October 8th: Hospital de Orbigo to Astorga (16 kilometers):

               A left-hand turn and a mere five minutes of walking from the door of Albergue San Miguel put me into farmland and pre-dawn isolation.  I was again grateful for the peace, solitude, and early morning chill, and my brisk pace took me quickly into the first two ‘suburb’s – which were more like villages in which I saw not one soul making use of the morning – Villares de Orbigo and Santibanez de Valdeiglesia.  The villages were empty, calmly lit by orange-colored street lamps, their cobblestone streets arising without notice from the dirt path that led me from Hospital, to Villares, to Santibanez. 

               The darkness of the morning and the solitude put me in a literary frame of mind.  I was aware on some level that I was feeling exposed and isolated for the first time in a while – there was a small element of danger when I thought of the day’s walk through farmland, and I was guaranteed to spend that time alone.  Looking forward to the lights of Villares and behind me to Hospital, bookended in the darkness, I recalled that sense of ‘in-between-ness’ that I’ve felt at various points of adulthood.  It was as if I was suspended between two places, two times, and wondered if I would ever fully arrive at either.

               The Camino makes one vulnerable to this feeling.  Stripped of many modern comforts, walking in the path of countless ancient pilgrims, participating in the timeless liturgy in medieval chapels, you can’t help but become aware of your small, fixed point in history.  You can’t help but begin to feel, as a physical sensation, the weight of those who have come before – who all had their own individual stories that were, to them, as important as your own.  You can’t help but feel some melancholy that, in the blink of an eye, your pilgrimage will be complete and, even in your most joyful moments, other new pilgrims were setting out from St. Jean. 

               Pricked by this feeling, I sat down on a rock near the road and pulled out my water bottle.  The moment stretched on as both towns seemed to become more distant, but when I looked up I saw clear skies and a multitude of stars.  And for me, those quiet moments under starry skies always serve to draw a connection that is outside of history, they pull my heart upward to God and renders those daily concerns irrelevant.  It may be the closest I ever come to mysticism – but it remains rooted in the wonder of Christ’s presence, simultaneously eternal and here, now, always. 

               After I’d begun walking again, on the approach to Santibanez, I slowed to appreciate the stand of trees that frame the path into the town.  Giant, soldier-straight birches stand in rows, obviously planned and planted, and the gentle lights of the town on the other side bled out in soft haloes through the morning fog.  My slower pace allowed a man to catch up with me, and for a minute or two he mirrored my pace without speaking, reverent of the moment, waiting until we reached the streets of Santibanez before raising his voice.

 

               He introduced himself as Raul, from Colombia, and we made (very) small talk in Spanish as the Camino meandered through small alleys and twisting streets, the spaces never opening large enough for me to get a real sense of Santibanez.  There might have been a square, or a café, but I missed them since my attention was turned toward Raul.  His English was as poor as my Spanish, but I tried with some success to tell him that Spanish is a beautiful language that I wanted to continue learning.  I think he understood; he smiled quite a bit and shook my hand when he stopped to take a break before the climb out of town. 

               The initial stage after Santibanez – pure forest and farmland that stretches most of the way to Astorga – began by winding and climbing its’ way to flatness much like the Meseta, except the hayfields were replaced by small bent trees and scree.  I walked past a number of designated campsites with fire pits, clearings for tents, and the ubiquitous backpacker trash, and at each switchback I stopped to appreciate the lightening sky and the view behind me.  Blue kissed orange on the horizon, clouds stretching in long waves along the latitudes, and I could hear birds beginning to make small noises over the sound of my boots scraping the gravel. 

               For at least an hour I walked alone, offering smiles to the people I passed or who passed me.  The Camino here was well marked and rugged, and I was able to more or less let my mind wander and appreciate the small natural happenings around me.  At the top of the last climb there was a volunteer-run, free cantina around which several pilgrims had stopped.  The cantina consisted of a lemonade-style stand with drinks and miraculously hot coffee, and there was some sort of shack structure to the side, brightly decorated with peregrino graffiti and hand-drawn pictures.  When I walked up, the people around me were engaged in a lively French conversation and I took my coffee with a sense of embarrassment or timidity, reluctant to interrupt them.  But they smiled, and I smiled, and sipped the coffee as I stretched, and moved on down the road. 

               At the crest of the path on Monte Gozo, before it dips down into the suburb San Justo de la Vega and, finally, Astorga, stands a giant cross monument. 

               The Cruceiro Santo Toribio marks the spot where a 5^th century Bishop allegedly fell to his knees after being banished from Astorga.  Like most of the other Camino monuments, pilgrims had adorned it with stones and various other items, and the cross stands in minimalist relief to the complex line of mountains in the distance.  Astorga lies suspended between these two markers, appearing bright and shining in the midday sun. 

               Plunging down from the Cruceiro, the road abruptly merges with commercial roadways and sidewalks, criss-crossing several times at random as I made my way to the city.  Walking into the town felt like seeking entry to a fortress: the path kept sinking lower and the city walls rose higher the closer I got, and soon the path took twists and turns over steel overpasses and through dirty alleyways behind shops and empty buildings, leaving me with the distinct sense of being unwelcome.  Of being a sneak. 

