Gemilas en Burgos - Part I

After Doro and I split up from Ingeborg, we walked across a busy road towards the cathedral, whose spires we could see not far away. In fact, just about anywhere in Burgos you can see the spires of the cathedral, even though it is a fairly large city. We walked through a long, tree-lined paseo, where the trees were so dense and dark overhead that the street lights were on underneath even though it was early afternoon.


As we reached the end, we rounded a corner which would take us into the man plaza and we saw what was probably a mid-range hotel, so we decided to duck in and try our luck. As soon as we entered the small lobby and the man behind the desk took a look at our obvious pilgrim attire, I knew what the answer would be--no rooms available. No trouble. I was certainly not going to push to stay were pilgrims were obviously not wanted, so we headed out and back towards the plaza. Doro had a map, and so we eventually got to a church-run alberque that would open around 1 p.m. There was a cafe across just a few yards away so we sat gratefully at a table and (what else), got a coffee. I had already decided that I didn't want a dorm-style hostal so Doro was kind enough to let me use her cell phone to call a number that was on the map. Sorry, that one was full, but the woman on the line gave me the number of another place, the Hostal Manjon on Calle Gran Teatro. I called, and explained who I was and did they have rooms? Yes, certainly. Could I come see them? Yes? Around 1:30? Yes. Great! I thanked the woman and then just had to figure out how to get there. Doro decided to wander around some of the wide streets and shops:

And I decided to have some lunch at the little cafe and see if the man inside could give me directions. Luckily, he had some maps of the main area around the cathedral that were like placemats and so was able to show me where Calle Gran Teatro was. I was happy to see that it was only several blocks further on from the paseo and the hotel where I had just been, so I ate my lunch, thanked the gentleman again and headed off to see what my luck would be at the Hostal Manjon.

When I got to the address, it was simply a door off the sidewalk in between a couple of office buildings. There was an intercom buzzer, so I pushed the button and identified myself to the voice that answered and the door was buzzed open. For the first time since leaving the US, I found myself in a building with an elevator! The small entry way had a flight of about 5 steps going up to the elevator door, and to the left another flight of steps leading down to---I couldn't see. The voice had told me to come up to the 7th floor so I was incredibly grateful for the lift, even though once I got in, it was barely big enough to hold me and my backpack.

When I reached the floor, the opposite door opened and I stepped out into a narrow hallway. I could only turn to the right, and walked a few steps into what looked like the waiting room in a doctor's office. There were a few chairs and a coffee table with a lamp and a couple of magazines, but no people, and no place for a receptionist or similar. However, the long hallway in front of me on the left continued, so I followed it until it finally turned right into another reception type area, this one with a small, trim young woman in a white smock behind a desk. Again, I identified myself, and she said she was Elena and could take me to see the room.

I followed her through a maze of narrow hallways, some dark, some lighter, with old flooring and linoleum, turning and twisting until I wasn't sure I would be able to find my way out on my own. I also noticed, however, that everything, though well used and not new, was spotless. Finally, we turned one last corner and Elena opened the door to a room. It contained a sink directly across from the door, with a small tub/shower combo right next to it on the left and on the far left, a double bed by a window. There was also a TV! And a chair. It looked like heaven. I told her at once I would take it and could I have it for 2 nights? I could. We then returned the way we came, me following behind, frantically trying to remember the way, and at the desk we made all the arrangements. She gave me the key to the room which was an old-fashioned skeleton key and I spent the rest of my time there wrestling with that key. I think you had to hold your mouth just right in order to make that silly key work!

Elena was kind enough to walk back to the room with me to demonstrate the key and show me where the toilet was--just down the hall. She stood with me while I sweated and swore under my breath trying to make the key work. Finally I got into the room by myself and told her I thought I would be okay locking it later. Then she really surprised me by asking if I cared to have any clothes washed. What a blessing! I would be able to start the next leg of my journey with all clean clothes. I told her yes, I would have some for her later and thanked her very much.

Then, I went back to the room, rummaged around to see if I had enough snack type food for some kind of dinner and gratefully took a shower in my own room and lay down for a nap!

Moving On

During the night in Santo Domingo, thunderstorms raged through the night and lightening flashed on and off. As usual, I didn't get much sleep because the man in the bunk next to mine (a good 8 inches away) snored like a chain saw, as did most everyone in the dorm. I continued to be amazed at the huge variety of sounds that human beings make when they're asleep! In the morning, the usual packing ritual ensued and Rita, Ingeborg and I made our way just down the way to a cafe that was open.

It was still raining, and Ingeborg saw the little cart above. We weren't sure if someone attached this to a bicycle or whether they simply pulled it, but it looked like she was ready for business! Inside, we had our usual cafe con leche and discussed what to do. I had to say I wasn't really thrilled about walking in the rain, but Rita decided that walk she must, so she left us and headed out into the dark, wet morning. Ingeborg and I decided to take the bus to Burgos. This was where I knew we would part ways, because her husband was coming to meet her there for her birthday and then they would walk a ways together and he would go back to work in Germany while she continued on.

For me, I was feeling the arrival of "Mother Nature", and so I thought staying a day or 2 in Burgos would give my foot a chance to rest as well as possibly finding a private hostal room to actually sleep for a couple of nights. Then, I would carry on. I expected that the rest of the journey would be on my own and I was both sad to lose Ingeborg's company and excited to be able to walk as I had planned, without escort.

