Leaving Carrion was a shock both
physically and emotionally – the morning was bitingly cold and the path quickly
took us onto a path next to a busy highway (gas station chocolate and snacks
excepted) that jarred me out of my sense of peace and quiet. Typically the cars and asphalt sections didn’t
do much to bother me internally, as much as I may have griped about the
physical difficulty of ground-pounding roadways, but that morning was
hard. I both wanted company, and to be
alone, to be near familiar things, and to be in the wilderness. In short, I was being a pain to myself.
It was also the ‘Two Weeks In’
mark, and when I’m traveling that tends to be the time where I first feel
homesick and also start to fear the end, of leaving for home. Do I contradict myself? Yes, I do.
Never fear – the sun rose, the
Camino connected to an ancient Roman road, the Via Aquitaine, and took us out
into farmland and temperatures that brought fall to mind. Some of the college girls from Castrojeriz
were up ahead of Linde, Susannah, and I, and we quickly fell into the same
loose group formations that had born us along the meseta and were starting to
feel like the natural rhythm of things.
I remember pushing ahead of the group 100 yards or so to get some quiet
time, which provided ample opportunity to enjoy the quiet and occasionally turn
around, look back at my friends, and appreciate just exactly where I was and
who I was becoming. Kim from Texas, a
bold, loud, and kind woman who I’d met outside the hostel in Fromista
post-mass, spent some time walking with us in the morning – but her part in my
story doesn’t really begin just yet. She’ll
come back, in force, in a few days.
By the time midday rolls around,
the temperatures have risen high enough to put me into a t-shirt and leave me
with sweat stains down my back – the original plan was to keep going to a town
further, but when we crest the hill and see Caldadilla in the valley, I’m ready
to stop. The Musketeers concede to food,
and when we walk into the one (!) hostel in town to take a peek, the buxom and
friendly hospitalera tells us there’s only one (!) bar in town around the corner
and it’s fine if we want to wait to commit to a room for the night.
Around the corner is a crowd of
pilgrims eating outside in the sunlight – against my better judgment I get
coffee and Susannah comes out with giant ice cream Magnums for everyone,
resulting in amusing hijinks when they immediately start to melt and the sticks
come out. Ryan and Ralph are there with
some very, very hungry Swedes from Fromista.
Allegra is inside and she smiles at me when I duck indoors to find a
bathroom – when I come back out again she’s already left and I push those
thoughts to the side before they take root and give me fits.
I tell the ladies I’m committed to
staying and it sways them to stick around as well – I immediately feel like it’s
a good choice when we go back to the albergue and the hospitalera is amazingly
friendly and kind, and there is a large outdoor garden with a shaded terrace to
enjoy. There’s even a terrible
English-language mystery novel on the book exchange, so we call it home for the
evening.
For the next few hours, I drift in
an out of the patio and the bedroom between naps and reading, and the hostel
quickly fills with mostly older folks full of happy energy. This is the first time I’m introduced to ‘Lotus’,
an older woman from Canada who isn’t just free with her body but generously
foregoes clothing in the bedroom while having conversations with whoever walks
past. Warning! There is a snap judgment coming: Lotus
strikes me as a strange lady who I will want to avoid, especially as I overhear
her talking about some hippy-dippy woo-woo metaphysics.
I will be proven wrong by this
woman. Multiple times, in multiple cities,
in the most humbling ways. Remember
that, folks.
When we go down to the bar for the
pilgrim’s dinner, the owner ushers all of us into a very nice dining room with
set tables and expensive, plush leather chairs.
I might add that the Musketeers and I have already downed a pint of beer
in the bar while we waited on the kitchen to open, and are… slightly tipsy. For me, this means stopping now and filling
my belly with bread and pasta. For
Linde, it means having a glass of wine.
Things go awry. As with every Musketeer Meal, there is much
laughter and joking around… and, don’t quote me, but I believe that night held
a high percentage of raunchy jokes and inappropriate humor. Let’s just say Linde gets a little too
excited. First a chicken ends up in her
lap. Then, the bottle of wine. I wish I had pictures, but all I have is a
distinct memory of the sound it made and the look on her face – a combination
of surprise and mortification. Linde,
you’re a graceful, sophisticated woman – but that wasn’t your night. I’m glad we could laugh about it together,
lady.
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