               The final kilometer into Astorga rises sharply along cement streets, turning back and forth until it deposits you next to the municipal albergue.  Though the square hosts an interesting St. James statue, the albergue is a converted police barracks, and for all intents projects the same purpose now it was originally designed for: stark intimidation.  It was just after 1pm, and I couldn’t see any other pilgrims around, and as I walked through the town to find a private albergue, the shops were closing their doors and windows for siesta.  Being Monday, most other buildings were closed to begin with, and my growing impression of Astorga was one of hardness, and sterility, and loneliness. 

               My walk through the town took me through all of the major plazas, and as I came closer to the Plaza Mayor I began to feel more kindly toward the city.  I could hear, and then saw, busy restaurants with crowds of tables outside under the awnings and sprawling out into the central square, pilgrims and locals drinking wine and chatting away in the bright daytime sun.  I saw several faces I vaguely recognized, but instead kept moving toward a more welcome sight: a genuine backpacking store. 

               This was my territory.  I turned into the store front covered with posters and flags advertising Columbia, North Face, Marmot, and Osprey gear, made my way down a tight set of stairs and into the cramped space below.  It looked like every other local gear store I’d ever been in, and I dropped my pack behind the counter, said hello to the rugged-looking young female cashier, and began to browse.  It doesn’t matter what I was looking for, or what I needed, it felt like a treat to shop in a way that was familiar.  I think I bought a belt, but when I walked back outside I was ready to find my hostel for the night and go in search of food and company. 

               I set my direction on the sights of the Cathedral towers and made my way onward; it is a shame that so many things were closed on Monday, because I would have liked to visit the Museo de Chocolate, the cathedral itself, or the Museo de los Caminos.  But they were closed, so I rounded the corner toward Albergue San Javier and walked in, sat down, and was quickly given my stamp and shown to a room upstairs.  San Javier is oddly built around a central staircase, the office under it like Harry Potter’s bedroom, and the living rooms go in different directions around a small outdoor patio.  Upstairs the bathrooms are open and have entrances on either side, so you can easily find yourself in your underwear overlooking the pilgrims in the patio.  But the bedrooms are small, and wooden, and creak with the sounds of an old building, and the large windows have shutters that open outward to the street in front of the cathedral.  

There were no other pilgrims around, even in the midafternoon, so I took advantage of the hot showers and went back outside in search of food.  I found snacks for the next day in the supermarket, and on a whim decided to stop in a side-street bar that promised imported beer.  The bar looked strangely 80s-modern, with blue neon running lights over the bar and under the counter, all the furniture in polished black wood, and a cloud of cigarette smoke hanging above my head.  I ordered something dark and British, and happily the bartender also gave me an enormous slice of tortilla to go along with it.  I took them outside to a high table and enjoyed the food and drink slowly, reading over the next day’s walk in my guidebook.  The street was far enough away from the main roads to feel quieter and more subdued than my initial impressions of Astorga, and I was reluctant to leave once I’d drained the last of the glass and scraped the final crumbs from my plate.

I made my way back to the Plaza Mayor in time to catch the Town Hall’s clock striking 6, when two automated figures come out to ring the bells dressed in a traditional costume.  There was a crowd of schoolchildren around the wide square riding bikes and scooters; local couples held hands outside of a bakery serving chocolate con churros.  On the corner I ran into Barry from South Africa drinking wine with a new face, David from Ireland, and we made vague plans to reconnect at dinner a few hours later. 

The hostel had given me a coupon for a few euros off the menu del dia at Restaurante Gaudi – a four star restaurant on the square facing the cathedral – and this was where I found Barry and a host of English-speakers two hours later, clustered around their table at the bar.  There were a pair of Canadians I was sharing my bedroom with at San Javier, several unconnected Irish men, and Barry; once the doors to the dining room opened we made our way to a large round table and sat down. 

I felt shamefully under dressed, but there was nothing to be done about it. 

I haven’t had many elegant meals in my lifetime, but this one hit the mark.  It says something, however, that as good as I remember the food, service, and presentation being, what I recall most vividly is the wild laughter and increasingly racy jokes my tablemates were telling.  In those moments I can either become more quiet and withdraw into observation, or allow myself to become silly and funny, and before I knew it I was taking friendly jabs at David and laughing loudly myself.  For a day that began with such silence and contemplation, it ended in joyous loud laughter.  I hope the waiter didn’t mind. 

October 7th, Vilar de Mazarife to Hospital de Orbigo (16 kilometers):

Most of the morning walk was solitary, I relished the ability to enjoy the pleasant dawn temperatures and pray a rosary (or five).  Shortly before the first café at Villavante, a tiny and empty town of low stone buildings, vacant streets, and cobblestone roads veering off in confusing directions, I hear someone coming up behind me and turn to see Vittoria – the yoga-practicing Swiss girl with long red hair and a lip piercing. 

We’re the only pilgrims in sight, so we fall into that easy early morning conversation, the obligatory litany of questions you ask someone on the Way: How far are you going to day, how are you feeling, where did you stay last night, etc, etc, etc.  We decide to duck into the corner café in Villavante.