We got the bus shortly after. The day was lightening, but still wet and dreary. As the bus passed each little stop, I thought about where I might have stayed if, like Rita, I had continued walking. At one point, I looked out the window of the bus and saw the little man from Jakarta who had encouraged me at Los Arcos and who had greeted me so warmly at Lorca. He was on the Path, walking parallel to the road, but through fields and farmlands, his huge pack high above his head, covered in a bright yellow poncho. I had no idea what such a small man would be carrying in such a large pack, but he bore it very lightly and had a spring in his walk, even in the chilly, driving rain. His image will stay with me forever.

The bus crowded and unloaded at each stop. The right was only 50 Km (approx. 30 miles), but that was at least 2 days walking and the little towns in between were little more than bars with a gas station here and there. I was glad to be on wheels. At maybe the third or fourth stop, several young men got on, and when they saw my hat, started snapping their fingers in appreciation. "Cowboy!" I heard one of them laugh. I smiled back at them and said "De Colorado!" and they nodded. Then as they sat down, I saw someone I did not think I would see again--Doro! She, Ingeborg and I had a great reunion right there in the middle of the bus. Despite having spent the night indoors, she was still wet and bedraggled. She said she had walked late into the evening the night before and had got caught in one of the thunderstorms. She had been scared to death that she would be stuck by lightening before she found shelter, so decided also to take the bus to Burgos rather than risk another stormy night. I was so glad to see her and we made potential plans to stay together somewhere.

The bus ride was quick after that, and soon we were all piling out at the Burgos main bus station, getting our packs from underneath and heading for a last coffee together before we went our separate ways. Afterward, amongst hugs and a few tears, Ingeborg left to find her hotel, and Doro and I walked towards the Burgos cathedral to decide our plan of action.

Getting It Done

Note: This trip took place in the month of September, 2007. Life intervened but I am determined to get this narrative down in its entirety.
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After the early-morning birthday celebration, Rita decides to walk on with Gaby, and Ingeborg and I decide to take the bus to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. At that time I was beginning to think about walking only every other day for a while, since my foot was acting up again. We wait at the bus stop, and when the bus comes, try to get on, but the driver tells us it is going to the wrong place--backwards for us. Ingeborg thinks they do not want to pick us up because we are peregrinos, but when I re-read the schedule, it seems that we looked at it wrong. The way it's written is that there is one schedule for busses arriving and one for busses leaving. Finally, after being totally confused, we ask a woman who has come to wait and she assures us the next bus is the one we want. Twenty kilometers later, we reach our destination. Santo Domingo de la Calzada is another pleasant town, somewhat larger than some of the others, and it seems very pilgrim friendly. The "Santo Domingo" was a monk in the middle ages who founded a hospital for pilgrims where the cathedral is today.


This cathedral is actually connected to the albuergue where we find our bed for the night--in fact, the front part of where we walk in once WAS that hospital. When I step over the threshhold--and one must step up OVER it, it is into a cavernous area, almost stable-like. There is a smaller room, like a gift shop, off to the right where we go in and pay for our stay--donativo (donation) only. I pay 5 Euros. The office/shop is staffed by monks and one of them shows us up to the dorm area. I am quite happy when I see that due to the low ceilings in the room, there is no room for bunk beds! Everyone is on the ground and there are even storage shelves at each bed. Luxury! Of course, the bathrooms are miles away and down a flight of stairs, but I will worry about that in the middle of the night.


One snag--at the time we arrive, there seems to be a "water outage" in the town, so no flushing of toilets, etc. With 1 bathroom of 2 stalls for women and the same for men, to accommodate many pilgrims, this could get ugly soon. We decide to do a bit of sight seeing, and luckily by the time we get back, the situation has resolved. We go to the cathedral to pray and to look around. This is one of those places where the church has become more like a museum.

Apparently, there is a legend here about a young pilgrim who stopped here on his journey to Santiago. He stayed at an inn, and the innkeeper's daughter had "eyes" for him, but he, being a dutiful pilgrim, declined her advances. Scorned, the daughter put some of her father's belongings in the pilgrim's pack, and then when the loss was noticed, blamed the pilgrim for the theft. He was caught, returned to the town and executed.

Later, his parents having gotten word of what happened, they came to the town to retrieve their son's body. They appealed to the sheriff or lord at the time, who was at his dinner. He refused to give them the body, because it was already buried, stating, "Your son is as dead as this chicken on my plate!" Whereupon the chicken jumped up to life again and flew out the door! The parents rushed outside to discover their son, alive, and walking towards them.

Since then, the church has housed live chickens in a special cage (they are rotated every 4 hours), and if they crow when you are in the church, you will have good luck!


It seems that chicken has been a theme on this pilgrimage. The first place I stayed in in St. Jean was Le Chant du Coq, the Song of the Cock, or the Cock's Crow. My mother and I had this running joke about cooking chicken, which makes no sense to anyone but us, but all this chicken imagery on this journey makes me feel that much closer to her. It's just as if everything on this trip is meant to be, and no matter how it turns out, it will be just what I needed to have happen. It's an odd feeling, but it competely removes all of the pressure of making the trip "be" a certain way.

Later, I wander through the town a bit. I find a book shop/school supply store and buy a wonderful little Camino guidebook. It's in Spanish, which I can read well enough, but the best part is that 1) it's small enough to fit in my shirt pocket, and 2) it has maps with distances between towns and elevations of the walk. It is a complete jewel!

