The morning began with a quick breakfast and then the three
of us walking with trepidation toward the immediate, massively steep climb from
the Rio Odrilla to Alto Mostelares and more meseta beyond. The skies were a bruised grey that threatened
real rain and delivered a solid mist during our climb, and though we worked to
conquer the hill with humor and curses, I remember how impressive the valley
looked behind us the higher we reached.
Bicyclists with rugged tires made remarkable efforts to pass
by us on the gravel road – their heaving chests doing little to make me envious
of their bikes this time around. At the
top, to our surprise, was a lean-to picnic shelter covered in messages from
other pilgrims. Susannah tagged it with
the Musketeers’ story for posterity, and before we shouldered our packs to move
on, our German friend Martina also came trudging up the hill to join us,
glasses fogged up, poncho sailing in the wind.
This is also where my camera battery finally gave up the
ghost.
Dropping down into the valley after more meseta-trekking, we
stopped at Itero de la Vega for excellent coffee and sandwiches, plunged into
the Tierra de Campos toward Boadilla del Camino and toward our final
destination, Fromista. The Camino
alternated between following the roadside and remote farmland; I felt compelled
to dwell on the question of discernment and my life with God after the Camino
back in the U.S. Later I wrote that it didn’t
feel forced or artificial to think about those things, and the expansiveness of
the terrain seemed to match my expanding heart, and the simplicity as
well.
By the time we walked into Fromista, I was excited to
explore the Romanesque church Iglesia de San Martin and have dinner with my
companeras; we bustled into the municipal albergue fairly early in the
afternoon.
Fromista soon began to go sideways on us – the general
feeling at the albergue was disconnected and cranky, the people there seemed
both prone to complain and inconsiderate of others, which wasn’t helped by the
grumpiness of the workers. I ended up in
a separate room from the ladies, sharing a bedroom with several very loud, very
technology-laden young backpackers who seemed less like pilgrims and more like
typical hostel-goers. When I walked in,
there was an ongoing argument about electrical plug-in politics and I struggled
not to judge my roommates based on that fact alone. Not judging became harder as, throughout the
evening, the conversations I overheard ranged from drunken frivolity to
borderline sleaze.
Showered and shorn, Linde, Susannah and I headed out in
search of food and are quickly disappointed – the first restaurant we walked
into rudely turned us away with a brusque “No food today!” despite the menu
posted outside. We end up ordering
pizzas (microwave oven pizzas, to be exact) from a bar around the corner at the
crossroads – the weather had become clear and despite this impression of
rudeness from the town it was a good meal.
Two girls, a guy, and a pizza place – am I right?
The church I wanted to explore was closed and my camera was
dead, but I remember it being isolated on this wide stone courtyard – a building
consecrated in 1066, set apart, with the town and the Camino flowing around it
like a stream. We found out there was
going to be a pilgrim’s mass at the other
medieval church in town, down around the street toward the cluster of private
hostels we’d passed up earlier, and I made the decision to go.
I almost didn’t. I
almost went in search of a beer or ice cream or a nap; I almost allowed my
impression of the town to convince me the church service would also be cold and
unfriendly… but, for whatever reason, I didn’t.
I walked down early to make time to pray a rosary, and
remember thinking that I can easily recall a time when the rosary felt awkward
and difficult. These days it feels easy,
natural, and deeply rewarding, and at some point along the Camino I fell into
the habit of beginning the day with a rosary for a specific purpose or specific
person. Now that I’m back, I miss the
fact that there was a time in every day when it was easy to pray a rosary. It fit seamlessly into the day.
The mass in Fromista was beautiful. I remember explaining to Linde the different
sections of the liturgy, and realizing first that I felt comfortable following
along in Spanish even when I didn’t immediately pick up on the words and
responses, and also that my sense of grumpiness and impatience from earlier
probably came from needing to go to
mass, that my heart was aching for it, that it was becoming a critical part of
my daily existence.
The priest was kind in his expressions and words, and the
blessing he offered to us pilgrims after the liturgy brought me to tears. I was becoming accustomed to being singled
out and recognized with love and compassion by the priests and congregants of
towns along the Camino, but when this priest crossed my forehead and spoke the
blessing, I again felt that sense of deep spiritual ‘largeness’ I can’t
attribute to just the event or just the circumstances.
I lingered behind afterward to have the priest stamp my
credencial, and it was hugely frustrating not to be able to talk to him in
Spanish, to thank him for the mass and the blessing.
Walking out into the brisk night air and the cobblestone
street, I saw the girls up ahead and ran up behind them with happy yell,
throwing my arms around their shoulders because I felt so much love for them
and for the world in that moment. (In my
head, this is a starlit, John Hughes-style End Credits moment, with a swell of
music – definitely a Cat Power song. In
slow-motion, with a final freeze-frame.
Don’t you judge me.)
So that’s how my night
ends in Fromista. The ladies have a
significantly divergent story to tell, but that can wait until the morning.
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