The café looks, for all intents and purposes, like a dive bar transplanted from Jackson, Mississippi to the middle of Spain.  Everything, including the bartender, is slightly dusty and in need of a good scrubbing down with bleach.  There are flies circling around the door as we walk in; the counter leaves some sticky residue on my elbows when I order a coffee for myself and tea for Vittoria.  When I turn to go join her at the window table, she’s got a look of amused wariness, sitting in lotus position on the chair, massaging her feet.  I sat the drinks down and went in search of the bathroom.

Have you ever seen Trainspotting?  If so, you really don’t need any more description of the bathroom, but for those of you who haven’t, it looked something like this:  There is a bare, weak light bulb hanging from exposed wiring above the toilet, which looks as if the seat has been ripped off violently (I’m guessing in a fight over Real Madrid vs. Barcelona).  I’m happy I cannot see into the darker corners, and I swear I hear movement.  There is no toilet paper, and the bowl has been neither flushed nor cleaned in recent memory - a dark ring is barely visible through muddy water.  I don’t want to urinate here, but it’s that or nothing, so the deed is done. 

Shaking off my disgust, I walk back out into the café and sit down, reaching for hand sanitizer (oh, forget about a sink.  There wasn’t one.), and Vittoria gets up to also hit the bathroom.  I think about saying something, and choose to not.

I’m sipping my coffee with my head down a couple of minutes later when, coming back to the table, she punches me hard in the shoulder and lets out a string of angry… German?  Swiss?  What do they speak in Switzerland?  Anyway, it sounds angry and my shoulder hurts, but I can see she’s smiling when she plops down in front of me, rattling my coffee cup.  Our common languages aren’t strong enough to go into detail, but between us we start to snicker and laugh about the Nastiest Bathroom in Spain.  For a moment I’m worried about offending the bartender, but the old woman disappeared into a backroom to loudly light a cigarette and cough, and hasn’t been seen since.

As we're sitting there, Tom the Hungarian Documentarian comes bustling in with his lady and sit down next to us.  They look massively disheveled and dirty, and I was certain they had passed me by a few days before.  Obviously I was wrong, and happily wrong, glad to see Tom and chat him up while his lady heads in the direction of the bathroom.  She comes back shortly, looking traumatized.  I try to manage the introductions between them and Vittoria as best I can; Tom flicks on the video camera and films us for a few minutes while we're talking.  

It's strange to know that there are clips, somewhere in the world, of myself and the people I was around on pilgrimage - video and pictures that exist that would show something different than what I remember of my time in Spain.  I'd like to see them, but I never got Tom's contact info.  But I know, it's out there, somewhere, maybe waiting to be found.  

When we get up to pay and go, leaning against the bar and coughing loudly to get the woman’s attention, I feel Vittoria hip bump me and see her cock her jaw in the direction of something on the wall.  There above the orange juice machine is a calendar showing a completely naked woman.  Not pinup naked, mind you, but something you might see in the pages of Hustler.  It’s enough to put me into a full-on fit of giggles, and despite my embarrassment I have to more or less just throw my euros at the woman and go. 

Over the next couple of hours into Hospital de Orbigo, Vittoria and I manage to work our way through a few basic conversations – mostly vague appreciations of the landscape and sharing what food we had in our packs.  When we come around several outlying buildings to approach the town’s famous medieval bridge, she starts asking me questions about it in a pidgin of English, Spanish, and German.  Stopping to take pictures, I try to show her my guidebook and tell her that the bridge was the site where a famous knight took on 300 challengers and won, restoring his honor before continuing on pilgrimage to Santiago.  The story helped inspire Don Quixote, and there is a helpful marker that tells the story:

It’s also much, much larger than I expected – stretching full across my few and involving a substantial walk to get across it and into the town proper.  I more less convey the knight’s story to Vittoria, and she responds by bursting into a full on gallop across the bridge, pack and all, playing at being a knight jousting, as we walk down into the town.  It’s a beautiful moment, rendered in slow motion, as the midday sun leaves everything in bright happy hues and this girl, laughing, gallops in front of me between the elderly town residents.  She’s wearing aviators and her smile is huge, there is a glint of sunlight off her lip ring, and I couldn’t have been happier.

The path takes us right past the church, tolling its’ bells for midday mass above huge, open wooden doors.  The central square opens up to the left, and we join some other pilgrims strung out along the stone benches lining the street, drop our packs, and go wandering to look for a supermarket or bakery to buy food.  The supermarket around the corner is cramped in space, tight with pilgrims, and the owner bustles around rearranging things with little care for us as try to browse, but when we decide to split an apple tart she smiles and hacks off the largest ‘piece’ I’ve ever seen.  It may have well been an entire pie, and Vittoria’s eyes stretch wide when the woman hands it to her in wax paper.  I rethink the package of cookies I’d put on the counter, pay the lady, and we go back outside to the sunlight.

I’m at a loss on how to split the tart, the apples, and the cheese we bought until Vittoria snaps out a knife and starts cutting.  I loved watching her carefully cut the apples into slices and split the cheese into chunks – it’s something that always fascinates me, watching other people work with their hands.  It really doesn’t matter what they’re doing, I just like watching people work.  It gives me a feeling of intimacy or quietude, like what this person is working on is the most important thing in the world. 