About this time, I start to feel hungry, and go into a small cafe, looking for lunch, but they don't have much left. The woman behind the counter tells me there is a restaurant just across the way, on the 2nd floor, so I go over and up the stairs. It's a nice little place, green and white checked tablecloths, and pink, rather frilly curtains. The decor seems rather incongruous to the clientele, which is made up entirely of working men, taking their noon day break. Apparently, women don't go out to lunch much in the smaller towns of Spain--at least not this restaurant. I am the only woman in the place, but the man who serves me is very polite and accommodating. He is willing to change a 50 Euro bill, even though I realize he has to send his wife out to do so. She is the one who brings me the change, and asks if everything was all right when she hands me the tray with the bills. I get the strong feeling that she wanted to come out to see this female pilgrim who would come into this place, alone, for a midday meal. I tell her everything was lovely, and we share a smile.

As we settle in, the clouds come over, and I experience the first rain storm since I have been in Spain. This one looks like it's going to be around for a while. There is thunder and lightening, and I try to plan out how I will get everything covered if it is raining tomorrow when we leave. I have brought a poncho, but I am not sure if it will fit over me AND all of my backpack, so when the rain lets up, Ingeborg, Rita and I take a little shopping expedition and I look for a rain jacket that I can wear, in order to use the poncho solely to cover up my pack.

As I mentioned, finding something to fit me is not easy, but after 2 or 3 stores, I find a jacket that will do well, and it's on sale, so I snap it up. Since it is sprinkling again, I go ahead and wear it, and we find a cafe that is selling grilled skewers of marinated pork, so we decide to have a nice protein dinner, sitting in the drizzle under cafe umbrellas.

Toasting each other with Spanish wine, and nibbling on the perfectly cooked meat, we all agree that life is good on the Road.

A Camino Birthday

Note: Per the previous post, all the following posts took place last year; however, I am writing in the present time to keep the "flow".

After our lovely stay in our tranquil Navarette B&B (it certainly wasn't a hostel!), Ingeborg and I are eager to go forward to Najera, about a 16K walk. I feel very ready. Rita, who was also in Navarette, has gone on, and I expect we will meet up again in Najera. I feel a little regret at leaving Navarette--it had such a good feeling to it, the beautiful church, the library, the lovely tapas bar with the shaded terrace outside, even the outdoor market we encountered on our arrival. As with many of these tiny towns in Spain, I wish I could stay longer, soak up more of the "juice" of each place. The Camino is eternal, yet the road waits for no one these days because we all have to "get back" to somewhere. As we walk this morning, I almost wish there was no "back" to get to, that I could just keep on, with my little pack, my few possessions, my stick, my hat. Such a simple life, a dream, really.

A few kilometers on the way, we stop in Ventosa, in a rather modern cafe, to have a coffee. Inside, there are a couple of pilgrims eating, at least 1 from Ireland by her accent. She comments on my hat. We sit at the bar and order coffee, and Ingeborg decides she wants hers with whiskey. We communicate that to the barkeeper, who also turns out to be the owner. He tells her the proper term to use when ordering that (which of course, I have forgotten), and then says, "Here, I'll make one for myself, to show you!" Which he does, and enjoys it with us. Ingeborg makes some comment about a book written by a popular German commedian who apparently went on the Camino and then told his story, which is why the Road is now brimming with Germans. The barkeep shakes is head, "Oh, that book!" he says. During the conversation, we find out that he used to be a truck driver, but quit that, and bought this place. He is the owner, chief cook and bottle washer. While we are talking, the Irish girl tries to ask for some butter for her tortilla. In Spain, a "tortilla" is basically an open-faced omelette with thinly-sliced layered potatoes. The barkeep and other Spanish folk seem confused by the request for butter (mantequilla). What would you put on it, asks the Irish girl? Why, mayonnaise, of course! We all laugh at our national oddities.

It's a nice interlude, but soon we are back on our way, passing a number of vineyards and wineries. The wine here in Spain is really quite good, and doesn't give me the awful headache and chest tightness that wine in the U.S. seems to. The sun is getting hotter, and I'm feeling tired again. During our walk, Ingeborg says that I walk too fast in the mornings and that's why I get so tired. I need to keep a steady pace throughout, and I know she is right. I have seen how Rita walks, always the same pace from start to finish, and yet, at 71, she consistently outwalks me. The Germans know a lot about walking!

Eventually, we begin to see the outskirts of Najera. We are coming up via the "industrial" side. There is construction, road work, etc. It is not pretty, and we are always on the lookout for our yellow guiding arrows. As we approach the town, we come upon 2 rather dilapidated lounge chairs that have been arranged seemingly randomly for tired wayfarers. Ingeborg takes advantage, after all, pilgrims must rest while they can!

The sun is hot as we hit the town proper. There are shops and offices, and for the first time in while, real traffic. I think it has been since Pamplona that there was real traffic to be aware of. Even walking beside the highway as above, there was plenty of room to stay away from the cars. Now, we are navigating city streets, and still following the arrows, not really sure where we are going. Of course, we are thinking of the alburque, and Ingeborg's guide book has done us well so far, but we also want to find Rita. Earlier she called to say that we should meet her by the bridge that goes over a river. Hmmm, kind of vague if you ask me.

