Things not Mentioned in That Movie...

One would have to assume that on the first night in an albergue, one would return from dinner before the 10pm curfew. But, sure enough, that first evening found me and two fellow pilgrims sharing wine and dinner at a little cafe by the water's edge. Joaquin  and Marie are an older couple living in Stockholm. They had finished their pilgrimage but had a fascination and respect for the basque people. So, they had chosen to spend their last days before returning home, enjoying the basque hospitality. "They are blood, sweat and steel," Maria said. Joaquin added that nearly every family lost a man or had one in jail as a result of the civil war. One could understand their cause if not their eventual tactics. All around the tiny village were signs and flags declaring and demanding independence. Spain had not been kind to them. We chatted and wandered back to our albergue before realizing that we were locked out. We knocked softly, received a scolding from the hospitaliaro and snuck to our beds as chastised teenagers. 

Saint James has a sick sense of humor. No matter how I plan or what I do, the second I set my foot on the Camino, my period arrives, a despised and unwanted companion. The perfectly imperfect timing also means that my arrival into Santiago in a months time, will find me in the same sad state. After I began my morning with a tiny ferry across the port, I stood at the staircase leading straight up the cliffside, my bag sitting directly on my ovaries and my uterus radiating an ache to my knees.. 

The day's scenery was stunning, the Atlantic carving a dramatic coastline and the beaches of San Sebastián tempting to any pilgrim. Hydrangeas grew wild along with other brightly colored flowers dotting the path. Butterflies and bees posed for pictures as I huff and puffed my way past. A little dog ran happily past and as his owner caught up, I shamelessly stared at this gorgeous specimen of basque genetics. Dark thick hair, wet with sweat, strong corded muscles and bronzed skin dotted with occasional tattoos, and Oh, what a smile! As he grinned his way past, I rolled my tongue back into my face and trudged on with a slightly lighter step. 

I had planned to stop in Orio, in fact, I had dreamed of stopping in Orio as my pesky uterus slowed me down, rendering my limbs rubbery. 
"There are no hotels in Orio??"
"No, we are not a tourist town."
"But we are standing in a tourist office!"

I trudged on, six additional kilometers, ready to write Orio off, but an old man stopped me for a chat, lied through his teeth while praising my Spanish and kissed my cheeks. Orio is not so bad.

In the last kilometer of a 30 km day, I met tall and blonde Ole from Norway, who was walking five days to Bilbao after breaking up with his girlfriend. Upon arrival in Zarautz, we were both gutted to learn that all 4 hotels were full.

Maru saved my day, a friend of the receptionist at the last hotel, lovely Maru who lived alone, opened her home to me. And I thanked her by promptly falling asleep and sleeping 10 hours straight.