While we are eating, a woman pilgrim pulls up on a bike and stops short of our crowd by fifteen feet or so, and readies her own lunch.  I’ve seen her somewhere on the Way before, and I remember that she doesn’t speak English.  Maybe she’s from Eastern Europe, or Germany, and although I try to gesture that she should join us despite the language barrier, she stays put.  This interaction – the sleek bike pilgrim keeping distant, albeit cordially, from our host of messy hikers – has become typical of the cultural divide that separated us along the Camino.  It’s a shame, on many levels.

After lunch the entire crowd packs up and makes to head on, and I fully expect to see them again up the road.  Stefano, the gushing Italian who’d given the American girls such a hard time about their pasta in Castrojeriz; Kim of Texas and the Imitation of Christ; Vittoria and others – but I never did.  There’s sadness in that, I think, but also a certain rightness.  Despite the laughter and atmosphere they brought with them, I felt older and more serious around them, especially when talking about why we were each on pilgrimage.  I wanted to feel older, I wanted to take it more seriously, so it’s not a regret.  But there is definitely some melancholy in the knowledge that your life runs on a tract that is mostly parallel, and intersects but rarely with, such bright and shining people.

Hospital de Orbigo once again offers a choice of two albergues opposite one another: municipal right and private left.  When I walk into the private one I know that’s where I’m going to stay immediately.  The building, a converted house, is constructed from warm woods and bright tiles, and there is an easel set up with painting supplies in the foyer, where pilgrims can paint whatever they want.  The result is that the walls are covered, upward to the skylights on the third story, in framed paintings of surprising quality.  There are straightforward renderings of the bridge at sunrise and sunset, images of pilgrims in silhouette against the Meseta, abstract symbols and bright colors, and not a few portraits of pilgrims that are shockingly advanced.  I want to take several of them home, particularly one of the silhouettes – the pilgrims are in sharp relief against a bright blue and orange sunset.  It’s not expertly done, but it rings so strongly of many of my own photos of the Camino I want it for my wall at home. 

The hostel is empty and the owner lets me know that I can pick any of the beds (beautiful bunk beds upstairs with actual plaid sheets and pillows, no less) and that, so far, I only have one other pilgrim with whom to split the room.  I drop by stuff and go walking back out to a restaurant next to the bridge with a large open balcony, intent on reading and watching pilgrims come shuffling into town. 

The bartender at Don Suero de Quinones convinces me to have a beer instead of coffee (He asks, “Do you want a beer?”) and I take the pint outside and prop my feet up, happy to enjoy a light day and plenty of time left to relax.  Sure enough, many pilgrims come walking past but few stop, and I only vaguely recognize some of them so my reading time is largely my own. 

Heading back midafternoon for a nap at the hostel, I find out my roommate is the Italian woman, Jessica.  She’d actually laid over in Hospital to give her feet a rest, and I run into her in the backyard open courtyard dressing her feet. 

She has the worst blisters I’ve ever seen in person – cracked and yellow and pus-filled.  There are great sheets of skin hanging loosely from her heels and the pads of her feet, like Freddy Kreuger’s been hard at work.  Her feet look like an example from a medical text, but as I sit down across from her and start talking, she busies herself with her feet without reservation or obvious disgust.  I’m amazed that she can go through this process without reaction – there’s debriding to be done, draining, cutting away dead skin, rinsing and washing, applying tonic, and rebandaging each toe individually.  It takes forever, and in the meantime I find out that she is from southern Italy and teaches sailing.  That explains her tan, which is deep, beautifully toned, and clearly not from a box or a bed. 

We are shortly interrupted by the hostel owner’s family taking over the kitchen area and preparing some meal that smells incredible.  They are loud, jovial, and bright with laughter, even the older man and woman I assume are the grandparents.  Jessica and I keep quiet on the patio, enjoying the sunshine, until I’m startled by the mother coming out to shove hot bowls of stew in each of our hands.  I tried to refuse out of politeness, but the woman only waves me off, goes back into the kitchen, and returns with a hunk of bread she drops in my lap. 

The stew is thick and delicious.  It’s some sort of tomato-based gumbo, heavy on the chorizo and carrots.  And holy crap is it hot – I do that thing where I fail to recognize my impending danger and promptly burn the devil out of my tongue with the first bite.  Jessica finds this funny. 

The rest of the evening we spend in much the same fashion, shifting from the outside patio to the large farm table in the kitchen as the family cleans up and disperses.  A few pilgrims come wandering in and most wander back out again, obviously in search of a restaurant with a pilgrim menu and drinks.  In the early evening, Jessica and I are joined by a Czech-turned-Irish guy named Csube (pronounced ‘Chubby’, according to him) who easily falls into our halting conversation.  Jessica makes tea and convinces me to have some as well…

Wait.  Stop for a second.  My historical resistance to, and suspicion of, tea is legendary.  I can count the times I’ve enjoyed a cup of tea on the fingers of one hand, and given the choice I’ll always prefer coffee.  Maybe it’s the offering, or the easiness and relaxation of the afternoon, maybe I’m just too lazy to go get a coffee, but I say yes. 