After a trek through winding streets, stopping at an alimentacion for a Coke, we come upon what appears to be the center of town. Najera apparently is bisected by a river (see first photo above). We reach a grassy park with benches, near a bridge that we hope is the right one, and put our packs down. Ingeborg is going to try to reach Rita on their cell phones (in German, the word for cell phone is "handy", no joke!). She's a bit peeved because she thinks that Rita has now turned off her phone to ignore her. She leaves a message, and while we are waiting for her to call back, we notice a group of men, probably working guys, who are chatting together in the park. One of them comes over to us and offers us apples. We gratefully accept and have a little snack, and Rita calls. Bless her, she says she has arranged a room for us in another private hostal, and all is ready. We tell her where we are, and she tells us which way to walk. We head away from the river, and see the bus station, along with rows of shops, restaurants, etc. Then we cross into a large sandy plaza with large shade trees, and tables set up, being served from a cafe/bar across the street. As we make our way through this plaza, we see Rita coming around the corner from behind the restauant. We all greet each other enthusiastically, and she guides us to our lodging. Again, it's such a surprise--a hotel, really. We are on the 2nd or 3rd floor, I don't know, but as always, there are stairs, but this is even better than the room in Viana--there is a real, honest-to-God BATHROOM, with a TUB and even a bidet! A full, American-sized room. I'm stunned. I don't even know how to react other than to lie back on my twin bed and kick my feet to the ceiling!

After getting our showers, doing the regular washing out of clothes, and hanging things out to dry, we head back out to the plaza to have a coke. As we chat, we see Gaby, the German lady that we met in Viana, and then we decide to walk over to the alburgue to get our stamps. The alburque is across the bridge and it is apparent once over that this is the "older" section of town. The streets are much narrower, twisty and wind-y, and there's just that "medieval" feel to it. Cobblestones replace asphalt, and the cars don't come down every street. The alburque, however, is new, and there is a computer, so after we get our stamps, Ingeborg heads there to catch up on e-mail, etc. I hit the ladies locker room, and am not surprised to find, that even in this new building with a real shower/dressing room, that I can barely close the stall door because it literally hits my knees when I sit down. I guess they are just not used to tall women in Spain!

Rita decided to stay with Gaby when Ingeborg and I went to the alburque, so I am now exploring on my own. I wander back into the old town, and find the church. I want to make my thanks offering. The church here could not be more different from the one in Navarette. This place is stark and cold. There is absolutely NO ornamentation whatsoever. All I can think of is Oliver Cromwell and Puritans, even though there is a rather gruesome crucifix. It is not a peaceful place at all, and after a rather brief turn through the building, I am happy to leave. Afterwards, I wander the randomly winding streets, sort of looking for a grocery store, but not really. I see a couple of men (pilgrims) with shopping bags from what looks like a food store and ask where they got their goods. They give me directions and I find a TEENY cubbyhole of a store and buy some lemon yogurt.

Then I meet up with Ingeborg and we decide to have some tapas. We choose a place pretty much at random, and make our selections. They have an outdoor patio, so we go out to sit and who should we see but Claudette from Quebec! The Camino is a small world, especially for those who walk at the same pace!

While we are eating, we see Rita coming across the plaza. She's trying to find something she can eat, but it is difficult for her, since she can't really eat flour. After we're done, we say good-bye to Claudette and go back into the older section of town. Ingeborg is looking for something, and Rita pulls me aside to tell me that tomorrow is Ingeborg's birthday, and we need to do something for her. Candles, she says, we must have candles! I am wracking my brains trying to remember the Spanish word for candles, but for the life of me cannot. Birthday, I know, so I start looking for a likely store. I see what looks like a hardware store, paint, tools, etc. Surely, I think, they will have candles.

I go in. A friendly-looking gentleman behind the counter asks if he can help me. I begin by telling him that tomorrow is the birthday of my friend and I need.....still drawing a blank on the word for candles, I mime striking a match, and then blowing out a candle. "Ahhh!" he says, "Velos de cumpleanos!" Velos! That's the word. Does he have any? Alas, no, but sometimes bakeries have them. Is there one near? He points down the way, and I thank him profusely. Rita and I walk out, on a mission. Ingeborg, I think, is trying to buy more time on her cell phone, so she is distracted, thankfully. I go into the bakery which is very busy, now that it is after 5 pm and siesta is done. At last, it's my turn and I ask if she has "velos de cumpleanos". She does, but the candles are numbers, not just little candles. Ingeborg is going to be 61--does she have a 6 and a 1? She does! Mission accomplished. I pay and she wraps them up for me. I give a high-five to Rita on the way out, and go back to the hardware store to thank the man for putting me in the right direction.

We then head back to our room, thinking we might want to eat in an actual restaurant tonight, but on the way, Rita shows me that has bought a couple of carrots to use for the birthday "cake" the candles are the kind that have small spikes on the end for putting into cakes, etc. A carrot will work just fine!

We never do get to a restaurant, because in Spain, nothing like that opens before 9 pm, but thanks to my earlier wanderings, I did find a place that offered a pilgrims' menu, so I lead us all back there, and we have dinner before retiring. While Ingeborg is in the shower, Rita shows me how she has fixed the candles to the carrots, and hides them in the dresser drawer. All is ready.

At dawn the next day, Rita is up before either of us, and wants to light the candles. I am having a hard time containing my laughter, and finally Ingeborg wakes up, just a little bit baffled. "Happy Birthday!" I holler, and Rita says the same in German. We light the candles and Ingeborg gets to blow them out, celebrating her birthday on the Camino:

I don't remember if she actually ate the carrots!

