rock or dragging a heel. It was as though his legs had the willingness of a child on an endless day of errands.

He was on the old Roman route to Mansilla, the path a brick red color with cobbled chunks of stone. He stopped for a moment looking behind and then ahead. It was straight and flat as the far as the eye could see in either direction. With the crunching of his own steps silenced, Pete could hear the buzzing of a million insects in this quiet space of pause, bees pollinating the flowers that grew on the fringe of the trail between the fields. The barn swallows flew above, their flapping wings discerniable like someone waving a thin branch quickly through the air.

Pete unclipped the waiststrap from his bag and pulled down the front of his sweatpants and underwear, urinating on the edge of the trail. He shook off and tucked himself back in releasing an extra squirt in his underpants as the relief of peeing left his body more relaxed. "Oh, goddamnit..." he muttered to himself accepting this common occurance, which first developed when trying to urinate in empty mountain dew bottles while driving the combine. "Oh well, I got to do laundry today anyway."

Amanda stood off to the side of the trail, monitoring Pete from at least five kilometers back. She couldn't tell if he was moving but figured she was far enough back that she would never catch him. Amanda had been looking forward to this alternative leg of the trip and felt her heart race when Pete said he was going to walk this route too. The Roman road was supposed to be the most desolate stretch and seven hours of Pete talking was more than she could handle.

That morning in the hostel, Amanda laid in bed awake with her eyes closed waiting for everyone to leave, including Pete, until the hospitalero came to wake her. He was terrified as he stood in front of the pale girl covered in tatoos, remembering the old woman from last year, Betty O'connell, and irish lady who died quietly in her sleep. Amanda heard his footsteps as he approached and opened her eyes as she sensed him standing there in front of her. The man jumped, and sheepishly smiled saying "you must go now..." in a heavy spanish accent.

Pete looked at his hands, holding them in front of his body like he was feeling a warm fire. He tried opening them widely but his fingers were so swollen he could only get his hands close to flat. He took out his crinkled, plastic water bottle, the same one he had been refilling for three weeks since he dumped out the carbonated water that it came with. "Smells like a damn swimming pool in here." he said as uncapped it and held his nose to the mouth of the bottle. Pete sucked down the treated water he collected from the hostel sink and flatened the bottle before capping it close and shoving into the side pouch of his bag. The faint sound of a tractor engine hummed in the background. Pete reclipped his waist strap and continued walking, his feet at odds with the gravel crunching with each step, drowning out of the loud silence of nowhere.

Sinks

Amanda walked into the unisex bathroom to brush her teeth. A strange concept, she thought, but very efficient; just stalls of toilets and showers and a long stretch of sinks dropped into a counter, the surface of which was inevitably wet making it a terrible place to set a bathroom bag.
"Honey do you have the toothpaste?"
"No you have it. I´m carrying the sunblock."
"Oh right. That´s so funny because last year I had the toothpaste and you were carrying the sunblock."
"Oh my god, how did we switch this time? You´ve always carried the sunblock."
"I know, it´s because you like the Nivea and I like the Aveeno and I read that article that the Nivea is cancer causing, and you were like `okay get the aveeno, honey´. So, I was the one who bought it and I packed it in my bathroom bag before we left."
Ugh gross, Amanda said to herself as she unintentionally listened to the canadian couple. They were on their seventh camino and seemed to make a project out of comparing and contrasting previous trips. Amanda hated them, not only because they each draped minature canadian flags from their backpacks in a perverted form of patriotism (that screamed I´m english speaking but NOT american), but mainly because they both took photos, together. Meg and Ted had matching point and shoot Canon Elphs, his black hers pink, and they would stand side by side taking photos of the same thing.
"Oh my!" Meg said taking notice of Amanda´s shoulders "Are those angel wings?"
"No they´re bird wings, a pair of Crow´s wings."
"Honey, look here, look at her Crow wings. Ted got a tatoo once, he had the bonehead idea of getting his initials on his chest, but luckily it´s the size of a Johnson´s and Johnson´s band-aid so I just cover it up when we´re at a pool or something."
"mmm, I see." Amanda said with a mouthful of toothpaste looking into the mirror.
The canadian couple turned their attention to themselves once again, attending to their evening rituals of eye care, mouth care, and foot care. Meg had dark hair and fair skin that burned easily, which was in lock step with Ted´s red hair and freckly complexion. They coated themselves in sunblock each day, and with the combination of sweat and summer sun took on a pickled look as the sunblock never quite assimilated into their skin as lotion does but instead remained a white haze of topological cream.
"Ted remember to wear your mouthguard tonight. I think I heard you grinding again last night."
Pete docked himself at the far end of the sinks with his freezer-size ziplock bag of toiletries, the inside corners filled with milky liquid. He took a gulp of water from straight from the tap and stood upright again, tilted his head back and gurgled loudly. Meg and Ted ceased their fierce toothbrushing for a moment and looked at eachother with wide eyes.

The Lawn and So On

Pete sat outside in the evening sun on a plastic lawn chair. The wind blew cool gust as the sun drew low in the sky. Amanda carried a chair over to Pete and sat close enough to acknowledge his presence but far enough away that she was without commitment.
"I feel like I´m in the ocean!" Pete yelled across the lawn.
"What?" Amanda asked.
"I said I feel like I´m in the ocean, the wind; it´s kind of like the water. It´s like..have you ever just laid there on the beach and let the waves run up to you?"
"I don´t think so."
"I feel as though I´m in the perfect temperature right now, like the kids pool at the YMCA my parents used to drive me to. It was about 45 minutes away from our farm and I´d beg ém to take me, and I´d put on my swim trunks in the locker room, real fast you know, ´cause I didn´t want nobody lookin´at my little pecker, and I´d walk out to that pool, it smelled all warm and chlorine-like, and I´d walk into the kids pool real slow without flinchin´´cause I didn´t need to, it was the perfect temperature and I´d let it swallow me up."
"Wow, that´s beautiful"
"Yeah? Really?" Pete asked embarrasingly.
"Yeah, you know today on the walk when the wind began to pick up I thought about a similar thing, but it was the clouds. When the sun was on my I would get too warm and then a cloud would blow across the sky. I could see them coming just by looking at the groud; it was like someone was painting the landscape one shade gray, and it would swallow me up just like you were saying."
"Yeah, now that´s what I´m talking ´bout, just a real perfect temperature. The kind that tells you you´re on vacation!"
"Yeah vacation in Florida..."
"In the middle of winter, right?"
"...And you walk out of your hotel room at night and the air is soft and salty, as light as a kiss."
"Yep." Pete sighed and sank deeper into the lawn chair. "Makes you glad to be alive, you know?"
"Yeah, I know."

Afternoon

Amanda handed her pilgrim´s passport to the hospitalero and watched her stamp collection grow by one. Another ugly one with a shell, she thought, why does everyone feel the need to incorporate the shell into the design? Amanda felt sweaty and exhausted, more tired now that she stopped moving. She took off her boots and put them on the rack with all the others. She tied all four lace ends together because she heard stories of people taking the wrong boots in the morning. Amanda put on her flip flops and took slow, careful steps up the crooked staircase and found a bed.

After a luke-warm shower Amanda sat in the common area downstairs writing in her journal. She wrote in it everyday, motivated by the anxiety of somehow forgetting the trip if it didn´t end up on paper. Across from her was an older man with white hair and a short, white beard. He was also writing in a journal, which was accompanied by several maps, an open guidebook, and his pilgrim credencials. "Where are you from?" He interupted. Amanda was surprised and a little bothered by the fact that he knew she spoke english.
"New York." she said
"Oh, New York? I´m from Canada. My name is Hance"
"Okay" Amanda said like she had agreed to something.
"I started in Le Puy, France. That´s 800K back."
"Wow, really?" Amanda said, studying Hance, who she thought would look a lot like santa clause if he continued growing his beard. His eyes were piercing blue and his skin was pinkish-red the way old people get.
"Yah, see I´m 66 years old and retired. I tell people it´s the best job I ever had."
"What did you do before?"
"I was a chemical engineer, but I always say I was an incompetent one." Hance laughed at himself. "Yah, I got into managment early on and stayed there ever since, made a lot of money too." he said trailing off. "Yep, I did the Camino back in 2008 and wanted to try the French route because it´s quieter."
"Mmm, that sounds nice."
"Yah, see my wife let´s me have my camino as long as I take her somewhere. So after I get to Santiago we´re going on a 4 week cruise to Austrailia. I send her my journal every week. I just tear out the pages, and send the SD card in my camera. I´ve got about eight of these little cards 2Gb cards. Yah, then she compiles everything on the internet."
"That´s nice of her."
"Yah, I tell her she´s my favorite wife." Hance said, laughing at himself again "We´ve been married 39 years, and she says she doesn´t want to have to train anyone again." Hance said smiling.
Amanda listened to Hance as he talked nearly non-stop, repeating the same lines he has told dozens of other pilgrims. Hance seemed like a competitive retiree, Amanda thought. The same grit that carried him through management all those years seemed to radiate from his personality.
"Well, I´ve been doing all the talking here." Hance said "Why are you doing the camino?"
"Geez, that´s a tough question." Amanda said really not knowing the answer. She sat there silently for a moment. "This may sound strange to you, but I want to get as close to nothing as possible." Hance looked at her and nodded, but Amanda sensed a derailment, and added "I read this thing that talked about walking as one of the few activities that requires almost no thinking."

Amanda went upstairs and collected her dirty clothes to wash in the sink outside. She lathered her wool shirt in shampoo and rubbed it over the ribs of the laundry sink. The odor of her shirt reminded her of a wet dog. It must be the wool, she thought, it smelled like animals not human. Pete took the sink next to her and turned on the faucet, which sprayed everywhere from the excessive pressure. "Whoa, sorry about that." Pete filled a plastic tub in the sink with water and began to knead his clothes like bread dough. "I took this bar of soap from the hotel I stayed in." Pete said offering it to Amanda.
"No thanks, I´ve got my own. Just my shampoo."
"Does it work good?"
"It´s okay. I like that my clothes smell like clean hair."
"Yeah that´s good. Guess mine are going to smell like hands."
"Clean hands." Amanda added.
"Yeah, anything better than what they smellin´ like now. ´Course when it´s your own smell it´s not as bad as other peoples. I guess farts are thay way too, if you don´t mind me saying."