And damn if it isn’t one fine cup of tea.  All three of us are sitting there, kicked back, cupping our teas with our hands, happy and content, when the hospitalero walks through.  He sees the tea, chuckles in that grandfather-with-the-children manner, and points to a sign above the shelf where Jessica found the tea bags:

“This shelf for hospitalero only.”

Oops.  But before I can even get the ‘Lo siento Senor!’ out of my mouth, he’s waved us off with a ‘De nada’ and clicked the shelf radio onto a station playing bluegrass.  If it could get any more welcoming and home-like, I don’t see how. 

And this is how the night ends: Csube makes entirely too much chicken soup for himself and forces the rest onto Jessica and myself.  We drift in and out of short conversations around the table, in between busying ourselves with our guidebooks, journals, and novels.  There is a gorgeous mural of the Last Supper above us on the kitchen wall, and as the night winds down and we head upstairs to go to bed, I’m grateful for my temporary family – pilgrims and hospitaleros alike – and the ability to feel at home even here, even now.

October 6th, Leon to Vilar de Mazarife (23 kilometers):

I woke in Leon intending to have an incredibly short day by enjoying breakfast, waiting for the outdoor gear store to open, and taking a short stroll to La Virgen del Camino right outside Leon.  The Book of John (Brierley) recommended the suburb and his description of the site of the shrine there captured my interest. 

I left the convent and wandered around the empty pre-dawn streets of Leon for a while, taking the time to pick the café that had the best smells and the warmest atmosphere, choosing one a short distance away from the Cathedral.  It was nice to have a leisurely breakfast and chat with the pilgrims who filed in, and the owners kept giving us free day-old breads and sweets, and so by the time I left to go to the gear store, I was feeling well-fed and relaxed.

Officially the store was to open at 10… and at half past not only was there no sign of anyone inside, but the outside stoop had gathered several other pilgrims in need of sundries – including Leonie, Agnes, and Lucas from the courtyard a few days before.  By 11 I’d given up and walked on, which afterwards proved a smart decision when I heard exactly how expensive the gear was inside.  REI it was not.

Leaving Leon was a real shock – soon after leaving the old city I was obliged to walk through increasingly industrial sections of the city that decreased in upkeep and demeanor.  At one point, despite the late hour, I walked past an alleyway where a group of people were huffing something out of a paper bag and I felt angry that The Book of John (Brierley) failed to mention that this could be a significantly dangerous walk early in the morning. 

Soon though, a chipper girl came up behind me and basically just jumped right in to conversation unbidden.  She was a recent psychology graduate from a university in Canada named Monica and she quite literally talked my ear off for the entire walk out to La Virgen del Camino. 

It was her first day on pilgrimage, and boy was she energetic… and so young.  Even the younger people I’d met from Europe seemed to have a savvier demeanor.  This young lady was all smiles and exuberance.  Maybe it’s a Canadian thing. 

When I got to La Virgen, it was crowded and busy and sat right on top of the interstate and after sitting on the sidewalk for a few minutes to readjust my boots, I decided to keep walking.  It was already late, but I decided to count on the Way to find a place to sleep that night, and when the road branched between two routes (one more scenic toward Mazarife and the other more established toward a different town), I veered toward Mazarife.

Quickly, I was back in open farmland and a path that was only occasionally marked by yellow arrows.  An hour or so later I came across a group of pilgrims all clustered around a fountain and picnic tables, the last resting point before a long push to Mazarife.  Vittoria was there alongside some older pilgrims I didn’t really know, and although she and I tried to communicate, her English wasn’t strong enough to catch my jokes and so I pushed on alone. 

When I walked into Mazarife in the pre-dusk, I impulsively committed to the first albergue on the right which offered a ‘combo’ of bed, breakfast, dinner, and laundry for 20 Euros.  Done and dusted, I handed over the cash and found a bed toward the back of the dorm, nearly scalded myself with the hottest shower I had the entire time I was in Spain, and spent the rest of the afternoon outside on the relaxing garden chairs listening to a married pair of pilgrims sing and play guitar.  The sun set in front of us through light cloud-cover, and despite the occasional drizzle and persistent flies investigating my coffee, I couldn’t shake a peaceful, happy mood. 

The pilgrim’s dinner in the downstairs dining room was one of the best I’d had, prepared by a chain-smoking chef who looked like an extra from Sons of Anarchy, and when he served the dessert our table applauded.  He looked genuinely shy, and I wish I’d tried to talk to him with my bad Spanish.  Throughout dinner I sat next to a blonde woman from Bratislava named Sylvia who had left the IT industry to come on pilgrimage, and I hoped we’d end up walking together in the future since she was an excellent storyteller and quick to smile and laugh.  It wasn’t to happen, but I didn’t know that at the time. 