Reluctance

Tomorrow (Labor Day) it will be one full year since I left here to go on my Camino journey. A day does not go by when I am not walking somewhere on that Way in Spain. A day does not go by when I do not think of the people I met there. So, why have I not finished writing about my "adventure"? I can't seem to answer that question to my own satisfaction. I could say it's lack of time, but I manage to post on my other blog at least a couple of times a week, so that's not a good excuse.

I think, rather, that somewhere, down deep, I believe that if I don't finish writing about the journey, then the journey won't be over. When, in fact, I know that the journey is FAR from over. I know this. But it doesn't stop the reluctance.

Another possibilty I've thought of is that am now at the point of documenting my trip where my foot pain started to interfere with my walking, and where I began to take more bus rides, and where I made the difficult decision to cut my originally-planned 2-month trip back to 1 month. When I now think back, I feel like I "cheated", that perhaps I am not a "real" Pilgrim, comparing myself (unfairly, I know) to the ones I walked with who DID "finish". Yet, again, I know that my journey is not done, and that my Camino was MINE alone, in all its backward-walking glory, and that comparison to anyone else's is not only inaccurate but possibly hurtful to myself. I cannot let myself dwell on those types of negative thoughts. It's not about what I did not do, but about what I DID.

A side note: I am a medical transcriptionist by trade, and the other day I was transcribing a note on a patient who suffered from COPD, a lung disease. This patient tried to do daily walks to keep in some kind of shape, and actually told the doctor, who relayed it to the medical report, that walking uphill BACKWARDS put less strain on the lungs!! I feel vindicated!!

There is still much to tell about my Camino. The actual foot-walking part is close to being over, but so much else happened that needs to be said.

I will finish this. That first and very special journey will be documented here. And I have already begun tentative plans for a trip back, to actually walk the entire Way between St. Jean and Roncesvalles, then to continue from Burgos to Compostela, to finish what I started, this time knowing so much more than before. I don't know when, but I know it WILL happen, so that is enough.

So, if by some chance, you do check here now and again, keep doing so. There will be more to read soon I promise. Every day is a step along the Way, and with each passing one I learn so much.

Many blessings...

A Change in Rhythm

When morning comes, we all rise, rinse, pack and leave our little lime-green sanctuary. Rita has decided to go ahead and walk with Gaby, Ingeborg decides she would like to bus it short way to Logrono, the capital city of the Rioja region, and in the center of Spanish wine country. I agree to go with her, thinking if I walk a day or two, then maybe take the bus here and there, I can save my foot and all will be well. We have our usual cafe con leche in a little cafe across the plaza from the church and the pharmacy where we were last night. Everything looks different in the quiet morning, yet, since the town is so small, I know exactly where I am. No matter how short a time I spend in these little Spanish town, after even an hour of wandering around in them, I begin to have my bearings and actually feel at home. It's an odd feeling, but good--not so much connected to the people (who often are not present), but to the places themselvs. Perhaps the actual land of Spain has a partiularly welcoming and accommodating quality to it, who knows?

We say farewell to Rita and Gaby, agreeing to catch up at some point later. Pilgrim flexibility is a great thing--to be able to say hello and goodbye, just with the intention that we hope to see each other again, but if not, the journey together was good, and we all bless it.

We get to the bus stop at the bottom of the hill, and begin the exercise in trying to decipher Spanish bus schedules. I never did completely figure it out. There are usually 2 schedules--ones for the buses that will be arriving and another for the buses that will be leaving. You might think that they could just say something like, "The bus from BLANK arrives at 1:00 am, then then leaves at 10:15 for BLANK." But, no, there are two separate schedules and you kind of have to match them up, or (as I learned in France where they do the same thing with trains), you end up in the wrong bus.

Truthfully, the best way to make sure you are on the right bus is just to ask another person who is waiting every time the bus shows up, "Is this the bus to BLANK?" The people at the bus stops are quite helpful. Thus, shortly we are on the bus to Logrono on a bright, sunny, early fall morning. It's a short trip, only about 10K, so I don't feel too guilty about taking the bus. Plus my foot is feeling better, too, and I am encouraged that the rest will help.

Soon, we are on the outskirts of the town, city rather, and it is a much bigger place that we have been in, probably since Pamplona. Ingeborg and I are just not sure if we want to stay here. For some reason, we both seem to be in tune about wanting to be in the smaller places, to be more in the rural areas, the small, hidden towns with the amazingly guilded and decorated churches. For me, and maybe for her, also, too many people seems to take away the depth of the experience. They certainly take away any hope for quiet contemplation, and that is something we both enjoy immensely.

So, once we are at the station, rather than looking for an alburgue, we consult her map and head for the ticket kiosk to see where we want to go and how long it will take. After consulting her guidebooks, etc., we settle on Navarrette, another 12 to 15 KMs away. Okay, so we have used the bus to get us past a slightly above-average walking day in about half the time, including waiting, but still, that is all right. We have a coke in the bus station bar, and of course, I decide to head to the facilities.

There's a huge line of women (not surprising), but only a couple of stalls being used. I hope I can get it before the bus comes. Then I realize what's happening--this is a pay toiliet and all the women are holding the doors open for the next person so no one has to pay. They see me with my pack and beckon me forward (of course, these are mostly Spanish "grandmother" types. I tell them it's ok, I can wait, but they won't hear of it--"come, come", they say, and show me the empty stall. How can I argue? I exit refreshed and share "Gracias" all around. The woman beam at the simple courtesty. How easy it is to deal with people if you just use a little common sense.