Pete and Amanda

Amanda emerged from the bushes to find Pete standing on the trail just 20 yards ahead. He stood there swaying a bit, shifting his weight from one leg to the next and stared down the trail. Amanda watched him for a moment feeling trapped, and then started walking again.

She and Pete walked together for the rest of the day, the way two people start talking on a airplane flight and one of them never stops. Amanda tried several times to find an exit strategy -bathroom breaks, a rock in the shoe, cafe con leches, but Pete persisted in the innocent way a child vies for adult attention. Pete just needed someone to talk to that could validate his stories by saying, yeah, uh huh, mmmm, and I see. Amanda did that, the way she was trained to do.

Amanda and Pete checked into the municipal albergue in Santo Domingo. Amanda took off her pack and sat at chair in front of the hospitalero. She felt still and euphoric sitting down for the first time in hours giving her legs a rest.

Morning

Amanda awoke to the rolling and rustling of sleeping bags and zippers accelerating close. Icy-white headlamps flickered throughout the long hall of bunks and people whispered in unfamiliar languages. Amanda slowly climbed down from her bunk and met sharp pains as her feet touched the ground. She stood there in the dark wearing only a shirt and underwear. In this collision of shared personal space with complete strangers she felt at home, like when it used to be okay to see her parents naked. Amanda dressed for a cool morning, brushed her teeth, packed her bag, and walked out into the dim morning. Nineteen miles seemed like a far away land but all she could really focus on was the cafe con leche waiting for her three miles ahead.

Amanda walked quickly, taking large strides and feeling the strain on her hamstrings. She watched the textured ground in front of her pass like a conveyor belt, and thought for a moment, that she wasn´t really thinking about anything. It was 6:30a, much earlier than she would ever get up back home, usually that was the cut-off time of when she would go to bed -as the black night turned blue, then a pale grey, and before the morning became day, avoiding the actual all-nighter that made two days into one. If she could fall asleep before the sun came up then it would just be a late start the next day.

Amanda rounded a corner that led to a long straight away below, and in the pale of the morning could see at least a dozen pilgrims in the distance. They looked motionless against the scale of the landscape. Beyond them was the a town; just a clump of reddish brown buildings punctured by a tall church in the center. Amanda heard the footsteps of another pilgrim from behind, crunching through the loose gravel. She waited to say anything until the pilgrim was at her side. In her periphial vision she saw shinny black boots and a backpack full of straps and pockets.
"Oh-lah! Bono Dee-hass"
"Hola, Buen Camino" Amanda said rhythmically, already out of habit. The other pilgrim didn´t pass but kept pace with Amanda. She turned and looked at the man. He was tall with the kind of belly men develop in their 40´s. He wore sweatpants tucked into black army boots, a tan carhart jacket, and tatered cowboy hat. His backpack was the kind you´d find at garage sales, with the frame exposed like the kind children are carried in. "You speak english?" He said
"Not really."
"What?"
"No, I do."
"Oh, thank goodness. I feel like I´ve been in solitary confinement for the past two days. Where are you from?"
"Conneticut, well, New York."
"A goddamn yankee, huh? Well that´s okay, I fall somewheres in between. See, I´m from Iowa, ´bout an hour outside of Des Moines. Name´s Pete. Pete Fletcher. What´s yours?"
"Amanda."
"You don´t say, I got a sister named Amanda, youngest of the four. She cut her hair real short and moved off to California so we don´t see her much anymore. I was closest with her ´cause she was kind of like my brother. You know, real good a sports and liked going fishin´with me." Pete quieted thinking about his sister when they were kids. "I wonder what she´s up to these days." Pete said. Amanda said nothing as she continued her pace. She saw a clump of bushes a hundred yards in the distance.
"Sorry, I have to um, go look for a toilet."
"Oh no problem, I´ll just walk slow."
Amanda peeled off the trail and walked into a well worn path into a clearing behind the shrubs. There were little wet clumps of toilet paper scattered around like litter.

Bedtime

Amanda carefully stepped into the shower stall with all of her belongings in hand. Using the lone door hook, she managed to keep all of her clothes safe from the wet surfaces, and never let her bare feet touch the tile as she stood on top of her flip-flops to undress. It was nearly lights out in the hostel and the hot water should be back, she hoped. Amanda felt a comforting joy when the cold water turned warm on her outstretched hand. Earlier in the day she had gotten this far but stood there naked, shivering as the cold water remained cold splatering her with what felt like icicles. She couldn´t bring herself to take a cold shower.

The warmth of the shower was heavenly after a chilly day of clouds and mist. Amanda kept battling the on / off push button control of the shower, which seemed to last only 30 seconds before cutting out. Eventually she held the button in with both hands, leaning towards it with her weight, and resting her head against the wall. At this late in the day the hot water supply was endless like a hotel.

On her bunk, Amanda felt clean and soft, still warm from the shower. She sat on her sleeping bag inspecting her feet, which were tacky from her wet flip-flops. She looked closely at her toes and the arch of her foot with a level of study more devoted than she had ever done before. She carefully grabbed each toe, squeezing it, and turning it slightly as though each one needed undivided attention. She picked at her toenails and cuticles. Her feet looked angry, red in some places on the bottom of her soles -what felt like the beggining of blisters. On the top and the edges of her foot where the skin is soft and fragile were red pockmarks of heat rash from the hellish conditions of living inside a wool sock and boot all day. Amanda took out a bottle of hand lotion and applied some to her feet rubbing it in deeply between her toes and the sole of her foot. Never before was she successful at simulating a foot massage on her own, but her hands felt truly foreign as she kneaded each foot. Chills ran through her spine.

The lights were still on and already she could hear men snoring. She quietly drew the long zipper of her sleeping bag down and unpeeled the top half, slipping inside and zipping herself up. She lay in bed, motionless and straight. The hospitalero turned the lights off and Amanda stared at the ceiling, listening to the white noise of the albergue as the snoring and wheezing crescendoed and harmonized together. Beautifully disgusting, Amanda thought.

Pilgrim Meal

Amanda poked at her pasta with a fork, the first course of the pilgrim meal. The little bits of ground meat mixed into the tomato sauce worried her; this was not something she would eat back home but she was hungary in the same way that camping creates a hunger that makes anything taste delicious. She dug in.

Amanda was seated at a large round table with eight others. To her, it was like a staged sampling of white people across the globe, there was the couple from Denmark, the guy from Australia, two older men from france who were elegantly slender and seemingly gay, the loud blonde woman from South Africa, a stout German woman with a crew cut, and young girl from the Netherlands. Amanda was the twenty-something girl from the United States, although she hoped to defy all stereotypes her european company concievably held against her but maybe less so now, she thought, than compared to the Bush years.

The table spoke fluent english to one another, and occasionally the foreign couples would breakout into their native tongues, which seemed sneaky and suspicious to Amanda as though they were violating some de facto law. She only spoke English since her foreign language studies were devoted primarily to Latin as per the direction of her parents who thought it would be advantageous to Amanda´s medical profession. Amanda convinced herself that the English was spoken out of courtesy to the South African woman who seemed more like the kind of American Amanda was expected to be -loud, boisterous, lacking a general self awareness, and certainly mono-lingual. This diposition coupled with a British-sounding accent made South Africans seem intollerable to Amanda.

After the main course of head-less trout and translucent french fries came the dessert, a little plastic cup of chocolate pudding. Amanda liked this; she loved these as a kid, often bartering her chocolate milk from her hot-lunch with the kids who brought packed lunches to school, all of which seemed by default to include pudding snacks. Amanda was a hot-lunch kid because her mother didn´t have time to make a packed lunch and her father calculated that the schools lunch was a cheaper option than buying grocery store junk. So for eleven years, until Amanda got her driver´s license, she ate mostly pizza, tater-tots, vita-pups, and milk in small cartons.

"So where do you come from?" The South African asked Amanda as she had done with half the table already.
"New York, I´m from New York." Amanda said.
"Ooooh..." the woman said delighted. "New York must be wonderful, and you came all the way here for the camino! How lovely!" Amanda nodded without words and looked into her desert cup as she cleaned the walls with her spoon for the last bit of pudding. "And what do you do in New York?" The woman continued.
"Um, right now, nothing. I just graduated from college." Amanda said.
"Oh, where did you go to school?" The woman pressed.
"I went to a small college out East, you probably haven´t heard of it."
"Oh that sounds wonderful, and what did you study there?" She asked.
"Psychology" Amanda said as though she were asking a question.
"Well, I guess you can tell me.." The lady leaned over her plate closer to Amanda "..will all this walking alone make me go crazy?" The woman aksed.
Amanda smiled a conciliatory grin. "Maybe..maybe."
The South African woman turned her attention away from Amanda and addressed the table generally. "I find the trail to be so lonely at times. To think, I walked for an entire day without saying anything more than Buen Camino is preposterous! Thank goodness for these pilgrim meals." The lady said as she broke into a self-induced chuckle. "Let us raise our glasses...and may I remind you to drink up." She elbowed one the gay frenchmen and whispered "The wine is complimentary, you know?" She spoke up again. "Okay, here is to a lovely Camino with friends from all over the world! Salut! Prost! Cheers! What else do you all say?" Everyone swayed their glasses in the air and looked around the table at one another and drank.