After dinner Agnes, Lucas, and Leonie invited me outside to drink red wine mixed with orange soda – their approximation of another drink I’d never had.  It was surprisingly good, but let’s be honest.  My palette isn’t exactly sophisticated.  It was dark, and smoky, and loud with laughter and sarcasm… in short, a welcome diversion from some of my more serious moments on the Camino.  Lucas was sly and funny, Agnes bright with ideas and observations, and Leonie vibrant and large in her presence.  True story, there was an extended argument between them about the proper types of sausage – you could probably evaluate the national character of Poland, Austria, and the Czech Republic based on their specificity and seriousness.  By the time the time we snuck in right at curfew, I was more than tipsy and happily exhausted with laughter. 

October 5th, Mansilla de las Mulas to Leon (19 kilometers):

I do not remember leaving Mansilla in the morning.  I do not remember the walk into Leon in any substantial detail, other than it feeling easy and being amused by many of the faces of the ‘new’ crowd that were swiftly growing familiar as we tried to navigate the increasingly confusing twists and turns of the Camino.  I don’t imagine ancient pilgrims had to deal with new road construction, overpasses, interstates, building supply parking lots, and tunnels, but it didn’t bother me as I could see the center of Leon from what felt like miles away. 

And there, in the center, the cathedral beckoned. 

For once, I had read my guidebook ahead of time and worked up a healthy excitement for the cathedral, and I was coming into Leon during the San Froilan festival – this time enthusiastic and willing to engage in the party (as opposed to the wine festival I avoided in Logrono). 

I did stop at the very first suburb for coffee and orange juice, hoping to collect some pilgrims to my outside table as they walked across a bridge from the adjacent park… only to watch them walk by one by one as the café owner, an old friendly woman, kindly fussed over me.  Apparently literally just around a corner was a highly recommended café where they were all headed – as I found out to my embarrassment a few minutes later.

After the walk into Leon proper took me past all the trappings of a major metropolis, the Camino wound under an ancient stone wall, the Puerta Mondeda, and swapped neon and roadways for stone streets and the beautiful images of ‘old Europe’.  The streets were more crowded as people were obviously in preparation for the festival; the low buildings and tight streets blocked out much of the sun.  Following the Camino, I found my way to the convent-run albergue Benedictinas.  It was the first time since Granon I was going to stay in a strictly parish hostel, and the feeling was immediately different, largely because of the size.  Granon held maybe 50 pilgrims, Leon’s convent nearly 150 in two male and female dorms.  The dorms framed one side of a huge square facing the convent/school opposite. 

Despite the size, it was friendly and comfortable and I was quickly set up and headed out to explore the city.  Inevitably, I bee-lined straight for the cathedral square.  Along the way I noted delicious-smelling restaurants and interesting shops, a gear store, places worth exploring later.  I was lost in the minutiae of the city and its’ busy residents, distracted by the huge tent market being set up in the Plaza San Marcelo, when I came out into the Plaza Regia in front of Leon Cathedral.

I had done Burgos Cathedral a disservice when I was there: it seemed impressive but grey and cold, and I was heavily distracted by my physical discomfort.  Leon Cathedral was unhindered, and the stature and beauty of the building made me catch my breath.  As I approached the entrance, I almost felt shy or reserved, nearly reluctant to go inside.  But I did, and paid for the tour ticket, and wandered around for nearly an hour, taking time to pray a rosary for my family and my gratitude in one of the side chapels. 

I was ridiculously humbled by the fact of the cathedral’s existence – buildings and materials don’t often impress or inspire awe for me, but wandering around the side chapels housing lovingly crafted statues and altarpieces, seeing the awe in other’s faces as their eyes were drawn upward into the massive stained glass windows, and thinking about how this cathedral was created as a physical representation of the faith of countless Christians in the past, I felt that humble awe begin to stir in my chest.

The cathedral is noted for many things – the sheer amount of stained glass that turns the interior into something bright, beautiful, and graceful; the housing of San Froilan’s relic; the representations of art from the middle ages through the present – but, surprisingly, it was also intimate.  Later, when I came back for the feast day mass (with the Bishop and the presentation of the relic, no less), I expected to see the ritual in high form.  I did not expect it to seem so individualized and intimate, with 7 priests attending and a hundred or so congregants.  Throughout the liturgy my eyes were drawn upward over the altar and into the windows, and even here, in this large city and this massive cathedral, I felt the same stirrings of the holy spirit as in the masses I’d attended throughout the Meseta. 

Afterward, Kim from Texas and I went in search of drinks and found a table of pilgrims.  Lotus was talking to Liz and Chris at a busy table in a crossways, surrounded by the increasing fervor of the festivities.  They looked awkward as we sat down, and I assumed it was because I hadn’t yet showered and they all looked freshly scrubbed and ‘together’ (this was a trend with Liz and Chris that would continue all the way to Santiago de Compostela.  Fancy Brits, damn them). 