So, then, on the bus, and just a bit later, off at Navarrette. We have called ahead to get a room in a private albugue. We depart the bus just off the main street, and see that there is a little market going on. There are fruit vendors, clothing, handbags, etc. We wander through this for a bit before trying to find our place, and Ingeborg buys another fanny pack to replace one that she has not been happy with. I can't decide whether to buy some fruit, or just wait. But, as is usual here in Spain, the produce in these open markets is vastly better looking and more attractive than what you find the the alimentacions. From where we are standing at the market stall, we can look up a hill and see the church, also a large, shaded plaza just before it, and on the other side, and official-looking building that is probably the town hall complex. It seems just a beautiful little town, and we decide to find our rooms and do some exploring.

Following the guidebook, we continue through the maket, going west, and see a road that divides, one way going straight, one way going slightly right, but up a hill, mostly in the same direction. There's no sign, of course, so we're stumped. As we stand there with that universal "I'm Lost!" look on our faces, a couple of women come out of a bakery across the street and spot us. They obviously know we are pilgrims, so they come over. We tell them the name of our place, and they nod vigorously--they seem to know it well. They point down the lower road and then to the right, so we start walking. They watch us, but after a few minutes, we have either made a wrong turn, or NOT made a turn, and they come running after us, waving and pointing.

Yes, we've missed a turn. And, as I turn around, I DO see a sign for the place, but coming from the direction we were, you would not have seen it--it's only visible from the OTHER way. We thank them both profusely, and they carry on with their errands. Again, angles in odd places.

It's around midday now, and quiet, and we hope we'll be able to get in before siesta closes everything down. We buzz the door and I give my first name. The door opens, and we are in a cool, quiet, very modern, marble-line foyer. This seems like a hotel rather than an alburque! There's a small room off to the right and a man comes out to welcome us. He is a bit taller than me, thin, with a grizzled fuzz of beard, sparking dark eyes and dark hair. He has the worst teeth ever. I am realizing that dental care in Spain has a long way to go. Even England seems to have passed them. But his face is kind, and he is beaming to see us. In fact, he looks rather like a gaunt Dr. McCoy from Star Trek (at least, that's the first thing I think when I see him). He leads us up the stairs to a darker registration area where we pay and get our credentials stamped. Then he takes us down a lovely tiled hall and shows us the room.

It is lovely!! Two small beds with lovely coverlets and fixtures, warm tile floor, and a sliding door off onto a terrace/balcony that runs the length of the building and so is shared by all the other lodges. There's also a sliding clothesline to hang out our washing! And, for a first in my entire trip so far, the bathroom has a ventilation fan!!! Ingeborg and I are just beside ourselves. This is truly high class.

We express great appreciation to our host and he beams some more, and leaves us to our unpacking. We sit on the beds and just look at each other. Talk about the luck of the draw! This place must be only a few years old, and has taken all of the things most modern travelers want--good plumbing, attractive fixtures, a bit of privacy, and put it into a small and unassuming place that is completely welcoming. Truly, this is a jewel of a place. So, if you are ever travelling in Navarette, Spain, and want a good place to stay, go there!

After we get ourselves organized, we go back to to find a place to have a bit of lunch. We find a restaurant that seems fairly busy, and we end up sitting against a wall directly under a TV. Note: the Spanish LOVE their TVs in bars/cafes. It's very odd to go to a place of any size and NOT have a TV blaring. Kind of discordant when you've been walking in silence all day, but there you have it. Ingeborg is not happy about this, and really, I'm not either, but I'm completely into the "when in Rome" attidude. In Spain, things are the way they are--they may seem odd or inconvenient to me, but I'm not Spanish, and I'm just passing through, so I am certainly not going to make a fuss over something I'm going to leave behind tomorrow.

After we eat, we head up to the church via the main street, and quietly go in.

As I walk in (through the door second to the right in the above picture), there is a small entryway, then you turn to the right and end up facing the end of the church that is out of the photo on the right. This is a relatively small church, but the alter is enough to make me catch my breath. From the bottom of the church floor, to the very top of the highest point is wrought in gold, ornate, baroque, rococco, however, you want to describe it, the care, workmanship, and sheer GLOW of the gold is almost enough to litterally make you go to your knees. As soon as you see all of that decoration, you immediately begin to wonder who made it, how long it took, what incredible details have gone into this work. There are not too many times when I can see any kind of art work and have my entire mind immediately go to the word "prayer", but this altar in this little church is exactly that. The entire work is an amazing, multi-layered, multi-leveled prayer to God. I'm sure the entirety of this piece took many years, generations even, to complete and the continunity is also amazing. It's seamless. The style holds through. I stand there, dumbstruck and just stare at it.

From what I can tell, Ingeborg's reaction is much the same. Then, we hear a small noise and see that over to the far left of where we are standing, there is a scaffold over part of the altar, and there is a woman up on it, doing some restoration work. I am put in mind of a trip to Scotland in 2003, where I saw weavers re-creating the Unicorn Tapestries in Stirling Castle. What a privilege to be able to work on this, to say, "I helped keep this going."

I sit to say my usual prayer of thanks upon arriving, but it is certainly a while before I can bow my head. I simply cannot take my eyes off the work. There's a war in my chest that I'm barely aware of. I imagine that quite a bit of this gold may have come from "the new world" at the expense of native lives and livelihoods. This is not a pleasant thought. There's also the thought that God/Spirit/the Universe/whatever, doesn't CARE what kind of monuments we build to "it". That kind of power is really beyond the need for simple worship.