Amanda

Amanda had difficulty picking out her gear for the camino. It was the most money she had spent on clothes in few years, maybe ever. The bright colors and shinny materials were largely what she tended to avoid both in fashion and in personality. She had grown out of her goth phase, but steered towards a black backpack and black merino wool. This was less a relapse into her Marylin Manson days, and more of an attempt to match her black-framed eye glasses, an accessory acquired during college after she took up rolling her own cigarettes and reading Ginsberg and Kerouac. She humbled herself in the imagined situations she played out in her mind against hypothetcial conditions in which a certain article of clothing would be more appropriate for the trip. There was death: what do I want to be wearing when my parents identify me? There was love: what outfit will he remember me wearing when we first met? And there was hate: who do I not want to be. Amanda went with a black merino hiking skirt over the black northface pants that zip off into shorts.

Amanda grew up in Conneticut. Her parents were both professionals, serious ones -a doctor and a lawyer, who lived modestly and with utter discipline; they only purchased used cars with cash in hand, and bought clothes at the mall´s end-of-season sales to wear the following year. Amanda was a rebellious teen in that she wore dark clothing and eye-liner, joined the theater club instead of the volleyball team, and said nothing at the dinner table. For this she had to go to therapy, and soon after her problems really began -first the cutting, then the bottle of asprin, the tatoos, the piercings, the abusive boyfriends, and finally the heroin. Rehab came next which was easy for Amanda because she got to move out of her house and upon completion of the program she was off to college.

Amanda studied psychology at a private liberal arts school, mainly to unpack the last five years of her life -that, and it was a profession her parents wouldn´t object to, thus keeping their involvement to a minimum. She found that she wasn´t alone, most of her classmates were also seeking to read their owner´s manual. Those who were there to really become psychologists were, according to Amanda, of little promise to actually solving anyone´s psychologcial problems because they just didn´t get it. She felt that truly wanting to end your own life is an experience only to be lived rather known through textbooks in the same way that eating a bunch of acid qualifies someone to use the word ´trippy´much more precisely than a bong-hitting frat boy can after watching Inception.

"Help yourself to a shell" the gentleman at the Pilgrim´s office instructed.
"Okay." Amanda said, walking over to a basket full scallop shells. It reminded her of something that would be on display in a bathroom after a suburban family´s trip to florida. She took a pink-ish colored shell, and with the provided string and pre-drilled hole tied it to her black backpack.

After the first climb Amanda began to doubt if she could really do this. It was only 2k into the 800k walk and it felt punishing. I could die doing this, she thought to herself, and that would be a good way to die, better than eating that stupid bottle of asprin, god that was such a typical cry for help.

"Buen Camino" a passing pilgrim said to her.
"Buen Camino" Amanda replied, finding comfort in the simplicity of the exchange. Amanda was walking, for no reason, and saying things like ´Buen Camino´for no reason either. And this felt good.

Dinner

Pete stood in the market, staring at a shelf of unfamiliar but discernible items, studying the products for clues. "What is that..." he mumbled to himself "Olives, pickels, corn...whoa is that asparagus, white asparagus? How´d they get the color out of that? Must be pickled." He walked slowly down each aisle like a person in a new world.

At checkout the cashier turned the little LCD monitor toward Pete as she gave him the total in Spanish. Pete was clearly a foreigner. He squinted his eyes and pulled out a handful of euro coins from his pocket, which had been accumulating at a fast rate. "Here I got too many of these coins. I keep handing ya´ll bills and ya give me back coins. See, where I´m from it stops at 25 cents. You can only get dollar coins at banks. I know ´cause I collect them." Pete left the supermarket with a bag of spaghetti, tomato sauce in little cardboard carton, and a package of hotdogs.

He timidily walked into the hostel kitchen, which was packed with women in their late 60´s cooking dinner. Pete politely reached beside these women who were blocking the drawers. "Um...hi...can I just-"
"Oh, si, si" the lady stepped back, bending her body aside.
Pete pulled drawer after drawer learning the new kitchen.

When Pete was a kid his father used to take him camping. His sisters were not interested in the outdoors in that way, and even if they were, his father wouldn´t have taken them. Camping was a man´s activity; a way to reconnect to one´s true being, a master over nature. On these trips Pete´s father would bring a cans of baked beans and a bag of hot dogs as backup in case no fish could be caught and no small game felled.

Pete sat at the large dinning table enjoying his hotdogs sliced into his spaghetti, and thought about those nights in front of the fire with his Dad. He watched from the end of the table as the older women sat down with their plates. "Bon appetit!" one said to him.
"Bone Appa-teet!" he replied.

After dinner pete took out a postcard of a map of Spain with the route drawn in red and pictures of the things you´re supposed to see. He wrote:

Dear Ma,

How are you? I am fine. I know you think I´m crazy to be walking across Spain, but I think Dad would be proud. I took Cody´s boots from Becky´s house. She didn´t want me taking them to Spain, so I snuck into her house in the middle of the night and took them from the war memorial bedroom. I know Cody would have wanted me to wear them, so I am. I think if the lord didn´t want me wearing Cody´s boots he would have locked Becky´s front door that night.

I´ve made a lot of friends here already, a lady from Spain, a real skinny man from Germany, and a lady from Canada (I only know that because she had a Canadian flag on her backpack). Not too many people speak english over here even though it´s supposed be the international language. I´m still getting along though.

How´s the farm? Did Billy get the corn in yet? I think he´s a real son of a bitch, but if Amy wants to marry him then who knows? Any news from Carla or Jane? Okay, time to go to bed. They turn the lights off here at 10p.

love,
Pete

Pete slurped up the spit from the end of his mini-mag lite, which he held in his teeth as he wrote. He scooted the rest of his body into his sleeping bag and twisted around to find a comfortable position. Pete finally settled on his back after a full 360, inadvertantly turning the sleeping bag upside down so the bib covered his face. Pete fell asleep within a few minutes like an exhausted toddler. He snored deeply through the back of his throat with his tongue nearly choking him after each inhalation. This was normal for Pete.

Day 1

The young Spanish woman sat next to Pete and caught her breath as she transitioned from the intensity of chasing her only ride out of town, to just riding a bus. Pete thought of something clever to say but sat silently looking out the window.
"Gracias" the Spanish woman said softly.
"My name is Pete, this is my first time to Europe." he offered.
The Spanish women spoke slowly with a heavy accent "My-name-is-Estella." Pete shook her hand which felt soft and lifeless. They rode silently for three hours to St. Jean Pied de Port. Pete looked out his window, studying the rolling fields with precision, that´s wheat, that´s potatoes, that´s soy, he thought to himself.

The walk began the next day at 6a as the lights of the albergue turned on and mystical music played from a small boom-box in the hallway. Pete packed his bag, which looked liked like a clump of canvas pouches attached to a metal frame. Pete walked alone for the first hour, which was entirely up hill, panting heavily and mustering "Buen Camino" to each person that passed him. He came to a church and wandered inside. It was cool and calm compared to the warm air outside. Pete sat next to another sweating pilgrim.
"This is some walk, don´t ya think? The hills, ya know?"
The Canadian women whispered "Yah, I´m going to sleep tonight."
Pete responded bringing his voice down to her whisper level "Geez, I´ll just be glad to make it up the next pass. Ya know, I´m going to be the first person in my family to walk across a country. My uncle walked to Canada once, all the way from Iowa, but he´s kind of crazy because he´s actually homeless, so my family doesn´t really talk about him much." Silence grew between Pete and the other pilgrim.
"This place smells just like my Grandma´s basement." Pete announced. "Especially after it flooded after this big rain we had in ´97 and she started having these little black spots showing up on the ceiling. This place must be a 1000 years old. Can you imagine what it was like to live here 1000 years ago?" Pete asked. The woman shook her head without breaking her gaze from the alter. "I sure can´t. I mean, what did people even look like a 1000 years ago? I know they weren´t another species or nothing like that but seriously, they had to look different than you and me, right?" The woman looked down, and cordially said "Well they probably didn´t have high-tech clothes like we do." Pete sniffled a laugh with his breath.
"No way. They were wearing leather and wool. You couldn´t pay me to wear that stuff, well except leather if was like a black leather jacket for riding a motorcycle or something. Ya know, I heard they didn´t even have shoes and they still walked the pilgrimage. I´ve got these high performance army-issue combat boots, and you don´t want to see what my feet look like. Believe me, you don´t want to see my feet."
The woman winced. "Do you have blister´s already?"
Pete took off his boot, peeled away his white sock and pulled his foot above his knee "Look at this. I didn´t even start the Camino and I got these. See, I went on this cultural tour of Spain two days ago. They had us walking all over looking at sites and that sort of thing."

Pete arrived at the municipal hostel 6 hours later, taking slow painful steps inside. "Get me in the shower!" He joked as he walked through the door. He unbuckled his large bag with exagerated gestures like a beast unchaining itself from its captors. The hospitalero instructed pete to take off his boots and put them on the rack with everyone else´s "Um, you mind if I just keep them in my bag. See these are kind of special and I don´t want just anyone walking away with them. They´re offical army-issue, served a tour in Iraq, that´s all I´ll say about that."

Pete found his bed. Only top bunks were left that late in the day. His neighbors were sleeping on top of their sleeping bags. The room smelled thick with an odor like a gym or a used sporting goods store. He stretched the sani-sheet over the mattress only getting three of the four corners to catch, and climbed up the end of the bunk straining himself and shaking the bed violently as he crawled into place. Pete flopped down, bouncing a few times to check the softness of the bed. "This will do." He said out loud.

Hotel

"I´m from the great state of Iowa, and that´s not a province but it could be." Pete answered. "Where are you from? You sound like Jean Claude Van Damn, you know who he is?" The german stood there in his underwear, casually as though he were in a locker room. "I´m from Hamburg." he said. Pete was silent. "Dats in Germany" the man added.
"Okay, okay, I´ve heard of that." Pete said.

Pete brushed his teeth and opened each little bottle the hotel sink had to offer. The german was in bed breathing deeply and slowly with the lights still on in the room. Pete turned off the lights and climbed into bed. He lay on his back in the pitch black of the hotel room, listening to his foreign neighbor and wondering when, if ever, god would speak to him. "Good night." Pete whispered to the german man.

