Pulpo Paul

Pilgrims live in a different time zone, waking long before the sun has even given thought to rising, leaving small villages behind in the wee hours of the morning, walking sticks clicking mournfully against the cobbled darkened streets. Then there are other pilgrims... 

My husband and I sat unhurried, the morning of the feast day of Saint James in a quiet café as Grandas de Salime emptied itself of it’s transient pilgrim population. Footage of Santiago flashed across the flickering TV screen behind the bar while the barkeep wiped tables and positioned coffee cups for the incoming locals arriving for a chat. As we sipped our tiny cups of roasted perfection, Karin peeked her head in. 

“Oh, I thought I was the last!” 
We smiled our frothy milk moustache smiles, “Pfft.. We’ll leave eventually..” 

Hours later found me lying on my back on the top of a mountain at the edge of Asturias, my 400lb camera balanced on my face, the lens aiming heavenward as the arms of a windmill wooshed past directly above. The sun played peek-a-boo, creating spots against the vast blue sky framed through my view finder.  We would certainly not reach town in time to get beds in an albergue, but then, my husband.. otherwise known as the snoring machine from hell, preferred private rooms anyway and was more than happy to sabotage our chances of sleeping with others who may angrily suffocate him in the night. (I may still, one day...)

We came down from the mountain, crossing into Galicia where the stew changed names, the grain barns changed from square to rectangular and the scallop shells that we had been following, switched direction, now pointing the way with the tip instead of the base. (a vital bit of information..) We paused for lunch at an isolated old man bar, the bathroom lacking running water, and we sat outside, making sandwiches of tomatoes and tuna while chatting with the two Danish women, Jette and Cristina, one a nurse in love with hiking and the other, a teacher enamored with Salsa and the Tango.  Though both fiercely strong as indicated by their gorgeously toned legs, they felt no need to race into town as they had booked rooms ahead for their entire adventure.    

Fonsagrada was at the top of a mountain. Every town was at the top of a F@*$ing mountain, yet magically, pilgrims still had to climb their way out of each town the next morning!!  Ah... the Camino... 

Fonsagrada, literally translated as “sacred fountain,” boasted a fountain blessed by Saint James which changed water to milk.  We never actually found the fountain, however we did find a beautiful evening pilgrims mass in a lovely little church in the town center. Fonsagrada also plays host to the "Feria de septiembre," one of the largest traditional livestock festivals in the province and the "Feria del emigrantes," a celebration of those who moved away but come home for holidays.  We had arrived earlier to our little hilltop room that Paul had booked ahead for us. We quickly showered and washed our clothes in the sink, before heading out to take in the little town (In reference to washing clothes, my use of ‘we,’ actually means ‘I’..)

We were constantly misjudging people. Maybe it was because we were slightly introverted, maybe it was because we didn’t have European social skills, or maybe it was because we are just assholes. Either way, my husband and I were constantly readjusting our incorrect, misguided views of our fellow pilgrims. 

Jan tops six feet easily, he has a closely shaved head and a well-lived lined face giving away his Dutch heritage. His skin is bronzed a dark gold and his eyes tell countless stories. As a person of barely adult height, I was intimidated. So I judged, and I stayed away. However in the bright late afternoon mountain top sun, with a sweaty cold cerveza con limon in my hand, Karin and Ameya on either side of me and Jan across the table, I changed my mind. 

A soft- spoken man belying his tall stature, Jan grew up on the Dutch Caribbean island of Curaçao and though his parents had since returned to the Netherlands, though Jan had spent time in the fast paced high level world of profit and gain, he had had enough. He left it all, spent years traveling the world on foot and by bicycle, navigating countries and conflicts that most could only imagine, before returning to Curaçao to teach math in a public school. I admired him. Jan also had the ability to give those in his company, the gift of calm and appreciation for the moment they were in. He gave anyone he was talking with the feeling that they were the center of the universe and as a result, we all sought his company. He could sleep in fields and on cold floors, he could climb into windows and eat nearly anything, he could speak countless languages and manage any situation with grace, yet he did all things with a humble gentleness.  My, how I misjudged. 

As the church bells rang, we lifted ourselves from our chairs and headed the one block to the tiny town church. We filed in quietly, mere moments late and relaxed into our pews as the flowing spanish of the priest echoed through the church. At the end, we all stepped forward, the priest leading us through a pilgrims prayer and blessing. “Read this each morning,”  he advised, handing us each, copies of the prayer. 

We judged Judith harshly as well, as she wandered into town late each day, looking fresh and smiling while picking up her waiting backpack at the hotel where it had been transported ahead. We later learned that she walked her camino according to her own limitations and as we kept discovering, we were assholes to judge. 

Judith is not from Spain, she is from Catalonia, Barcelona, specifically and Judith has very clear ideas of how things should be. She has no doubts. We stood outside the church, starving as dinnertime approached and Judith, who always asked locals where the best restaurant was, knew exactly where to go. She led us across town, a mother with her hapless ducklings, to the local Pulperia (which doesn't mean paper mill..) much to Paul’s horror. 

Pulpo a la gallega is a traditional Galician dish of octopus prepared with paprika, a holdover from  a time before freezers when the spice paprika acted as a preservative. While the less brave at our table ordered the typical menu of the day, Judith ordered a giant round wooden plate of pulpo. A couple of other slightly courageous souls ordered smaller tapas or tastings of pulpo.  Judith’s heaping mountain of shiny octopus tentacles arrived alongside, our much more conservative tastings. Paul looked down in consternation, “Oh, God! They really don’t disguise it, do they? It really is just..”

“You should have gotten the full order, It’s the best in the region!!” Judith said while squishing tentacles between her teeth. 

“What’s the point of having the best of a horrible thing??” Paul said, his face turning a sickly shade.  But, a man bravely determined to try any regional delicacy, Paul dipped his spoon into the tiny cup; green mashed peas layered beneath mashed potatoes topped by shiny red-tinted pulpo pieces.  He raised the spoon shakily to his mouth and...

Well, though our dinner stretched out for hours, let it suffice to say that Paul did not die..