When the waiter came by and I realized the bar/café was, in fact, just a bar, I panicked and ordered what amounted to a cold Irish coffee.  Kim got tea; Lotus stalled until the waiter actually walked away, and then she spirited herself away into the throng… at which point Chris explained that the waiter was pissed and the situation strange because Lotus had plopped down at their table with a glass of wine from somewhere else, and then refused to order anything.  They, and I, were mortified.  Canadians, right?  Can’t take them anywhere…

But in seriousness, sitting in the early evening hustle of a city gathering to celebrate itself, talking to a new pair of pilgrims whose dry sarcasm was refreshing and like good friends at home, I remembered why I love cities that actually have a soul – Athens, Asheville, Chattanooga: places where it feels as if people actually live there, that the streets and buildings are their homes and they are happy to be there in the first place.  It actually spurred real homesickness for the North Shore and My Favorite Coffee Shop Of All Time in Chattanooga, for West Asheville and the crowds at the bakery, for downtown Athens on fall afternoons. 

Coming back to the convent, I wandered downstairs to the public computers to, literally, run into Allegra in the hallway.  She stopped me like a running back – hand square on my shoulder – and started talking.  Standing squarely in the middle of the hallway, oblivious to people walking past us, in quick and excited chatter, I again had that feeling of imminent trouble. 

I’ll be blatantly honest at this point, because it’s important: in conversation with this beautiful woman, with the close postures and body language, with the smiles and eye contact, I had that moment of realization that, if I dropped the hint or just suggested it, we would spend the night in a hotel somewhere in the city.  I’m not trying to sound arrogant or assume too much, but I’ve been in that situation before, and there are times when you just know. 

I’ll call it, with all seriousness, a prayer answered that I didn’t make that choice.  I’ve often, often made the wrong choice in those situations – wrong in the sense that I know what I want is love in a C.S. Lewis sort of purity, and what I have often chosen is something less than that.  Moderation with women is something relatively new to me, and it’s something I’ve prayed to receive particularly since the end of my last long term relationship.  This time around, it seems to be working.

So when Allegra tells me that she’s leaving the Camino soon to join other people in Ibiza, I feel sad and relieved that, although I won’t get to find out more about her or where that attraction might lead, at least I can offer a more sincere and less distracted friendship for the rest of the evening, as we go with other pilgrims to the nuns’ Compline service in the church next door. 

And this, too, is a grace and a blessing.  I don’t remember this beautiful, vibrant woman as a ghost in the shadows with whom I shared a fleeting intimacy, or as a Camino hook-up, but as a smiling, singing person who stood next to me during two masses and hugged me tight and long when we said goodbye the next morning.

October 4th, El Burgo Ranero to Mansilla de las Mulas (18 kilometers):

After a restful night toe to toe with Rubia (our bottom bunks faced one another), we mustered ourselves up and awake to cross the street for breakfast at the single café in town – a bar warmed by fierce radiators and boasting several televisions all turned to the morning news.  This was the day I’d set out on my own again after breakfast – Linde was heading across the north side of town to catch the train further ahead and I knew it was time to part. 

I am terrible at goodbyes.  Literally terrible.  I avoid thinking about the actual moment until it’s right on me, and then I choke at saying the things I really ought to say.  I'd like to pass this off onto my belief that the universe will reunite people again when the time is right, but really I’m just shit at saying farewell.

So when breakfast is finished and Linde and I step out into the street, I completely fumble.  There’s a hug and a meaningful look, but with the sun coming up behind her and the crisp morning air lending the world a gentle clarity, I really ought to have said something memorable.  I at least should have taken a damn picture.  Instead, the look and the memory will have to do. 

The walk to Mansilla mostly followed the senda along the roadside – a consequence of abandoning the scenic route through Reliegos the previous day to overnight in Ranero – and although the landscape was largely featureless in a generic sort of way, I found it easy to lose myself in prayer and the rosary.  I kept passing, and being passed by, people whose faces I recognized but hadn’t really spoken to, and I told myself that I would quickly find common souls along the Camino despite having left my friends behind. 

Somewhere, directly adjacent to the roadside, I walked past one of my favorite Camino monuments… it remains one of my favorite pictures of the entire trip both because of its’ unassuming placement between a farm and the highway, and also because of its’ seriousness.  This is the kind of thing you wouldn’t be likely to see back home; I imagine people might be threatened by the religiousness or angered by the use of public funds, but on the Camino these monuments spoke more to the communal history of the Way than an insistence on doctrine. 

When I came into Mansilla de las Mulas, I basically had one choice – the municipal hostel in the center of town.  There were a couple of albergues on the outskirts, but I tried to always choose the hostel closest to the church.  Walking into the office with my pack and hiking poles, I was struck by the amount of touristy knick knacks on sale and began to worry that I’d walked into one of ‘those’ hostels, but as the hospitalero led me through a large central garden to a separate building with wide open windows and laundry lines strung across the gaps, I saw plenty of pilgrims happily going about their business with coffees and bath towels and laundry and guidebooks.  On the top floor of the dorm I was offered my choice of beds and I walked around trying to figure which room looked the most appealing; this was where I first said hello to Liz and Chris from London who would become fixtures along the last part of the Camino, as well as ran into the Quebecois yet again, and as I was setting up my sleeping bag I saw Leonie and Agnes waving to me from the building opposite. 

Downstairs, the courtyard tables filled quickly for midafternoon drinks and chatter, and as I talked to Leonie, Agnes, and Lucas instead of reading my book, I watched the Irish cousins from Granon file in with their friends – an Italian woman named Jessica, and a young woman from Switzerland named Vittoria.  They were shockingly beautiful and intimidating, especially as they were stretching and doing yoga as they made their introductions. 

