When I get up on my birthday, I’m excited for the
buffet-style breakfast the albergue provides – a guarantee of more than the
standard ‘toast, juice, and coffee’ combo I’ve come to know and love. When I walk into the common room, I am
surprised by a chorus of “Happy Birthday” prompted, I can tell already by the
look on her face, by Susannah and fleshed out by the British women, Bearded Red
Ryan, and Bald Ralph. It’s embarrassing,
but kind and much welcomed and after the ribbing dies down, breakfast goes much
too quickly.
Walking through the day’s kilometers mostly alone, I am
eager to stop at the Templar church (Iglesia de Santo Sepulchro) in Torres del
Rio – it is structurally based on the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem and I am
eager to give it a look… but when I get there, it is closed and I’m only able
to take a picture from the outside. It’s
smaller, but more solid and imposing, than I expected.
I can look back at the map of this day and see that there is
a steep downhill segment, that it appears mostly rugged and rural, and there is
a pilgrim’s fountain that apparently catches enough of my attention to warrant
a photo:
But to be honest, the real story starts when I get to
Viana.
Coming into town I stop at the church Iglesia de Santa Maria
where I see Tom the Hungarian Documentarian and his lady airing their feet on
the steps outside – they are moving on to the city nearby, Logrono, to make it
in time for the wine festival that night.
Drinking large quantities of alcohol seems like something I don’t really
do (Disclaimer: There are Drinking Stories Ahead), and I’m planning on staying
in Viana to enjoy the peace and quiet.
Checking out the parish hostel in the attic above the church, I am not
very enthused by their lack of beds and use of mats, so I go check out the
municipal albergue, Andres Munoz, on the other side of the square. Viana is beautiful, the streets are closely
packed with stone work and people, with small shops and color, and the weather
is perfect for exploration, so I want to drop my things on a bed, take a
shower, and go take a look around.
The hospitalera is very kind and nice as I’m checking in, so
I head up to my assigned room feeling happy (even as I haven’t seen anyone I
know who is staying in Viana yet)… and immediately run into Joseph Maria,
Gitte, Jeppe, the Korean Grandfather, and an older Austrian couple whose names
I don’t know but who are easy with smiles and hellos.
Post-shower and et ceteras, I wander outside to admire the
hostel’s structure – it’s a repurposed monastery renovated into an albergue by
a former pilgrim (there is a theme here: former pilgrims opening bars, cafes,
and hostels along the Way. I am jealous even now.) and the views from the
windows toward Logrono and along the walls of the former monastery are
striking. Literally as soon as I round
the corner I hear loud voices and laughter, and see the Danish folks and Sarah
from South Africa manning a table in the shadow of the church walls. Seems like a great time for a midafternoon
coffee, right?
What happens over the next 7 hours is more or less this:
Someone realizes it is my birthday.
There are cheers and songs. They
go in to get a round of drinks. There is
a toast and I attempt to drink both slowly and match the booze with coffee,
water, and bread. A new pilgrim comes
walking into town and misses the turn for the hostel. We point them in the right direction and have
them pull up a chair. Another round of
birthday drinks. People talk about their
respective birthday traditions. I go on
a search for a supermercado and come back with a bag full of candy and juice
(i.e., my Secret Plan to Walk off the Alcohol).
Politics is discussed and Joseph Maria attempts to explain which regions
in Spain want independence, and why. A
Basque woman named Marta shows up and pulls on my ears for good luck
(apparently a Basque birthday tradition) and she and Joseph tease each other
about their accents mercilessly. The
French couple I will come to know and love, Fanny and Marc, ask her if she is a
terrorist.
I know I’m not in America when this question spurs more
jokes and much laughter.
As the sun goes down, Joseph, Jeppe, Gitte and I go in
search of dinner and end up at an expensive, but empty, restaurant named after
Cesare Borgia. Side note, Viana is the
town where Borgia was killed. While we
are waiting for the kitchen to open, the Danes and I meander our way through a
surprisingly intense conversation about our reasons for the pilgrimage, and
Jeppe is quick to point out that one of the first things that feels ‘special’
or different about the community on the Camino is how easy it is to sit down
and be vulnerable with near-strangers.
You can offer the truths of your heart up to nearly anyone and expect
them to be honored and respected, which is an integral part of not only where I
work but what I desperately want to be consistent in my life outside of
work. I remember being grateful that at
this point in my life I can have these conversations without expecting a
certain response or outcome, without needing to make myself seem or appear a
certain way, that here in Spain, with these people, I can be who I am –
goofiness, qualities, and rough spots all at once.
Dinner is excellent and there is much wine (Mark it down:
yours truly has imbibed the Unholy Trifecta of beer, wine, and liquor in one
day for the first time since… ever.), but this isn’t the important bit. Gitte in
her generosity treats us all to what was a remarkably expensive dinner,
and we rush back to the hostel just in time to make it in before the doors
close for the night, through the townspeople’s revelry and laughter, to a
well-deserved night’s rest in our bunks.
Oh, and when I wake up the next morning, I’m not hung
over. If that’s not a miracle, I don’t
know what is.
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