And, yet, there is a part of me, maybe the part still in the Christian upbringing that I had as a child, that completely understands wanting to make the most beautiful work of art you can create FOR the Creator, as a gift, as a form of worship, as an offering. All this rushes through me as I sit on the plain, hard bench, its stark utilitarianism a complete contrast to the amazing work in front of me. These are not thoughts that I have on a regular basis, and they surprise me. But then, I suppose a pilgrimage is a time for surprises.

After our period of meditation, we find the town library, a very lovely, modern building, and they allow us to use their computers to check e-mail, etc. I try to limit my time, since I see that there are children waiting, and I don't want to intrude. Ingeborg has a missive to write, so I go out and wait for her to free up a computer.

I find myself liking this town quite a bit. The views are stunning, there is a great mix of the old and the modern, and there seems to be quite a bit of business here, as well as a lot of pride in the place. There are fountains, statues, art sculptures, etc. Given other circumstances, I could stay here for a while.

Later, we find a tapas bar just across the shaded plaza from the church. It's patio is covered by densely-leaved trees that offer a wonderful, cool shade. The food is wonderful, all homemade, and Ingeborg and I have a couple of tapas, chat with another German couple, and then wander down a side street to look for the alburgue in hopes of possibly seeing Rita. The place is full, and the hospitalero eyes me suspiciously when I try to go it. I tell him I am just looking for a friend, and he relaxes. However, it's starting to get dark, and I don't see her boots in the racks by the door, so we decide to head back to our room to turn in for the night. We have decided to go on to Najera tomorrow, 16 km, and since we didn't really so much today, fear that it be harder than if we had walked.

Soon, we are snugged into our small beds in our beautiful little room, with glass door open a bit (thankfully, we both like AIR), and are off to sleep in no time, with dreams of gold churches and open roads in our heads...

It Begins

Morning dawns, dark (as usual), and cloudy, possibly threatening rain. When Rita whips out a perfectly-fitted and lightweight backpack cover, I realize that I am not as prepared for weather eventualities as I had hoped. I have a rain poncho, of course, but nothing to really cover my actual pack. Still, I remain optimistic, since 97% of my things are in their own little waterproof Ziploc bags.

We leave our albuergue, and in a few moments, the town itself:


There is a small stream with a bridge that we walk over, and our path leads us ever west and back onto the Way again. As I begin to fall into the rhythm of the walking, I realize that see Claudette off to my left, walking along the paved road. Our way is off that, a bit down in a sort of "gulley" so I hail her and get her attention to let her know she needs to come this way. She sees me and is grateful. We walk in companionable silence for a while, then our rhythms begin to differ and soon we are each walking solo.

The breeze is moist, just a hint of drizzle and it's much cooler today. The clouds are scudding over, and it's not getting much lighter:

As I walk, I watch carefully to see what the weather might do next, and I realize in the back of my head, I have made up a little singsong chant, something like this: "Thank you for the morning breeze, we walk west, you blow east..." I hum this under my breath as I put one foot in front of the other. I really don't want to walk in rain, although I know at some point it will probably become inevitable. But, whether it's due to my sub-audible plea, or just the vagaries of weather, the clouds continue to scud over, and don't drop any real rain on us. After about 7 KM, we (Rita and I) catch up to one another and arrive in Sansol. Ingeborg is not in sight, and I don't remember what might have held her back. I can't believe that I am actually ahead of someone today, but chalk it up to the coolness of the weather, which allows me to walk more briskly, not feeling heat. Also, I would like a cup of coffee, but since we're trying to let Ingeborg catch up to us, we don't want to wander too far into the little town, so we just find a bench to sit on and nibble on a little snack while we wait.

Soon, we see her coming up the inevitable hill to meet up with us and we are on our way again. The clouds are lightening up, but it's still mostly overcast and a cool breeze is blowing. I am chilly, but prefer that to being over warm. Barely a kilometer later, we come into Torres del Rio, and this time, just as we begin our way through the winding streets, we see a little cafe/bar that is open. Coffee sounds wonderful, so, we duck inside and have a cup. This seems like a newer place, family run, and there is a young woman there with a new baby in a stroller. Of course, we all oooh and ahh over him, in the universal language of baby admiration. I tell the young mother I am a grandmother, and she smiles shyly at me. We take advantage of their quite-modern facilities, and we are off again. After this, the weather begins to warm up somewhat, and we climb into ridge country, after walking for a time along the highway. Even with the rocks and the uneven going, I much prefer being "off-road". It's more peaceful, one doesn't have to worry about traffic (except for the ubiquitous bicyclists), and the views are way better:


That's me in the distance, by the way, Ingeborg took this photo. It's a rather uneventful day of just good, solid walking. We pass a shepard and his flock, aided by his faithful dog, and stop to have lunch up on a ridge, where we can actually look down and see Viana, where we will end up. We have a discussion about whether to stay in alburque tonight, or find different accommodations. Ingeborg says she would like to have a little privacy and neither Rita nor I argue with her, so she pulls out Miam-Miam Do-Do, and looks for their recommendations. We'll call when we get closer.

