My first day after the Vesuvius Virus, at least prior to an uneasy
brunch, was mostly a blur. I have a
vague sense of leaving O’Cebreiro and following the Camino into the Galician
landscape, which almost instantly swapped Spain for Ireland in terms of
disposition and weather. I was lucky to
have missed the driving rain from the day before (Game Postponed Due to
Illness), and although the sky was overcast and there was a persistent mist,
the temperatures were easy to bear and I remember the walk as easy.
In the first village, I stopped in a crowded bar for my first food and
coffee of the day, shakily finding a table in the back corner and wedging my
backpack into the corner. The place had
the demeanor of an English pub, all dark hardwood and low ceilings, and smelled
of strong coffee and toast. I remember
having only two options – coffee, toast, jam, butter, and orange juice, or the
same items without the juice. I dodged
the orange acid bomb and waited on my toast; the bar became quickly crowded and
I found myself sharing my table with three older women: A silver-haired Irish
woman and a married couple named Pepper and Lisa who were from Virginia. I immediately warmed to the American
couple.
We made conversation, ate, and left.
The first half of my day was a strange bag: the weather was foggy and decidedly Gaelic,
and although I more or less remember the walk through ridiculously green
forests, the downhill trajectory off the mountain, and the sun coming out as I
approached Triacastela in the valley… many of the details are lost to my efforts
not to get sick. Some of the details
that do stand out:
Debating, and risking, a tuna and tomato empanada at a roadside café
where a random American suggested I try the weird carbonated Gatorade that is
sold in Spain. It was good, and my
stomach held.
The anxious, high-maintenance American woman, a day-tripper, who kept
running back and forth along the Camino snapping photos and yelling loudly to
her husband about her observations, mostly negative, who pissed me off so much
I walked through several of her photos because I just didn’t give a damn at
that point.
Several very nice people who offered advice on how not to feel like crap
and ignored my social cues of “I feel sick and disgusting, but I’m walking,
please give me some space.”
That weird, intoxicated feeling of walking 22 kilometers on almost no
food, then suddenly becoming equally ravenous and nauseated at the first smell
of warm food.
In any case, when I got to Triacastela I was feeling decent, and walked
around the town to scope out the possible sleeping situations. There weren’t many pilgrims around since the ‘recommended’
stop was still a few kilometers ahead, but the ones who were noticeable were
clustered around several outdoor tables at the restaurants on the main
street. According to the guide book, the
town had housed three castles, none of which remained. I briefly explored the graveyard next to the
church, noting an abundance of Camino iconography, and taking a few minutes to
pray in the chapel. While I was there, the priest was busy cleaning and
readying the chapel for mass, but I ventured a brief conversation with him in
Spanish and he struck me as kind.
I decided to stay at a network hostel called Complexo Jacobeo that, for
less than ten Euros, offered what seemed like a ridiculously nice place to
stay. Full kitchen, smaller rooms with
wooden bunks and thick blankets, expansive bathrooms, a large downstairs area,
and laundry. Given my level of filth the
day before, I wanted that laundry so bad I could taste it. I checked in, dropped my stuff, showered, and
grabbed a washer before checking my email.
While I was sitting there, a young woman came in and commented that our
backpacks were the same (Osprey Kestrel 48 Liters, aka The Best Pack Ever), and
introduced herself as Katie from Virginia.
We ended up bunking together in the same room as the Cuban expats I’d
met earlier – me below and her above.
She can correct me if I’m wrong, but I think we actually swapped packs
at one point. In the lazy afternoon
nap-read-relax hours, she pointed me toward a grocery store that actually sold
English-language novels, and I went in search of fiction.
I grabbed a few things at the store that I thought would be good for my
stomach – yogurt, milk, cereal, bread, and… candy. All remarkably poor choices I’d realize much
later, but let’s face it: If you’re sick in Spain and feeling low, Lucky Charms
sounds like a great idea. The book
section was remarkably well stocked, and I was shocked to see Kazuo Ishiguro,
Paul Auster, and a ton of Haruki
Murakami. Not what I’d expect alongside the
obligatory Dan Brown and company.
Nothing jumped out at me.
I’ve forgotten to describe Katie.
At that point on my pilgrimage, coming out of sickness and feeling old
and busted, I needed her youth, energy, and optimism. I’m still grateful for it, and how later that
night she introduced me to Mandie and Melissa, all college friends on the
Camino. Katie was bright, intelligent,
insightful, and funny. After long stretches of being serious and thinking
about serious things, she and her friends were a breath of life. Looking back now, it’s hard to comprehend that
I didn’t spend more time on the Camino with them than I did. I’d finish the pilgrimage with them in
Santiago, but at that point I didn’t know it or plan on it. What I do know is that watching Katie get out
of the upper bunk was one of the funniest and most awkward things I’ve ever
seen. It was like a box of elbows and
knees falling down a flight of stairs.
Katie, love you.
I hung out with those three in the kitchen for a while, taking advantage
of their generous offering of leftover pasta, before heading out to the pilgrim’s
mass. I was looking forward to my
nightly mass again after a couple of days, and expected the small country
chapel to be memorable. Little did I
know.
By the time mass was to begin, there were only five of us in the
chapel. I remember the gentle Spanish
couple I wrote about before, and a couple of older German or Austrian women I
vaguely recognized. The priest reminded
me of nothing so much as a swarthy Nikita Khrushchev – and he immediately swept
us up from the pews to sit behind the altar on benches and enlisted us as
readers in the mass. He had pre-printed
cards in as many languages as we had between us and a missal printed in a
binder with the day’s readings in English, Spanish, German, and French. I was both touched that he was so quick to
involve us in the mass, and saddened that Triacastela offered so few
congregants that the priest had a plan in place for tiny masses. It felt unfair to his commitment, his obvious
love of his chapel and his willingness to meet our needs as pilgrims. When we made our offerings of peace to one
another, he took a moment to encourage us not to just shake hands at a
distance, but hug each other forcefully and with enthusiasm. One of the best memories I have from the
Camino is the feeling of being bear-hugged by this large, happy priest, as if I
were one of his family.
Of course, we are family, by virtue of being members of the body of
Christ, and connected by that love and compassion… but it’s not often that we
express it in that way.
Santiago, and the end of my pilgrimage to the tomb of James the Apostle,
companion of Christ, was one week away.
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