In the morning Pete awoke to find the German man gone and the his bed made neatly as if he had never slept in it. "Hello?" Pete called out, but there was no answer. Downstairs in the lobby Pete found his roommate in the restaurant eating the free buffet breakfast. "Just toast and jam? That´s no kind of breakfast. I´ll be weak in the knees by 10a." Pete circled the food table and took several pieces of toast, and filled two glasses with orange juice. He sat down with his roommate. "Is this what ya´ll eat in Germany for breakfast?" Pete gleaned at the German. "Of course." The german replied matter of factly. "Well god damn, that must be why you´re so thin. See, back in USA we eat all sorts of things like eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes... I guess I´m on a diet now, right?" The German man dipped his toast into his coffee mug and took a soggy bite.

The tour bus waited outside the lobby and people began to board. Pete put his backpack in the cargo hatch underneath the bus and got on. He sat in a window seat and stared out. As the bus pulled away he saw the young Spanish women running after them. Pete´s heart raced. "Whoa! Whoa! Amigo!" he yelled to the driver as he sprung from his seat. "Halt-eh the bus-eh! Stop!" The bus came to a bucking stop and the Spanish woman gained some ground and finally reached the door. She got on board. "He was going to leave you." Pete said pointing at the driver "Loco, loco. But I talked some sense into him."

Bilbao

Farmer Pete stood in front of the Guggenheim Museum, fishing for his disposable camera inside his fannypack. "It´s better in real life if you ask me." he said to a young women from his tour bus. "Como?" She replied. "I seen this once on this show called Modern Marvels, I think it´s on the discovery channel 'cause I watch this other show about logging, and I was waiting for that one to come on, and there is this architect who scribbles on paper and they make buildings out of that." The yound spanish women looked puzzled, "No english." she said apologetically. "Okay, then. Me neither."

It was late in the day and the musuem´s facade glowed a lazy yellow in the fading light. Pete´s feet hurt from all the walking that day. He borrowed a pair of combat boots from his middle sister, Becky. Her husband never came back from Iraq, only his belongings. Pete thought it would be symbolic if he wore these boots on the camino even though they were one size too small.

The tour bus pulled away and delivered the group to the Hotel on the edge of town. Pete signed up for the budget tour, which puts two people to a room. "Whew, good thing there´s two beds in here!" Pete said to his German roommate, a thin man with gray hair. "Vwhat Province are you from in America?" he asked carefully.

Camino Dos

I´ve already blogged about this trip once, just read below. I did play by play accounts of my thoughts, impressions, things I found strange and odd, and experiences that stood out. I don´t want to do this again, for my sake and yours. Like most things done twice you sort of know what to expect. If there are some good surprises along the way, like another robbery where justice is immediately served, then yes, I´ll blog about that, but this year I want things to be different.

I will create several fictional characters that will instead take the place of my first person accounts. This will also allow me to share their letters to loved ones, thoughts about others and others thoughts about them, and re-tell the story of the camino through different cultural subjectivities that will to some effect tease out subtlties and nuiances that I can´t capture as easily through the previous blog entries. Plus, I want to start writing more fiction, which I haven´t done since my brother and I used to exchange weekly stories through a series called ´sandyasssundays´ about six years ago.

These posts will also come more regularly and more frantically as I´m constantly using internet on borrowed time, either paying by the minute with euros, or with the looming pilgrim hovering above my shoulder silently wondering when, if ever, will I be done with the free internet on the lone computer of the hostel. Right now, fucker.

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Character Introduction #1:

Farmer Pete was born into an Iowa farming family just outside of Des Moines. He and his five older sisters learned to work the land from an early age. After Farmer Pete won his age group in the 4-H hog show 14 and under, his confidence carried him through a threshold in which possibilities were limitless, to him at least. This kept school work at distance, and concerned Farmer Pete primarly with girls who had large breasts and Ford trucks, also the bigger the better. Despite Pete´s repeated failures at acquiring ownership of either prize, his path was clear; get a truck, get a girl, get a house. For it is with these things that one´s life truly begins.

The Final Shake Down

Inside our dark room of four beds was a thick funk of musty B.O., the kind that is at first alarming but then tolerable, a hippie funk excused by the desire to be natural. We opened the window. A dog was barking and the seagulls were making seagull noises. The forth bunk mate continued snoring.

I woke up at 7:30am. The musty german was packing up and was out the door by the time my feet hit the ground. The snorer was still going. She was an older woman, which I discerned in the yellow light from our window during her midnight bathroom break. I had thought it was a man until then. I woke Ellen and we filed into the bathroom and each took one of two shower stalls, locking the door behind us. We didn't want someone to come in and drop a stinky deuce while we were showering. There were toilets down the hall for that. I finished before Ellen and waited around for here because the lock was an external slide type that had to be relocked once I left. Finally she dried off and put some clothes on and I slipped out to start packing.

I opened the door to find the spanish woman standing in the middle of the room clasping her bra. She was thick and in her fifties with a default, older lady haircut of pepper-gray. She seemed startled but I was used to those encounters at that point in the trip. I sat on my bed and started stuffing my sleeping bag. I noticed that she had slept under the covers of the hostel bed, sheets and all, and used one of the thick blankets. Gross. She continued dressing and out of the corner of my eye I caught a glimpse of her shoes, small blue moccasin types. I saw a few day packers wearing ridiculous shoes like those, they were usually the ones that took forever to cross the muddy sections. The spanish lady finished dressing and left the room. I looked up as she walked out the door and saw that she was only carrying a purse. I sat there for about thirty seconds before I began putting the pieces together. Oh shit! I quickly reached for my jeans that were folded behind my pack. Whew! My money was there. And then to my fanny pack that I had hid under my sleeping bag while I was in the shower. My money was gone. I ran out of the room. "Ellen my money just got stolen! Check your fanny!" I barreled to the end of the hall and down the stairs to the main room. There were two people, one on the internet and another on a couch "Did you see a lady leave? She just stole my money!" They pointed in the direction she left. I ran out to the street only wearing a shirt, underwear, and flip-flops slimy from the shower. She was gone. I continued running. The narrow street turned sharply to the left between two buildings, dumping out to a larger street. To the right was more housing, straight ahead was a sharp drop to the ocean, and to the left was the way to the main part of town. I ran left towards a steep set of stairs that hugged the rock cliff, shortcutting the road to a large sidewalk just above a small beach cove below. I still didn't see her and felt frantic. As I neared the stairs I saw her chunky torso disappear below the top stair. I continued running until I got closer and slowed down to quiet the 'smack, smack' of my pace. She was almost half-way down the long stairs before I quietly came up behind her, grabbing her arm and turning her towards me. "Give me my fucking money!" I demanded. "Me, no money, no" She pleaded, wiggling away from me. I squeezed harder like an angry parent, my voice was peaking in fury. "You stole my fucking money! Where the fuck is it!?" I screamed. I was freaking out and quickly losing control. I knew she had my money but I didn't know how to get it back. She continued muttering "No, no, no money" in a rhythmic, high voice like she was innocent. "You fucking bitch!" I yelled, squeezing her arm harder. "I know you took it! Where is my money!?" I started cramming my free hand in the pocket of her coat, and then her jean pocket. She tried to slip away and I took her arms with both hands and pinned here against the wall, shaking her as I yelled two inches from her face. Her eyes lit up like she was possessed and she growled "No, no, no!" My scream was weezy and maxed out "Shut the fuck up!" I went for her other jean pocket and she pulled out her clenched hand. I could see the orange and cream colored ends of a fifty euro bill poking out of her fist. I grabbed her wrist with one hand and tried to pry open her locked fingers with the other.

Ellen ran down the stair yelling at me "Don't fucking touch her, don't touch her!" but I was too far gone. I dug my fingers under hers and wrenched her hand open while I kept pinning her against the rail with my shoulder and knee. I freed the crumpled bill and backed off. I still thought she had more of my money, and hung onto to her jacket sleeve. "Marc don't touch her, you'll get arrested!" The lady tried to walk past me down the steps but I continued to get in her way. Ellen began taunting her out of nowhere "You stupid bitch, we know you took our money, we're gonna get policia..."

Down below was a large sidewalk where street vendors were assembling the frames of their tents. The lady continued down the stair with me close at here side. I yelled to the African men, "Polcia, Policia" We continued walking towards the sidewalk area "oooh yeah, policia, si, si." the lady taunted back as if she was somehow innocent and I was the criminal. Six or seven African guys emerged from the skeletons of their tents along with a couple spainards. They spoke a little english. "You need the police?" one asked. "Si, si, this lady stole my money." A spainard vendor got on his cell phone and called for us. At this point there was a small crowd and the lady knew better than to leave, that would prove her guilt. While the spanish man was calling Ellen and I stood on the sidewalk against the railing just above the beach. We explained to the African men what had happened to cause the scene they had just witnessed on the stairs. "Okay" the spanish man yelled a few minutes later, "They are on their way." After a couple minutes the African men returned to their tents putting the metal pieces together. Ellen and I stood there waiting with the spanish lady to my left, who would occaisionally look at me and point "loco, loco" and gesture with two hands shaking the air. That was her angle, she was abused by a crazy foreigner. Ellen began to worry. "What if you get arrested?" she protested. "I'm not going to get arrested. This is obvious, look at her, she's not even a peregrino." We both stood their silently, watching the African's set up, and imaging our fate when the police finally show up. The lady huffed and sighed looking at her watch. "Autobus, ocho trente, tss, tss" She was going to miss the 8:30a bus to Santiago. Ellen slipped back into her taunting again "oooh autobus, we're going to sit next to you on the autobus you stupid bitch."

