Leaving Caldadilla that morning, I
was excited to end the day in a large
city, Sahagun. My guidebook promised
170,000 people, a seat of great ecclesiastical power with some historically interesting
churches and buildings, and with Susannah still in need of pants and myself
still in search of the elusive running shoes I wanted to buy, Sahagun promised
much.
So… as useful as The Book of John (John Brierley’s guide
to the Camino de Santiago – easily the most popular English-language guide) was
at times, there were some times when it was significantly wrong. The more minor of these mistakes being more
annoying (hostels open or closed, signs, etc.)… to the more major mistakes
being downright dangerous (failing to make clear there are massive stretches of
Camino without any water source – an omission that, in the summer heat, could
easily kill someone, or mentioning that the path out of Leon takes you through
a dangerous neighborhood in the dark, at 7AM).
His description of Sahagun is somewhere in the middle.
Sahagun is less than 9,000 people,
and you can walk straight across it in half an hour. I know, because we did. There are no backpacker stores, no tennis
shoes to be had, but there is at least one damn fine bakery, a beautiful
roadway arch that marks where the Camino leaves the town for greener pastures,
a monastery offering compline services every night, and the coolest ‘Santiago
Peregrino’ statue I saw throughout Spain:
Before we reached the busy
metropolis, however, we walked off and on nearby the roads and through fields,
officially entering Leon province. At
Ledigos, we stopped at a bar literally in the courtyard shade of a beautiful,
if stark, church, where we joined an older woman named May who wanted to hear
our stories as we made hasty work of our coffees, orange juice, and
sandwiches.
May reminded me of my friend
Nathan’s mother – graceful, engaging, and interesting to talk to. Even in her age, she had a distinct and undiluted
charm I was drawn to… and then she confessed to us that she was a day-tripper.
We’d seen, and deeply resented,
these creatures before – typically older men and women who were paying to be
bused around to the more interesting sites of the Camino, staying in pre-booked
hotels at night, and who were let off in the morning without packs to leisurely
stroll through the towns as we plodded along, backs aching and feet sore. I’ll be honest, the day-trippers made me
angry. Not that us pilgrims had any more
right to see the Camino, but that, by
not participating in the masses, in the communal meals, in the relationships
that popped up along the way and the travails and difficulties of each day, the
day-trippers cheapened the experience for themselves. I felt sad for them for taking a guided tour,
and that sadness and pity would quickly combine with annoyance at their
loudness or rudeness to the Spaniards to turn into real anger. I wanted them gone.
But here was this woman who was
nice, and kind, and genuinely interested in our stories, and talking to her
made it much easier to remember that not only were those tourists aware
of their separation from the rest of us pilgrims, but that I had no right to
judge. I would love for my parents to
have the opportunity to explore the Camino de Santiago that way – without stress
or difficulty, for instance.
When Susannah, Linde, and I
arrived in Sahagun, we’d already committed to trusting our instincts with our
albergue for the night, and the first two we walked past didn’t convince us, so
we walked a little further from the center of town to find a new, private
hostel not listed in my guidebook. It
rested on the same street as a garage and a building supply warehouse, which
with the hostel’s brightly colored gardens and buildings, its’ leonese statues
lining the entrance, and it’s effusive signs gave it an air of a strange
compound. Walking in I was taken aback
by the space – the beds were in an open floor plan but cleverly squared into
cubbies of four, and the showers and bathrooms were huge, tiled, and hot. Laundry service was available, as well as a
kitchen, and by the time I’d showered up and lay down for a nap I felt very
comfortable indeed.
Post-nap explorations of the city
proved… interesting. The two churches of
historical significance, notably the Iglesia San Juan, were in repairs and
unavailable to the public; the city itself seemed shabby and worn down despite
plenty of cheerful people walking by on the streets. As we realized the guidebook’s mistake about
Sahagun, we found one of the central town squares and sat down with massive
pastries and sodas to watch the kids play and the old Spanish women chase and
chastise them. I wrote in my notebook
later that I was grateful for the ability to be disappointed and still happy at
where I was, and wanted to remind myself to spend more time opening my heart to
discernment in the coming days. I was
starting to wonder and worry if the fun I was having with the Musketeers was
distracting me from why I’d come to Spain, and fearing that I might run out of
time.
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