After a post-prandial pit stop, we are off again, but this afternoon, I notice that my right foot seems to have developed a problem. I have been pretty much fanatic about taking care of my feet this whole trip. I have been changing my socks in the middle of the day, using my foot cream that I made especially for this trip, and just overall being vigilant for blisters or other skin irritations. So far, so good, but this is different--this is not skin related, although my foot does feel HOT when I walk on it. But it's not the skin. I stop a couple of times to check, slowing us all down, but my skin is good everywhere. Still, whenever I put my right foot down, I have this hot, sharp, burning pain right at the base of my 2nd toe. I try to slough off the feeling, telling myself I can "push through it". For a while it seems to work, then, having fallen behind again, I catch up with my 2 companions who have been resting. Sit, they say, rest up, don't worry. So, I do. I take off my boot again, rub my foot, check the skin--no blister, just very tender when I push on that area. I don't sit too long--I feel guilty for holding them up, but now it's about 2 or 3 pm (I'm not really sure), and my foot REALLY hurts. Ingeborg begins to tell me a story about how she was fascinated by Cesar Borgia when she was little, and how he is buried in Vienna, how she found out by reading a boot in her father's library, etc. etc. I think, okay, this is an interesting story, but why are you telling me this, what possible relation does it have to our walking?

Only later, as I am standing outside the church in Viana, do I realize that she was NOT talking about VIENNA, but VIANA ("Bee-ah-nah"), and Cesar Borgia is buried right HERE, just outside the door leading into the church. Apparently, he was deemed so evil that the priest, while allowing him to be buried on the church grounds, would NOT let him be buried inside the actual church itself! As we stand there, looking at the inscribed stone, a man comes up to us and tells us how fitting it is that such an evil person was buried there--so that churchgoers for all eternity will walk over him as he burns in Hell. Quite a story.

But now, I am not thinking about that, just the pain in my foot. I try to adjust my gait, and of course, as it always the case when you have a "boo-boo" somewhere, every time I put my foot down it seems to be on the biggest rock, or root, or uneven place in the road. I am feeling so bummed, because up till now, the walking has been good, we will have done 20 KM by the time we reach Viana, and if all goes well, this might be our regular pace from here own out. But not with a bum foot.

We come down off the ridge, lowering into the valley where Viana is located (but still on a hill, of course!). Ingeborg calls our private alburgue, and I speak to the woman to make our reservations, 1 room, 3 beds, shower. Great, done. At least that takes a bit of the worry off.

Slowly, we progress on, and then at last, we are walking off the dirt of the path and onto the paved roads of the town of Viana, following Ingeborg's apparently infallible guide book into the heart of the city. We find the church, but just duck in long enough to get a small map of the town. Using this, we find the street our place is own, manage to get let in, and check in. It's fairly modern, we are of course, up 3 flights of stairs, but the room is clean, and there's a good bed for each of us, and a private bath with a shower! Immediately, we all bathe and wash out various itemes of clothing, turning the room at once into a working clothesline--Pilgrims are very inventive when it comes to finding places to hang up damp laundry for drying!


Now that I've showered and changed out of my boots, I feel better, so we go back out to wander. I want to go to the pilgrim's mass, so we go back over to the church. The altar is set up, and is amazing:


It always takes me back when I come into these relatively small places, really out in the middle of no-where, and find these utterly stunning and awe-inspiring churches. I sit for a while in the silence, being thankful, soaking in the atmosphere of reverence. I notice there is a man in a gray sweater kneel in the center of the pews, lost in prayer. A fellow pilgrim, I assume.

Pilgrim's mass is not for a while, and Rita has been feeling a little "off" so we find a pharmacy where she can check her blood pressure. It's fine, and we strike up a conversation with the pharmacisit, and also another German woman who is walking the Camino for the 2nd or possibly 3rd time. It's the time of afternoon when people are coming out of siesta, where there is an air of geniality, if not festivity. It doesn't look like there's an actual festival going on, it's more like the little town is waking up. The clock begins to strike and we go back to the church for the mass.

When the priest comes out, I realize that he was the man in the gray sweater I had noticed earlier. He is in his immaculate vestments, these with a bright green over garment. Every place is different, every mass, though all are Catholic, imbued with the nature and flavor of its own little town and population. As I watch and listen to this man, I have a strong feeling that he is not happy, whether it is doubt in his own faith, doubt of the church, or just a problem with pilgrims in general, I cannot say. Certainly, he performs the ceremony well and with apparent sincerety, but it is just a feeling I get from him, a "vibe". Afterwards, when he calls the pilgrims up for blessing, I go, and actually am close enough to feel a bit of a sprinkle from the holy water. His homily to the pilgrims is interesting. "Use the silence of your walk," he says, "to know God. Use the companionship of your fellow Pilgrims to see Christ in every man." I find it very moving and powerful.

Ingeborg and I come out feeling blessed. Rita did not go to the mass, and we are not sure where she is. We go back to the room, but she is not there, so we decide to wander around a bit to see if we can find her AND a place to eat. After a bit, we ask about a place for a Pilgrim "menu" and are directed to a bar/restaurant that seems to be doing a brisk business. There is Rita with Gaby and some other German friends they they have met. We would love to join them, but they have already begun the first serving and the won't seat us till the second serving. This highly agitates Ingeborg, who wants to leave and find somwhere else to eat. I'm hungry enough to agree with her, although I liked the atmosphere of the place, despite the seating rules. We find a restaurant just down the way and have a quite meal in the almost-empty dining room. It's fine. The food is good, the wine is good, and we have lots to talk about.

When we leave the restaurant it's very quiet, and we get back to our hostal with no trouble. None of these places are very big, except for the very largest cities. Not once have a felt like I might be in danger from anything other than tripping over a rock. It's a good feeling, actually. We all gather back to our room, hit the small beds, and without the nightly snoring symphony of 40 or 50 people, are asleep almost instantly.

Tomorow, the adventure continues...