Ten minutes passed. The morning was cool and gray. I was getting chilly standing there without pants. My knees began to shake. I wasn't sure if it was from the cold or my adrenalin.
"I need my contacts." Ellen blurted.
"Why? What do you need to see?"
"What if we have to fill out a police report?"
"Well you can't go back to the hostel now, that will look sketchy. We just need to wait."
"How much money did you get back?"
"Only 50, I think. I put it in my fanny." which I wore across my shoulder.
The spanish lady adjusted her blue shoes. I looked down and saw that the heels were folded over. "Look." I whispered to Ellen "Her shoes aren't even on properly. This is so obvious." Ellen took over once again. "Did you leave in a hurry you bitch? Why aren't your shoes on?" she taunted. I felt a little uncomfortable now as Ellen heckled her. I had settled down from my rage a bit, but I still though about ripping off the shoes from her feet to find more of my money. I was convinced there was another stash.

Finally the police car emerged onto the wide sidewalk. I anxiously waived at them as if I had been waiting to meet a friend. They got out of the car and approached the two of us. "haablay inglis?" I asked. He shook his head quickly and apologetically. "Okay...ummm..me...peregrino...she...no peregrino." I rambled on, accompanying every word with wild hand gestures and finger pointing. "My amigo...in banyos...prrshhhhh" I scrubbed my head with my hands. Fuck. This wasn't working. "Amigo!" I yelled to one of the African men who came over and helped translate. Meanwhile the other officer began to question the spanish lady. I saw her do the double hand shake in the air. That fucking bitch, I thought. The officer took her ID. I explained the scene at the hostel, and the African man translated. I explained every detail, even mimicking the strenuous recovery of the bills with my two hands opposing one another in front of my chest. The African asked me to show the officer the money I had recovered. I pulled out the tightly crumpled bill and handed it to him. He inspected it as if it was forensic evidence and handed it back to me. "He wants to know how much money was stolen." The African said to me. "I don't know...100 or 150, I'm not sure." I unrolled the crumpled money and discovered two bills, not one. This was it, I thought. "I think this is all I had." The African man turned and began speaking spanish. Both officers began questioning the woman. The African man turned to me and explained that money leaves no trace, so they have no way of proving that she took it. "Well what's going to happen?" I asked. "They know she took the money, but they cannot arrest her." The officers spoke once more to my translator. He turned to me "They say if you want you can file a police report at the station." I thought silently for a moment "What would you do?" I asked. He smiled and shrugged his shoulders "If you live in Spain....maybe file the report, but you have your money back so just go." I looked at Ellen and looked at the officer. "Okay, nada, nada." and turned my palms as if I had given up.

Ellen and I walked away thanking the Africans and the two officers. "Mucho gracias, gracias." They also said gracias, even the spanish lady. Just as we were leaving a civil guard in an SUV rolled up. Two officers stepped out adjusting their gadget-covered belts. They each carried a lit cigarette between their fingers. Ellen and I stopped as if we might be in trouble. The four men began conversing, and one of the officers passed the lady's ID to the civil guard. A couple minutes later the officers turned to us and said "No problemo, adios." We were free and had been vindicated.

We walked back to the hostel in both shock and excitement at what had just happened. This was one of those things you dream about when something of yours is stolen, catching the thief in the act would be so great! This was the next best thing, or maybe better, chasing the thief down after they thought they had made a clean get away and reclaiming the goods.

Ellen and I continued packing, occasionally taking a break to inspect the crime scene, speculating on how it all went down. I figured the bra thing was a scam, and she thought I would stay out of the room after catching sight of her fat chest. We finished packing our bags and headed downstairs. We explained to the owner of the private hostel what had happened with the translation help of the internet user, still typing away. The hospitalero seemed a little surprised but not very sympathetic to our victimization. Then the officers showed up at the door and asked for our passports. We handed them over. One of them looked in the log book of pilgrim guests, finding the woman's name. Ellen and I figured that after the pow-wow with the civil guard the officers decided to file a report and needed our passport numbers. During the spanish lady's interrogation we heard pilgrim cities being called out like Pamplona, and Santa Domingo. We wondered if she had been the perpetrator in the other thefts we heard about along the way. That would have been the civil guard's territory, not the local police. The officers returned our passports and drove off.

Now fully clothed and packs on our shoulders, we walked back down the stairs heading towards the cafes. I saw my translator friend who now stood proudly behind an array of women's scarves, folded into neat squares covered in plastic. "Gracias" I said again "Nada, nada" he replied.

The sun was coming up over the bay creating a sharp line of white light between the gray sky and horizon. I stopped to take a photo and heard one of the Africans, whom I didn't recognize from earlier, speaking quickly in a foreign languauge, blahbruhrarrtthugbul.....no pantalon." and he laughed, smiling at me as I walked passed. No pants is all I caught. He was telling the story to one of his friends of the funny episode that just happened on the stairs. Ellen and I walked away, not sure if we should feel proud our humiliated.

Our analysis and recollection of the morning's events continued over breakfast and for much of the cab ride back to Santiago. We still couldn't believe what had just happened. I wanted to tell our spanish cab driver about the incident, but he spoke no english. I just stared out the window, still a little jittery from all the action. I kept playing the scene over and over in my head, wanting to recall every nuance for some reason.

I watched the green countryside blur past me. After awhile I had exhausted the playback of my memory, and tried to find closure. I concluded that I had just robbed a 50 year-old spanish lady in broad daylight, but it was okay because she robbed me first. Buen Camino!

Over and out.

Muxia

Ellen and I took a day off in Finisterre, our first in 35 days. We slept in, and ate breakfast downstairs in the hotel just catching the last part of the 8:30-10:30a window. We snuck a couple small towels from the hotel and walked to the beach. The sand was crawling with what I thought were little gray insects but turned out to be tiny sand crabs frantically looking for the water after hatching. The sun was hot as we laid on our little white towels. The beach was fairly quiet with only 20 or 30 people spread out over the quarter-mile stretch. Our neighbors were mostly overweight spanish men and women, which seems to be the norm after age 40.

That night we ate dinner with Cathy and Courtney at a nice restaurant on the harbor. We all went for the pre-fix menu of 50 euro for two people. We were after a full on seafood feast. For appetizers: pink scallops, razor clams, and pulpo (octopus). The main dish was a giant skillet of galacian-style fish stew. For desert, we had flan, which was the best we've eaten in Spain. It was thick and rich, and didn't slide out of a pre-packaged container like we usually get.

The next morning Ellen and I packed up our bags and re-entered pilgrim life. We checked out of the hotel and headed into the city hoping to figure out how to get to Muxia. Our guidebook ends at Finisterre. The municipal albergue was closed, and when we asked a bartender he just pointed up the road and unloaded some spanish we couldn't understand. Our internet searches weren't coming up with any specific details, like how to get out of Finisterre. That was all we needed, once we were on the path we would be fine. I stopped a pilgrim I saw with a backpack, "Excuse me, do you speak any english?"
"Yahh." the german replied.
"Do you know how to get to Muxia?"
"Ahhh, let me see eeef eeet's eeen my guidevook." The german fished out a tattered book and found a few pages in the back explaining the route. "I don't need sthem" and he ripped out the pages and handed them to us. "Thank you! Buen Camino!" We were off.

The path to Muxia remained inland mostly, taking us up and down hills and through farms. At one point the trail crossed a small, shallow river. There were large, rectangular slabs of granite, spaced every 20 inches to allow the water to flow around. The first few slabs poked above the surface of the river and the remaining path was submerged about six inches below the surface. We knew this was coming, and it was talked up to be a treacherous crossing but it wasn't bad. We took off our boots and put on our flip flops and stepped through. The water was chilly but refreshing. The last stone had been washed a few feet away so we had to step off the rock fully into the water, which was only about knee-high at that point. The water was clear and flowed calmly.

As we came close to Muxia, the path picked up the main road into the city on the water's edge. We saw a bunch of spanish teenagers carrying scraps of wood and furniture to a grassy bluff on the beach. One kid had a small trailer hooked up to his bicycle that was loaded with cabinet doors. The shirtless teens had a huge pile. It was June 23rd. This must be it, but they didn't look like the happy hippies we hoped for. It looked like something we would have done in high school. We continued into Muxia and found the municipal hostel, which had just been built in 2007. It was the first real albergue-architecture we saw on the trip. It was a stark, rectangular building of cast concrete and large windows. Inside there were many interior courtyards where people could hang there clothes to dry. Some of these spaces were open to the air above, others were sheltered from the rain. A large stair case punctured a three-story high common room. The hostel slept 28 and the bunks were on the second floor. The space felt airy and clean. On the third floor was a roof-terrace with views of the ocean. Ellen and I watched the sunset again with a bottle wine, and this time in the company of an Australian lady, a young German, and a 40-something Belgian. It was a good way to end our last day of walking.

Muxia is a small town, probably half the size of Finisterre, which only has 3000 people. There isn't much going on in Muxia. The food options are limited to typical spanish bar / cafes several of which line the tiny harbor that serves as the main drag downtown. These are the places where spanish men can be found taking small shots of liquor at 7a along with there cafe con leche.

Ellen and I slept in and were the last ones to get out of bed. It was a quiet night with only 12 people in the hostel. We did our usual breakfast routine at one of the funny cafes in town: cafe con leche, pastry, and orange juice. We walked out to the tip of Muxia where a church was built on the rocks overlooking the ocean. I walked out on the sloping chunks of granite that were rounded and smoothed from the ocean. They looked like big, brown lumps. I edged down to the water where a few tide pools had formed and looked for creatures. I only saw a couple small fish and a crab.

We climbed up to the hill of the peninsula where a stone cross stood marking the virgin mary sighting. While we were up there a dense cloud of fog rolled in, we could literally see it blow across the hill like a race car in a wind tunnel. After fifteen minutes the tip of Muxia was engulfed in fog. "This is crazy!" I said to Ellen. She looked at the all the haze blowing in "No wonder someone had a vision. It was probably some drunk farmer that thought he saw the virgin mary appear from one of these clouds."