Later I went out for a coffee and enjoyed the scenery along the main street, sleepy during the afternoon siesta.  I randomly fell in with a recent college grad from Florida named Jim and a guy from Wales also named Rob for dinner – they basically pulled me up from the café table to walk to the restaurant nearby for a pilgrim’s menu.  We were the only pilgrims there, which felt strange and funny in such a nice dining room, pestered by the television above blaring an incomprehensible Spanish game show. 

I left early to make the pilgrim’s mass – that night was the feast of St. Francis and although I couldn’t interpret the homily I tried to contemplate what I knew then of Francis, his personality and legend.  Since reading Fr. Martin’s My Life With the Saints, I’ve thought often and consistently about these people and their responses to the gospel, and St. Francis’ prayer is probably the prayer closest to my heart and quickest to mind when I feel in trouble. 

Finishing the night on my own in Mansilla felt ok.  Not great, not terrible, but strongly settled into the Camino routine and faithful that my experiences would continue to be positive and rewarding.  I tried to recognize that in itself as a blessing, and ignore the sound of the French men snoring around me.  I slept well, and woke up to darkness and the walk into Leon.  

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love.

Where there is injury, pardon.

Where there is doubt, faith.

Where there is despair, hope.

Where there is darkness, light.

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master,

grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

to be understood, as to understand;

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive.

It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.

Amen.

October 3rd, Sahagun to El Burgo Ranero via Caldazilla de los Hermanillos (18 kilometers):

Waking up in Sahagun, in the beautiful albergue, to a beautifully crisp and sharp morning over the city was deeply sad, as I knew this was the day that Susannah had decided to skip ahead in search of gear and Linde and I were going to say our goodbyes halfway along the route, in Caldazilla where I planned on stopping. She was headed further to make her timeline to Santiago de Compostela and I needed to begin slowing down rather than end up in Santiago with four or five days to spare.

Goodbyes are hard for me, and awkward, and as we walked into the main part of the city and came closer to our crossroads, I found myself without words and failing to come up with a way to properly say goodbye to Suse.  I didn’t know at the time that we’d reconnect in Santiago, that I’d be blessed with a fitting reunion a couple of weeks later, and so after she turned left to our right I don’t remember saying much on the walk out of town.  The outer suburbs of Sahagun were quiet and green, and Linde and I soon found ourselves heading along the Via Romana (the scenic route in the guidebook) past farms and along the railroad tracks. 

My mood matched the terrain – spare, empty, and quiet – but when Linde and I finally gave ourselves a break around midday for a Way-side snack I was beginning to feel more companionable.  We stopped in the shade of some small brush-like trees, found places to hide and relieve ourselves, and fell into an easy rhythm together.  In the most basic way, Linde’s insistence on pushing forward and her bright blue pants helped to keep me moving on one of the hardest days I had on the Camino. 

When we walked into Caldazilla, the town was smaller than even my liberal expectations, and the municipal albergue was not yet open.  More than anything, Caldazilla reminded me of some town on a lost highway in the Midwest, flat and open and lonely.  Linde and I saw a friendly face in Kim from Texas at the town bar/café and so we sat down and ordered soup and coffees.  Soon we were joined by Barry from South Africa and his friend from California (whose name I still cannot remember and didn’t write down); in the course of our conversation Kim gifted me her copy of The Imitation of Christ, a medieval meditation on Christianity I’d never before read.  As a threesome, we headed out together, Linde having convinced me to skip Caldazilla and do some off-Camino routefinding to follow her to El Burgo Ranero for the night. 

When Kim decided to keep going toward Reliegos at the crossroads of the Camino and a major highway, at 2pm, I was worried but her bright confidence and ‘can-do’ attitude reassured me – I’ll pick up her story later when I see her in Leon.  Linde and I headed off along asphalt and into the sun and I struggled to remind myself to trust that Providence would see me safe and sound for the evening. 

An hour later when we reached town (and after a confusing hobo-like jump over railroad tracks and wandering through tightly packed, empty neighborhoods), my mood had shifted toward the positive and as we were greeted by the hospitalera at the municipal hostel her enthusiasm and cheer convinced me it had been a good choice to keep going.  I’d get one more night with Rubia, and the unique hostel was beautiful – all mud walls, large tables downstairs, a full kitchen, and bedrooms upstairs underneath exposed roof beams and hosting balconies looking out over the town square. 

Linde and I enjoyed the hot, hot showers (in adjacent stalls, thank you) and sung off key songs… ok, I sang off-key songs, happily, into the steam and tiles.  We found a grocery store and picked out healthy food to cook for dinner… ok, I picked out the food and Linde cooked it, and when we sat down at the huge table we were greeted by a French Canadian couple named Danielle and Jean-Louis who I would see and walk with through the end of my pilgrimage.  As we ate, more pilgrims came in and bustled about; the hostel felt like warm happy home in the cooling night, and when I sat outside on the bench in the square to pray a rosary and look up at the stars that night, I knew I’d made a good choice.