I remember the walk from Triacastela to Sarria being dreary,
uncomfortable, soaked in rain and fog, and ending with a twisting, unappealing
slog from the city’s outskirts to the upper tiers of the ‘old city’. Given that I was still feeling weak, and
being sick had forced me to say goodbye to many of the people I’d known earlier
on the Camino, I wasn’t the most pleasant pilgrim to be around that
morning. I definitely recall being grumpy
and unresponsive to several pilgrims, and although I stopped at a couple of
bars in the morning, I only got coffee instead of food and stayed mired in my
irritations.
There was a bit of confusion on the final approach to a huge roadways
and crossroads immediately before the stone-tiered steps led upwards into the
old part of the city where many of the hostels were clustered. I came walking up to a group of pilgrims, I
believe newcomers who were starting that day or a day before, and told them to
keep a sharp eye out for the yellow-painted arrows on the street, lampposts,
and trash cans. I gathered from our
conversation that they were expecting signs of a more… substantial nature and
hadn’t quite picked up on the haphazardness of the Way.
The rain kept coming, and I resigned myself to the brutal uphill steps
away from the commercial center and toward the church; I was disappointed to
note that the church nearest a string of hostels on the left-hand side of the
street was closed and had no sign for a pilgrim’s mass. Clouds loomed, the drizzle nearly soaked
through my rain gear, and I was ready to find a spot for the night.
I don’t remember which of the albergues Brierley recommended, but I had
my pick. Each one offered the varying
services, but I was looking for two things: a washer/dryer, and a pilgrim’s
meal provided. In retrospect, I’ll admit
that I didn’t look very hard. I walked
into one place that looked particularly hotel-like, and was welcomed into a
comfortable foyer – in the room beyond there were two huge dining tables being
prepared and a kitchen tucked into the back, stairs led up to the right onto
three floors of rooms with bunks overlooking the church and the city, and the
entire thing looked designed by an Ikea pro with time to spare. It was very, very homey compared to the chill
and the mist outside, so I put my Euros down and followed the hospitalero up to
my bunk.
I was placed in an upstairs room overlooking directly onto the church,
whose towers rise high and close and seemed near enough to touch. I was shortly joined by a couple from
Vermont, Jerry and Kathy, who were old and gentle and a little bit snarky. Then Belgian Daniel, who chose the bunk under
my own, Gabrielle, and down the hall from us – Lotus, the Naked Peregrina, who
came in from the rain in a torrent of loud cackles, complaints, and strange
proclamations. I wondered if I were in
for a rough night. But I got my things
into the wash, got myself reasonably clean in the chilly showers, and went
downstairs to wander about.
Back in the commercial district, I walked many, many blocks before I
found an agreeable ATM and a pharmacia… which led to a ridiculous conversation
with the pharmacists as I tried to explain that I needed both medicine for cold
symptoms and some magic pill to keep me
from enjoying the ongoing excitement of explosive diarrhea. I’d heard tales of some mystery combination of
meds that would make me instantly better, and after some tricky hand gestures
and pantomimes, they stacked me up with several boxes of pills and sent me on
my way, less than 20 Euros poorer.
I ran into Danielle on the street and happily tried to start a
conversation, but she was in a hurry to get back to Jean-Louis who was laid up
in a hostel one town ahead with some significant tendon pain. She was going out in all directions, and I
wished her luck and decided to wander around more before heading home for the
night. I walked a few kilometers back
toward the tourist hotels to find an internet café where I could print out my
boarding passes for my return flight, and my reservations for my hotel back in
Pamplona. I found a genuine outdoor gear
store on the Camino that sold all the gear I might have needed 400 kilometers
ago, and all of it was so ridiculously over priced as to be downright
prohibitive.
Back at the hostel I found two things that literally changed my whole
week – first, on the bookshelf I found a copy of Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping,
which is one of the best fucking books I’ve ever read. Gilead is hers, too, and both of those
novels take moments of the profoundly ordinary and infuse them with a sense of
wonder, mystery, and magic – and she does it without ever reaching for anything
expressly magical. It’s all in the
phrasing, and that is pure genius.
Waiting on dinner, the second thing happened. When I came downstairs I realized I’d be
sharing a table with Lotus, Gabrielle, the Vermonters, and Daniel… and I had my
reservations about dear Lotus as well as the negativity from the northerners I’d
heard earlier. I had my judgments.
Sitting in the den, though, I was drawn into a conversation about film
and how film narrative has changed, and although that was interesting, the
compelling piece was how each person’s personality really came alive in our conversation. I was able to laugh and enjoy time with them,
and by the time we sat down for dinner I was glad to be part of their crowd for
the night. Lotus and Daniel knew each
other already, and she plied us with stories of his kindness and secret
compassion – like how he rescued a kitten in one town and carried it under his
shirt for three days, hiding it in his hostels, until he could find it a
home. Daniel, for his part, grumbled and
blushed and tried to hush her, but I was struck by the knowledge and again
impressed by how much I admired him. The
Vermonters and I talked about politics and our fear for the election, our
difficulty understanding the conservatives in our country, especially with
respect to how they treat the poor and marginalized. For them it was a human imperative, for me,
spiritual.
Toward the dessert course (i.e. Emptying the Wine Bottles), an Italian
pair came in the door, dripping wet and asking desperately for a room. The hospitalero rushed them upstairs to get
them squared away, and they shortly joined our table. The man was older, perhaps in his 60s or 70s,
and his daughter may have been a few years older than me. He carried himself with a sense of confidence
and style – shaved head, easy posture, tortoiseshell glasses… and she was,
quite frankly, one of the most immediately beautiful people I have ever seen on earth.
I’m not saying that lightly.
Later, when they went up to bed before us, the men at the table gave
each other glances as if to say “Seriously?”, and when Lotus realized what was
being communicated she jumped in with an equally robust and direct observation:
“That woman is fucking gorgeous!”. I
have this belief that all people are beautiful if they allow themselves to be
fully present, and that all people have aspects of their physicality or
personality that are charming… and also that there are some people who just
knock you out of your socks. It was
interesting to see the whole crowd respond to her beauty before anyone said
anything – especially since although the man spoke adequate English, she spoke
none and did little more than smile at our rowdy conversation.
I went to bed that night with the windows open and the church bells
ringing the hours, more optimistic for the next day and feeling energetic. I thought about how strange it was to be able
to walk into a new foreign city, navigate the stores and services I needed
without help or supervision, to fall into a crowd of fast friends from a
scattering of countries and find joy in this dreary place. I thought about my parents’ approach to
travel and new circumstances and my limited exposure to real exploration as a
child, and fell asleep grateful that I was comfortable, joyful, and engaged in
Spain – by myself halfway across the world.
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