We decided to head back to Finisterre instead of spending the day in Muxia. It was a very peaceful town, but too quiet if you're a tourist. We walked to a taxi stand where two normal looking cars were parked. "How much do you think it will be?"
"40?"
"What's our limit?"
"40."
"Are you going to ask?"
One of the men stepped out of his car as he saw us approach. I approached him and said "Ahhh Muxia a Finisterre" gesturing with my hand like I could touch the two places with my finger. "Quanto?" The taxi man replied slowly as he realized my deficiency of the spanish language "Vente cinqo". I turned to Ellen "That's twenty five?" We nodded, and got in the cab, making our first ride in a vehicle in over a month. It felt fast, especially when looking straight ahead. The cab driver took us to Finisterre, and did what took us 8 hours in 25 minutes.

He dropped us off in the central part of the city. We walked along the harbor, and up the hill to a private albergue and checked in for 10 euro each. They put us in a room with only 2 bunks. A german lady had taken the bottom of one bunk, and Ellen and I took the free bunk. This seemed good, even if a forth person showed up there was a decent chance we would have a snore-less night.

The haze had rolled into Finisterre too, making for a cooler day and nixing beach activities or another sunset. We went to dinner at the same restaurant from the night before, but scaled back. I had the menu del dia for 10.50 euro, which was a creamy soup, hake, flan for desert, and two glasses of red wine. The world cup was on television, Japan against Denmark, which was an amazing game. Across from us were five older spanish ladies who would occasionally break into quiet song as if they were in church. They were uninterested in the game. These ladies embodied the quintessential spanish-woman physique: short, broad shouldered with a thick torso that makes the arms and legs go stubby. Their necks blend into their chins and sink into their hunched shoulders. They walk without taking full steps forward, hobbling at a steady pace with a side-to-side motion like a big lizard, and one arm held to their side with a purse hanging from the forearm. It's all just a weight problem, but takes years to cultivate and seems more structural than external like a flabbiness. These ladies are hedgehogs.

Ellen and I walked back to the hostel and entered our dark room only to find a forth bunk mate who was happily snoring. Shit! We got ready for bed, and I crawled into my sleeping bag with my foamy earplugs wedged in.

To the Edge of the Earth

Mass ended and we filed out of the cathedral into the main plaza out front. We saw more familiar faces from the early days of the Camino. This was the season finale that we joked about, where all the characters showed up for one last episode.

Ellen and I checked into our hotel on the outskirts of the old city where 140 euro gets you some serious fanciness, like a free minibar. I would have cleaned out the cokes and fantas, but the glass bottles weighed too much for the heist to be worth it.

That night, at midnight I turned 28, entering an undisputed position of late-twenties, if that even means anything. I fee like I gave up on those mile markers long ago. But to celebrate Ellen and I went for the real meal we had been longing for this whole trip, a meal that really summed up spanish cuisine. We never found a restaurant that seemed like a winner, but settled on one with a moderately-pricey menu and white table cloths. We entered the restaurant in our 'pilgrim's best'; me in jeans, a fleece, and flip flops, and Ellen in a fleece, black wool hiking skirt, and flip flops. "Dos, por favor" I said hold two fingers in the air. They looked around at a few of the empty tables with concerned looks, and then motioned us to follow. The hostess led us into a back room where a family with three kids were enjoying dinner, loudly. And soon after a large group of 18 joined our special room. We were getting the pilgrim treatment. However the restaurant was accommodating enough to give us an english speaking waiter.

We set out for three more days of walking to Finisterre. Most pilgrims stop in Santiago, but the route from Santiago to Finisterre predates the actual Camino when it was more of a roman and pagan tradition to walk to 'the edge of the earth' and watch the sun disappear fearing that it might not rise again.

It was good to be walking again, not that we took a break other than from the hostels and typical pilgrim life during our stay in Santiago, but I wasn't ready stop walking yet. The path out of Santiago was rolling and wooded. We saw very few pilgrims all day giving the trail a calm and quiet feel. We did a 23K into Negreria the first day, and a 34K walk into Ol Veirora the next. We passed through farm after farm. This section of Spain is big into dairy cows and each little town carries a heavy scent of sweet, musty funk from manure, especially when used as fertilizer on the fields.

We arrived in Ol Veirora around 3p after a long, hot day. It was a tiny farming village just like the countless others we passed along the way only this one was completely dominated by the albergue. It was a compound, occupying a half-dozen little stone buildings on the only street through town. All of the doors and the window panes were painted turquoise blue signifying the takeover. There was a bar that was obviously fueled by the pilgrim presence. This was the only place to stop before Finisterre, which is why we walked so long to get there. There really aren't any other options.

The hostel was filling quickly by the time we arrived despite our 6a departure. Ellen and I quickly learned the details of how this place was being run, which is that its a free-for-all. Earlier, the hospitalero showed up, unlocked the place and said "okay, find a bed, I'll be back at 5p or 6p". Everyone shuffled into a frenzy. The only beds that were left for us were six mattresses on the floor of one building, and a random top bunk in another, and one more top bunk in a little house the michigan group took over. I moved into the michigan house and Ellen took the bunk in the other building. Three students still hadn't shown up yet, and we were worried that the mattresses would go fast, and they did.

Sarah, Cathy, and Courtney rolled in about an hour later, the hostel was completely full and beginning to stack up with other bedless pilgrims. Ellen and I talked about sharing my bunk to free up hers for Courtney and Cathy to share and I could let Sarah use my inflatable sleeping pad. We tried it out, she and I lay there on my bunk. No way. Okay, option two: "Let's just gather all the thick blankets nobody ever uses because they're gross, and pile them on the floor of the michigan house. We could make two beds for Cathy and Courtney, and Sarah can have my sleeping pad. We'll put them upstairs and no one will ever know, and even if they do who cares, this place is obviously loosely run." Done. We crammed three three girls upstairs in our little stone cottage, and Ellen slept in her bunk over the 'garage', which was really a former stable.

More pilgrims continued to pour in, until 10 bed-less people remained into the night. They tore apart cardboard boxes that were in the stable and turned it into one big sleeping mat. When we left the next morning at 7a, bodies in sleeping bags were all over the stable floor like some sketchy homeless shelter.

The walk into Finisterre was great. We climbed gentle hills until we couldn't see anymore land in the distance and the sky blurred into the distant haze of the ocean. It was almost indistinguishable, but we knew it was there. After another 12K or so, we could really see it and it looked fucking amazing. This was how to end a walk, not in some spanish city but where you really can't walk any further. We dropped down the steep hills and descended into the bay of Cee, walking through the town along the water. The sun was hot and the breeze off the water felt cool and smelled like ocean. We climbed another hill, crossing over the ridge and back down to Finisterre. Ellen, Sarah B, and I stopped at one of the sandy beach coves off the main road to dip our feet in the turquoise water. We found Cathy and Courtney at a cafe along the sidewalk to the beach, and they joined us. The water was freezing, too cold for my limited tolerance. Ellen and Sarah de-robed into their underwear and went for it, I stood wading, holding their belongings with one arm and taking photos with the other. Courtney ran in without hesitation like a character in baywatch. Cathy cautiously followed. All four of them fully submerged. They're hardcore.

After they stopped shaking violently and dried off, we continued for another 5K into the main part of Finisterre, winding through the city, and then climbing a steep hill up to our hotel. Ellen and I ordered the special room with bay views for 80 euro a night with breakfast included. It was an amazing deal, the room was great.

That evening we bought a bottle of wine and walked to the lighthouse on the tip of Finisterre, and watched the sunset on the longest day of the year. Ellen and I found a rock on the steep grassy hillside to perch on. Other pilgrims were scattered throughout the steep cliff on little perches of their own, drinking wine and staring off into the orange glow of the sun. I could hear the french man and playing his wooden recorder a hundred yards away. Everyone was there.

We walked back into town and headed towards the large stretch of beach on the bay. We were in search of the giant solstice party we heard so much about. We had been looking forward to a crazy party of spanish hippies and new agey pilgrims, but the beach was silent. It was just a rumor. We passed other pilgrims under the dim glow of the streetlights, "Hey do you know where the solstice party is?" I asked. "We're looking for it too." We later learned that June 23rd is considered the real spanish solstice, or at least a crazy and mystical day. Legend has it that the virgin mary appeared floating in a stone boat (a popular vessel with the romans) from Finisterre up the coast to Muxia, which is another pilgrimage route of only 30K. Ellen and I settled for a sidewalk party with three other pilgrims who offered us a bottle of wine. There was a guy from Australia, a girl from Sweeden, and a young Spainard who couldn't speak any english. We sat on the ground with the dark bay to our backs talking about what pilgrims know best, the pilgrimage.

Mass

The service continued with more readings and group songs. I had some crazy gurgling pains in my stomach from a santiago cake, fresh OJ, and a café con leche Ellen and I scarfed down before. I turned to Ellen "Leonard, I've got the troubles. Do you think they have a bathroom in here?"
"No. Can´t you wait?"
"I don't think so." I grimmaced and adjusted my posture. "Am I allowed to leave?" I asked looking around.
"I'll tell you when..."
Ellen gave me the cue and I b-lined out the door. I headed into a museum and with inflection in my voice said "Servicos?" The lady pointed me through a couple doors and I found relief. At the door to the cathedral there was a guard turning people away. Shit. I had heard that pilgrim credencials allow you to skip the line into mass but I wasn't sure about how to get in if mass is already underway. I flashed my peregrino passport and he whisked me in.

I re-enterd at a moment where everyone was hugging one another and giving kisses on each other's cheeks. I weaved through the loving crowd back to my bench and of course my seat had been taken. Ellen looked at me like 'oops I didn't think you would make it back.' Communion started and everyone began to file out of the benches and take a little neco waffer from the priest. Most people let him put it in their mouth and it looked like there was some tongue touching of his finger on each delivery. I'm not a germaphobe (I despise hand santizer), but this seemed obvious. As the seat-stealer filed out to get her waffer I filed in. Hey, I was there first. I saw other people getting up from their seats during the service, usually to take their turn at confessional, so how would she know that I had to exit the cathedral for nature's calling? There was no protest when she discovered my return.

