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 5th 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.
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