Breakfasted at the hostel with Sam and the same crowd from the night
before; it took me a bit to screw up my courage and ask someone to take a
picture of he and I before I ventured out onto the Camino, intent on making my
way just a few short miles up the way to Ponferrada… and promptly walked back
inside for another cup of coffee. Rain was happening, and since I wasn’t going
far for the day, there wasn’t any reason to hurry on.
I was sad, however, to watch the pilgrims throw on their ponchos and
head out into the early morning rain – I was acutely aware that my choice to
linger in Ponferrada and visit the Templar Castle there meant I’d probably not
see these folks again. I’m terrible at
goodbyes, as I’ve said before.
Once it became light and the rain lessened, I made my way down the road
and wound all through several suburbs on the way into Ponferrada – the Camino
at this point wasn’t particularly interesting but for the fact that there was
no place out of sight to go to the bathroom.
For a while I played leap frog with the same older couple as the day
before, and by the time I made sense of the confusing way points on the grey
streets of lower Ponferrada, I was desperate for a restroom.
Literally across the street from the castle’s edifice is a Godiva café,
where I could already see pilgrims crowded around tables under the brightly lit
neon displays; it was an obvious choice.
When I walked in and dropped my stuff in a corner, beelining for the
facilities, an older French guy I’d talked to at dinner intercepted me to grab
me by the shoulders and insist I buy an apple cupcake. Hijinks ensued as I tried to both ensure him
I would in the future while
extracting myself en route to relief.
When I came back from the restroom, he was gone, but I got the
cupcake. It was delicious.
Since the castle wasn’t to open for an hour or so, I made my way through
Ponferrada, to the wide flat square past the clock tower and in front of the
Ayunamiento, explored gift shops with a variety of Templar-oriented trinkets, a
Spanish-language comic book shop that was exactly like every comic shop I’ve
been in across the U.S., and had lunch.
On the way back into the castle I stopped by the church, the site of a
Marian vision, and ducked through the heavy wooden doors into the dark, silent,
incense-full church. The only thing well lit was the altar piece showing Mary
in splendor, and for a moment I stood there, imagining what it must be like to
have visions of the Virgin. I thought
about blessings and joy.
When another visitor came in, cracking the doors to let a shaft of light
into the church, I realized there was another person sitting, head bowed, on the
next to last row. I recognized Brother
Sam, and after he was finished praying I sat down beside him, whispering my
gratitude at running into him again. We
walked outside and talked about our plans for the day, and this ‘second goodbye’
felt like a blessing, felt easy, felt natural.
I did, as usual, completely forget to get his contact information, which
I realized later.
The Templar Castle was empty in the first few minutes of its’ visitor’s
hours, and I had my time and leisure to explore the ruins, imagining knights
along the walls looking out over the various sections of Ponferrada. High on the defensive positions, peeking
through arrow slots, it struck me how much the position of the castle must have
been its’ advantage. Although the
guidebook had made snarky comments about the touristy aspect of the castle, I
found it easy to appreciate the site and let my mind wander, imagining how much
time and effort it must have taken to build it, how cold and strong it must
have seemed to live there, battles.
Then the apple cupcake came back to haunt me, and in the very, very nice
bathroom in the Castillo de Templarios, I broke a toilet. I made my escape quickly.
In Ponferrada, the municipal hostel is on the far outskirts of downtown,
across a busy street and parking lot, down the Calle de Peregrinos and behind a
gate. Ominous as it seemed, it
immediately struck me as welcoming – there were many pilgrims waiting in the
courtyard outside for the building to open at 2, and there was a sign
encouraging us to make ourselves welcome, to shower in the garden bathrooms, to
hang out laundry, etc. When the doors
opened, I checked in between a Californian guy I vaguely knew via Barry and a
gorgeous young French woman who I thought
I knew, but upon asking her name, didn’t.
Her girlfriend was also gorgeous, in that Tegan and Sara kind of
way. Asymmetrical haircuts, oddly
fashionable. Unfair.
After the typical shower and shave, I spent a few hours waiting on a
good time to go out for dinner and the mass.
The Asian couple and several of their friends literally took over the
kitchen area, and this time around I made confusing introductions across the
language barrier. The Japanese guy
referred to himself as ‘Jim’; he and his girlfriend were the only of their
crowd that spoke any English but we made do.
Their food, stir fry and some potato dish, smelled amazing and made me
jealous. I couldn’t think of a proper
way to invite myself in, so I went out into the twilight in search of food and
mass.
Walking up the Calle de Peregrinos yet again, I passed proper bars with
leather-jacketed men smoking cigarettes outside, the first time I’d seen the
like in Spain. I spent a good 45 minutes
walking from restaurant to restaurant in the old city looking for one that was
open, to no avail. Hungry and anxious
not to miss the mass at 7, I got angrier and angrier, until I rounded the
corner into the square facing the church and saw a placard being placed outside
a warmly lit café and open tables underneath the stone awning.
It was a perfect meal – personal sized stone fired pizzas and a pint of
thick, dark beer suggested by the waiter.
He’d studied in the U.S. and spoke great English, and I was grateful to
have an easy conversation with a friendly face.
For the first half of my meal, I was the only person there, until Mary
and Joseph came wandering by and took my suggestion to try out the pizza. We made small talk after they made their
orders, and I paid and walked over to the mass nearby.
When I came in, I didn’t see any other recognizable pilgrims, but the
church was full of older women chanting some Marian responsorial I didn’t
recognize. It may have been ‘Queen of
Heaven’, but in my post-pizza-beer easiness, I enjoyed listening to the
repetition and ritual, allowing my mind to wander and think more about those
Marian visions from earlier.
The mass itself was slow and beautiful, the priest had a deep compelling
voice he used to great effect, and as the church filled up I found myself
sandwiched between a family and two wrinkled old women – who didn’t shy away
from holding hands during the Our Father and patted me, grinning, on the shoulder
when the priest called the pilgrims forward after the mass was finished. Looking out over the assembled crowd while
the priest read his blessing in English, Spanish, German, and French, everyone
looked happy and joyful, and so was I, feeling blessed and rested after an easy
day exploring.
And just to add one more fine thing to the day – when I went back to the
hostel, I ran into Joseph Maria in the parking lot… so just as I had said
goodbye to Sam in the morning, I found myself blessed with another friend I
thought lost on the Camino.
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