Five alter boys unhooked a rope from a large column that held a massive incense burner that hung 100 feet from the dome. The rope was freyed at the end branching into five smaller pieces for each person to hang on to. The priest lit a bonfire inside of it and the boys started yanking on the rope that thread through a winch mechanism way up high. The large, shinny metal lantern billowed smoke and the five boys started getting the rythym of the swing until it was flying hundreds of feet across the entire cathedral, back and forth. They whipped it higher and higher on each swing like a mischeavious pusher on the playground, until it seemed nearly out of control, maxing out and freefalling for a moment, and then 'snap' it jerked back into the smooth swing. The cathedral filled with a smokey haze that smelled like a mix of burning sage and pine needles.

Simultaneously as this ritual began every worshiper pulled out a camera. Arms lifted high holding a little LCD screen, many of the pilgrims lived the experience through their camera, present company included. It was a funny moment where we all said 'yes, this is why I'm here, to see this crazy spectacle and prove it to others.' It was a scene of digital worship as we all clung to our cameras in complete agreement.

100K

I slept like shit that night in Barbadelo. I was on the top bunk and my lower bunk mate was a skinny old spainard with a snoring problem. His skin was translucent gray from smoking and his jumbled teeth were yellow. When he choked on himself in the middle of the night, the coughing that followed wafted an ashtray smell up from below. I hated this fucker. When his snoring would get intense I started rocking my bunk violently like it was a canoe I wanted to capsize. This worked half of the time.

We set out around 7a after Ellen attended to her blisters, draining and dressing them. We climbed the hill to the restaurant where we ate that night and were told to come back for breakfast, however the door was shut and a scruffy german shepard lay on the steps. We continued with empty stomachs; there were no provisions to buy the day before in Barbadello. We walked about 5 or 6k before finding a cafe for breakfast. This was the 100K mark and things started getting crazy. There was a tour bus that dropped off about 40 pre-teens, and spainards with tiny backpacks started showing up.

The pilgrimage is part of a catholic tradition where upon successful completion of the journey you receive a compstella in Santiago. This is a 'get out of jail free' card allowing catholics to skip purgatory when they die. In order to get the compestella you have to walk the last 100K of the Camino de Santiago. Many people time it so they end up in Santiago on Sunday for church. We were on schedule to get there Friday for 12pm mass.

The new pilgrims are easy to spot. They wear common clothes, carry small sacks like the ones that come with nike shoes, and are more impressed with what has become mundane to us. The new pilgrims take photos of everything, including themselves. They are loud and look very clean. The trail feels very crowded like a long line at a store that happens to be moving at a brisk walking pace. There is an urgency with these shoppers, anxious if it were black friday. They seem like sellouts to us, and their camino ettiquette is sloppy. The trail has more wrappers and trash on it, the yelling and loud conversations are impossible to block out. This is snoring of daytime.

At one point the trail became very muddy and only stepping stones were a safe bet. This was the first time i wasn't able to walk at my own pace. The sloppy section created a traffic jam of careful new pilgrims in clean shoes. I just wanted to pass them all. Eventually the trail quieted as we out-walked the new pilgrims, who stop after 15k to stay on schedule for Sunday.

That night we stayed at a municipal hostel. There were only 28 beds, and we were worried it would be full given this new trail condition. We were relieved to find available beds and learn that they had been turning away the 'camino-lites' to give preference to the pilgrims who actually carried weight and had been walking since France.

The next day we found the trail quiet for the first hour or so, and then it picked up again. Ellen and I came to a section of trail that was flooded from the rain last week. There was a giant group of new pilgrims jammed up at the water, however they were attempting to go around it. It looked like a herd of cattle stomping a new trail through brush and over a stacked stone wall. Ellen and I approached the water and discovered an easy path of stepping stones spaced every couple feet. We carefully hopped through. We couldn't understand why they were going around. On the other side we passed a herd of people waiting for the rest of the group. Holy shit! These were special pilgrims, mostly downs syndrome kids / adults. The helpers were carefully coaxing them along the new path they had created. It looked dicey. We threaded our way through and kept a steady pace to ahead of this group. In front of us was a group a loud spainards. We figured they were drunk the way they carried on. Their pace was fast, but Ellen and I were determined to pass them. One man in particular kept hanging back and would almost begin to urniate as we approached. Once we came into sight he took off again. This was the loudest one, the guy we thought was a drunkard. After a few more attempts we finally got by he and the rest of his group, and realized they were part of the special pilgrim crew. We made it to Melide and checked into to a provisional hostel.

The regular municipal hostel was currently being renovated. They relocated all the beds to a makeshift hostel inside a giant warehouse expo center, the cobo hall of Melide. It seemed okay, so we checked in. That night turned out to be the worst hostel experience yet. The day packers were there and it was party time for them. They drank and smoked in a far corner of the giant air hangar-like space, chanting soccer fight songs, yelling, clapping, and laughing. At 10:30p they were still going strong but we figured it would cut out as all hostels have quiet time at 10:30p, but our hospitaleros were gone, it was a free-for-all. The giant space echoed their party chatter into the partioned area of bunks. We had walls but no ceilings. I tried listening to music in hopes of falling asleep, but by 12p it was no use. I was disappointed at the other spainards who passively stayed in their bunks during all the partying. It was obvious they could not sleep either. If I could speak the language I would have tried to intervene, but as a foreigner I was at their mercy. There were many shhhing noises but the group of twenty crazy spainards kept going until they quit at 1:30a. Ellen and I had our alarm set for 5:15a to get an early start on our 33k walk the next day. Damn them.

I thought of all the awful things I could do in the morning to sabotage these fuckers. I could shake their beds violently, splash water on them, and pour my liquid laundry detergent all over their packs. Maybe I would just hide their packs in the dumpster outside. But by the time 5:15a came around I didn't care anymore and just wanted to get the hell out of there.

It was dark when we started walking. We continued for about 7K until we found the first open coffee shop. We kept walking, making it to Arca by 2p. We checked into the municipal hostel again, but this one seemed more supervised. We were in a little nook with 4 bunks. The bathrooms were co-ed and the shower stalls didn't have curtains, so it was anyone's guess as to whom would be surprised. Ellen and I both showered without any strange encounters.

In Arca we caught up with many of our original camino friends who gained a day on us back in Astorga when the students took a day off. We still had 20K to Santiago and hoped that we would find more people there. We were avoiding the giant hostel of 400 beds just outside of Santiago, but figured many of our long lost friends would have stopped there instead of Arca.

Ellen wanted to get into Santiago early to take care of the housing arrangements for the students. We also needed to get our compestellas and make it to 12p mass. We calculated the distance and our pace and figured that we had to wake up at 4a.

We started walking at 4:45a after eating our breakfast provisions. We found our way through arca with the yellow glow of street lamps, and then the trail veered into the woods where we used our headlamps. Two of Ellen's students, Cathy and Courtney, were twenty minutes behind us. I wanted to hide in the woods and wait for them to get close and then start making strange snorking and grunting noises along with some twig-snapping. The woods were freaky, and that was the most frightening thing I could imagine hearing in total darkness. If they started running, then I would take off running too, amplifing the snorking / grunting. I kept walking instead but kept laughing just thinking about it.

We made it to Santiago with plenty of time to spare and found the Pilgrim office and got in line. It moved quickly and I was at the counter within 15 minutes. I had to fill out a few boxes on a sign-in sheet. There was a section that asked why I did the pilgrimage and I could check: religous or no religous. I put an X in the no religious box. The lady took my pilgrim passport and looked up at me. "You checked no religious" she said.
"Yes".
"I have to tell you that you will get a different certificate. Once I write this I cannot change this, do you understand?"
"Does the other certificate look different?"
"It shouldn't be a decision about aesthetics"
I peered over the counter and saw two piles of certificates on the desk. The no religious certificate was plain looking with less frills than the religious certificate.
"Hmmm, that one looks better". I said. I looked around the room to consult with Ellen who warned me of this, but I wasn't expecting the pressure of the decision. I thought they would just give me the no religious certificate. The other one was clearly the obvious choice, but I felt like a cheat. "I'll just take the no religious one, and if I want the other certificate I'll do the walk again." The lady looked at me flatly and didn't get the humor.

I watched her write my name in fancy caligraphy on the boring certificate. I walked out with a small poster tube that housed the 8.5 x 11 piece of paper. We checked our backpacks at luggage check stand a few doors down. They put our bags through an airport security x-ray machine, and without looking at the monitor took our 2 euros and carried our packs away. We wound our way through the city looking for the two hotels where Ellen had reservations for the students. The people at the front desks seemed confused that she was checking in but didn't want the key, and just wanted to pay and leave. "Ummm my amigos..." arms flailing "come here, peregrinos..." pointing to herself "teacher, my students..."

They finally got it, but the biggest mix up came at the next hotel where there was supposed to be three single rooms. The students decided amongst themselves who would get the singles and who get the doubles in the other hotel. Cathy and Courtney volunteered for one of the doubles, then Zack and Sam (the recently formed camino couple). Three other students were quick to take the singles, as it was said to be the ideal scenario. The rest of the students were mixed in doubles. Ellen and I showed up to the hotel and discovered that the three private rooms was actually one private triple. Oh shit. This will be great. There was some bickering when the students showed up, but it was only for one night.

We hurried back into the center of the city to the cathedral, which is a giant building covered in bright orange lichen and growing weeds from the lintels. I liked seeing an enormous, dirty cathedral after experiencing the immaculate cathedral in Burgos. We found seats with views of the giant incense burner that hung from a rope connected to a winch at the top of the dome in the center of the church. We were early, but this was a smart move because the cathedral was packed by noon, standing room only. Mass started promptly at 12p with a nun singing prayers that the audience responded to in a monotone song. There was lots of sitting and then standing and then sitting again. People repeatedly drew an upside down cross over their chests, but I just stood there unsure of the actual move. Ellen told me this mass was a very big deal because there was a cardinal there. When a cardinal gives mass he has other priests as helpers instead of alter boys. These preists were cloaked in bright red robes like kings, and they walked in form up to the alter. One of the red-robed men was 'Ultreia' the 82 year-old white bearded brazilian man. "Holy shit, it's Ultreia'" I whispered into Ellen's ear. "He's a priest!" Ellen whispered back. We were both shocked. We thought he was just some crazy old dude. We later learned that this was his seventh camino. We were blown away.

....to be continued.

Hostel Luck Part II

(continuation from previous post)

I remained stubborn and stayed put in my hostel. This was like owning a loser stock...jumping ship seemed like a loss. Even though the parish hostel was donation only I still felt like I had something gain.

Outside the door we heard the jingling of bells, which are tied around farm animals necks. In this case it was a family of goats, several females, a half dozen kids, and one billy. The babies were wild, jumping all over the old stacked stone house runis and making goat noises. Just like a petting zoo we instinctively approached the little ones until the hospitalero poked her head out of the other door warning us not to get too close the billy goat. "He´s mean" she said. The male goat had a big boner that he seemed preoccupied with, licking it incessantly. We turned around and headed back to the porch, and the goat followed. Oh shit. The door we had exited from only worked one way. Oh shit. The porch had only one set of stairs and railing around the perimeter. We were cornered. Courtney, Cathy, and Ellen began making high pitched noises of uncertainty as they huddled together at the far end. I climed onto a row of chairs. The goat slowly closed in on the three girls. The door opened and one of them quickly disappeared and then another. Boom the door slamed as the goat tried to follow. Now it was just Cathy and the goat. She turned away in fear and the goat started pressing her against the railing. The door opened again and she slipped away as the goat had the door slammed in his face again. He turned back passing me on his way down the stairs, and finally the door opened for me too.

Once the coast was clear I headed back to my hostel for the pilgrim meal I had prepaid for. The hostel was strangely rowdy. I sat across from a drunk spainard man who was infatuated with Sarah B. to my right. Drunk spanish man couldn't speak any english, but kept looking at her with puppy eyes and saying 'Bonita, bonita'. We were only on the salads. By the end of the meal he was offering her his desert. Sarah was completely uninterested and at this point very annoyed. I decided to accept the desert of fresh sliced fruit over yogurt on her behalf. Besides a lot of noise and love struck men the hostel was okay. The pilgrim meal was great.

I left the next morning after my prepaid pilgrim breakfast: coffee, yogurt, a pear, and cereal. I felt like I got my money's worth. I hit the road at 6:45a and with the heavy fog and rain it was nearly dark outside. It was cold and the wind blew hard, sending the rain sideways. It felt like an ocean squal. I walked alone and given the conditions it seemed erie as if I was heading into certain death. There is definitely something unnatural about subjecting oneself to weather like this, but I had gear. The only thing that was getting wet was my shoes and gloves. After two hours I hit the first town and stopped in for a café con leche, orange juice, and danish. I changed my socks and put on another layer under my rain gear. The rain died down and the air warmed as I descended into Mollesecca. I made it to Poneferrada around 1:30p, and checked into a giant Municipal hostel on the edge of town. They put me in an end room with 9 other beds on the first floor, a few of which were taken by Ellen´s students. The room had windows on three walls. The mattresses were bright blue from a pleather-like coating that was peeling off the middle from wear. I took a lone bed with a normal fitted sheet. Ellen showed up around 3p and was put in the basement room with 45 beds...the tables had turned.

I thought I lucked out with my set up but the few remaining beds were taken by snoring spanish men. After listening to them for an hour I grabbed my sleeping bag and pillow and headed upstairs to the internet room and slept on one of the futon-like couches. There was one other person up there who had the same idea. At some point in the night another joined us, and one of the two was started snoring. God damn.

That night the bed bugs paid me a visit. They were either in my sleeping bag or pillow, and possibly lived in the futon although it was sterile looking like office furniture with few places to hide. Bed bugs bite in bursts, making a string of one-two-three or one-two. I had a series on each knee, my right elbow, my right wrist, my forehead, and another just under my waistline. I became the lepper.

The only person I told was Ellen. She could be trusted with my fragile social condition. That night in the basement had fed her up with hostels too. So we when we got into Villafranca the next day we checked into a 'boutique hotel' recommmended by the guidebook. I needed some quarantine time. All of my clothes had to be washed including my sleeping bag.

The hotel seemed so pure and clean, a puffy white bed spread with and fancy bathroom. There was a toilet, bidet, and the shower rained from overhead along with body jets. It was the perfect santizing tank, and scrubbed like hell even though bed bugs don´t live on people. I just felt soiled. The hotel had a laundry service for 6 euros. They gave me a black garbage bag and I filled it with every single thing I had brought on the trip. I delivered it to the front desk wearing Ellen's shorts and low-cut shirt, which fit awkwardly in some areas. The next morning the bag appeared at our door with my clothes folded, but damp. They warned me of this. They said the dryer takes three times as long as the wash. My wool stuff was the driest along with my rain gear and fleece. I was good to go.

We ate the hotel breakfast, which was a nice buffet of fruit, meat, cheese, yogurt, and pastries. The hotel lady brought us café con leches and fresh squeezed orange juice. We really tried to fuel up because we had one of the biggest hikes of the trip that day, the alternative route through the mountains called dragonete. According to our guidebook the path is not very well marked and the route takes you over three mountains with a total elevation climb of 6000 feet. There aren't any services for 26k. None of Ellen's students wanted to do the walk. It was the first day the weather looked promising after all the rain so we decided to do it. We left at 9a after breakfast, a late start compared to our usual departures. The route started with a steep climb up an asphalt road for 5k. We came to Dragonete the town, which was one narrow street lined with stone houses. We had our first encounter with a loose dog that wasn't used to strangers. After a lot of barking and our attempts to yell "vamoose!" like we had heard spanish people say to their dogs, he relaxed, and it was clear he was more interested in the chocolate we had stopped to snack on.

The walk was amazing, easily the best one of the whole trip. The farming villages we passed through were so remote it almost felt creepy. The path was muddy at times, and by looking at the tracks of mostly farm animals and 4x4´s, we were the only pilgrims to walk that day. At the first valley we came to a section of trail where the guidebook had warned that we might get wet. The path became a creak for about 150 feet. We took off our boots and wore our flip-flops. It was 10 feet wide and only ankle deep, but damn cold. We then climbed the second mountain, which took us through a chesnut forest. These trees were crazy looking, huge trunks at least 500 years old it seemed, covered in moss and sometimes partially hollow with new growth coming out of the top.

The weather held for most of the day, only sprinkling a couple times. We emerged from the mountains onto the main trail at 6:30p, and got a text from one of Ellen's students that the hostel was full. We had three more towns in between where we hoped to find beds. The first town was too small and didn't have an albergue. We started another climb and 5k later got to the second town, La Faba, and stopped at the German Confreternity Hostel. It was nearly empty and looked awesome. We were welcomed in as number 15 and 16 (out of 60 total beds). Other pilgrims were cooking in the kitchen and Ellen and I received an invitation to dinner, to be served in 15 minutes. I quickly showered and she ran to the market and picked up a bottle of wine and a santiago cake (a thin, almond cake) for desert. The hostel had a dryer, and for 4 euros the hospitalero took all of my damp stuff and had it dry by the time dinner was finished. I slept great that night, and wasn't bitten again.

The next day was a serious walk because we had to stop short the day before. We had a 37K hike to Samos. We left at 6:30a. It was cold and there was dense fog, so thick I felt like Michael from The Lost Boys when he and the other vampires are hanging from the train truss. Beyond the edge of the trail that snaked up the mountain there was nothing but white. The air was full of moisture, you could see it blow past in the wind. I had to put on my rain gear at the first town we came too, which was really spectacular but difficult to see. We were in Galecia, which is basically irish country, irish decendants and irish weather. The orange tiled roofs we're used to seeing are now slate, and the stucco buildings are stacked stone.

We finally reached Samos and the weather had improved. It was still cool but we had some sun. We checked into one of the largest (by sheer size, only 11 monks actually live there) monasteries in Spain. The hostel was sunken a little below street level off a side street. Inside was a long vaulted room with a plaster ceiling covered in strange cartoon-like murals. It felt cold and dank. The white bunk bed covers were nappy like terry cloth and dirty. We ate a peregrino meal at the restaurant across the street with one of Ellen's students and a lone german lady who spoke very good english. We lamented the funky hostel and talked about switching to a private hostel that had just opened on the other side of town.

Again, I held out. Ellen and Sarah B. went and checked it out and returned with remorseful looks on their faces. They packed up and moved, and for 12 euros each got a clean room of five bunks that never filled up after they checked in. Damn this hostal market. I took a shower, timing it for later in the day to insure hot water. The water was great, but I had forgoten my towel on the bunk. I had to mop myself with a little orange tote bag I use carry my supplies.

The next morning I picked Ellen up at the fancy hostal. The door was locked and I stood out front for a few minutes before another pilrim, Bob from Maine, noticed me from above. "hey you guys leaving already" he said jokingly. Bob is a scruffy grey and brown, and reminds me of an over-enthusiatic high school science teacher. He is in his late 50's and when he shakes your hand he does an extra move at the end that seems left over from the 60's, like "hey man, I really feel you, brother." I like Bob. His wife is Nancy, an asian-american lady with pepper grey hair. She is really relaxed and seems like Bob's opposite.

Ellen was upstairs, popping a new blister she developed. This one was huge, and the first to actually require a needle. It just didn't seem smart to cram it into a hiking boot. We started walking around 8a. The sky was grey and looked at bit threatening. The path followed rivers and streams that snaked through the valleys. We had a short walk of 18k to Barbadello, which was nothing more than a municipal hostel and one restaurant. We all waited for the hostel to open and our group quickly filled the 17 beds. We purposely stayed at this town and not the larger town to get out of sync with the other pilgrims. Most pilgrims follow the schedule in the guidebooks pressurizing the hostels in the destination towns. At this point we were nearing the 100k mark of the walk where the pilgrim population nearly doubles.

....to be continued.