Well Fed!

If a pilgrim wants a good meal, then she must simply follow the French. After a sweetly simple mass and communion in Portugalete, I stood up to discover that another pilgrim was sitting a few pews back. I had met Caroline momentarily in the Catedral de Santiago in Bilbao and was thrilled to hear her heavily accented French in response to my hello. With short frizzy red hair and an excited smile, Caroline is very clear of what she wants and doesn't want. We walked together into the fanciest restaurant in town, situated at the rivers edge, occupying the bottom of a hotel that rents rooms for $400 per night. Dear Caroline simply states  "we are pilgrims and we want the three course menu." Our adorable young waiter, with a smile that is likely enamoring multiple young girls, nodded and said "Si, pero a las ocho y media!" Spain eats much later than a pilgrims life allows and so we enjoyed a lingering pre-dinner wine before beginning our culinary adventure.

Caroline and I sat in and empty elegant dining room as our waiter brought us bold red wine, a rich first course of mushroom soup with a dash of a marmalade flair, and a second course of eggplant and fresh caught bacalao. As we worked our way to the dessert course of chocolate cake with a sprinkle of pistachios, other patrons slowly began filling the room with their conversation and clinking glasses. Our lovely waiter smiled us on our way as we, satisfied and full, raced to the alburgue, still arriving late at 10:05pm. But oh, the food!

"Fanatique!" Caroline exclaimed. "Fah na TEEK" At the start of her walk, Caroline had tripped and blackened her eye while getting off the boat ferry, she had taken an entire bottle of pain killers but her injury had not stopped her Camino, rather, other pilgrims had. "I smile at them and do they smile back??? Mais non!!" She continues her rant as we sit in our seats on a train to Santander, two days recovery awaiting. "They only compete, they do not see Spain, only alburgues and they sleep before Spain wakes up!!" I agreed a bit but either way, I had not found my camino rhythm and was sidelined by my first injury in three caminos. I was frustrated and certainly depressed, but as our train headed east to Santander, a tree across the tracks halted our progress. While the conductor and all the men on the train took their testosterone out to move the tree off of the tracks, I got out the ukulele to entertain the little curly haired girl next to me. As I played through the chords of "let it go," I smiled at the combination of English, French and Spanish lyrics I was hearing from other passengers. After a very American "amazing grace," our train was on its way.  

Santander reminds me very much of Chicago with a water's edge complete with clouds, fierce hair destroying wind and buildings butting up against a road in between. Caroline and I spent our evening walking the ocean front, and sharing yet another delicious meal ( that began at the more normal Spanish time of 930.) 

Later that night, I wandered out restlessly into a lively Santander Friday night, I walked past all of the beautiful people sharing tiny tapas and wine. I bought an ice cream cone and stood in a large plaza, watching Santander watch a late night movie under the stars and I wore my nostalgia as a pretty blue scarf around my shoulders. 

Knowing When to Stop

Perhaps sleeping on a table when your hip is shooting pain to your knees and lower back is not the best idea. I woke up unable to straighten my right leg and I sat guiltily at a rainy train station as my companions from the night before covered themselves in rain gear and charged off into the mountains as soggy conquerors. I envied them their day's adventure.

"It's bursitis," my physical therapist husband said over the phone, "you have to rest it or we won't be able to walk together when I get there!" 

A few hours later found me sitting in Bilbao, an ice pack under my ass and a bunny on my lap. Hotel Ripa was part home, part hotel and had the last available room in the entire city, but as it came with a little white bunny, I could not complain. I had spent the day hobbling along the river to the Guggenheim and sat in the shade of a giant dog made out of flowers while a choir sang terrible pop songs in the square. I walked back to the hotel slowly, stopping to sit every 50 meters, letting strains of Spanish, French, German and occasional traces of musical Italian drift by. I returned to the hotel, contemplated the next days walk, snuggled a bunny and crawled into bed, slightly depressed at my inaction.

The cost of manmade beauty is often great on the surrounding landscapes. Chicago, for example, is stunning, rising dramatically out of the lake's edge. But if Chicago were on a pilgrimage route, a pilgrim would struggle walking through days of industrial jungles. Bilbao, built about 7 miles in from the Atlantic Ocean on the Río Nervión, is a perfect example of the industrial revolution. I had thought to walk the 10 km to Portugalete along the river in order to test my hip. Surely 6 miles was doable?! But after passing countless crumbling abandoned buildings, graffitied walls and ship building yards, I regretted my choice.

Six hours later, I arrived white faced with pain, in Portugalete to claim the last bed in the alburgue. Surrounded by snoring pilgrims and a line for the one shower and toilet stall, I dropped my bag on the bed under the calendar with the sexy shirtless man and headed to the rivers edge for a cerveza con limon to ease my considerable aches.

The afternoon sun gave a warm rose glow to the basilica Santa Maria de Portugalete. Built in 1322 when Portugalete was founded by Maria de Haro, the beautiful church rose above the little city, offering gorgeous afternoon views of the river and surrounding area. As I walked in, a small wiry older man names Carlos asked me if I was tourist or pilgrim. "Peregrina," I responded as he warmly took my hand. He stamped my pilgrims passport and copy of Don Quixote, oohed and ahhhed over my Chicago origins and firmly kissed my cheeks. I settled in for a 7pm mass and watched Carlos set up mics, turn on lights, and take care of all the little necessary details of preparing for a mass, his love and energy showing in each of his movements.  And as he rushed over to clasp my hand in his during the sign of peace, I let go of the day's pains and frustrations and I smiled into his twinkling eyes.

A Bad Pilgrim

A bad pilgrim realizes that she forgot her clothes while showering in an albergue.

A bad pilgrim has a slow coffee before starting her day.

A bad pilgrim may not shower one day, thus smelling like the inside of a soccer gym bag.

A bad pilgrim doesn't ring her clothes out enough and walks in perpetually wet socks.

A bad pilgrim  acquires troll feet, due to crappy lacing and an ignoring of hot spots. ( and the aforementioned wet socks.)  

A bad pilgrim lusts after sexy Spanish men and occasionally winks at cyclists.

A bad pilgrim arrives at 10:05pm, out of breath and sweaty every night at the albergue. She then discovers that she doesn't know where her glasses are and rustles around in her bag.. Until people hate her.

A bad pilgrim occasionally stays in a hotel.. Especially when her ovaries are swollen..
A bad pilgrim gazes longingly at scooters, missing the feel of the wind in her hair and on her skin.

A bad pilgrim sneaks out for late night gelato and then lingers at a movie being shown in a square.

A bad pilgrim curses Saint James while hiking every incline. 

A bad pilgrim takes a day off to lay on a beach. 

A bad pilgrim finishes walking after 5 pm.

A bad pilgrim has a bag that weighs more than ten pounds. 

A bad pilgrim is jealous of all the beautiful Spanish women and longs for her makeup and hair dryer. 

A bad pilgrim uses three languages in one sentence. 

A bad pilgrim doesn't have NorthFace or Columbia and may even wear cotton.

A bad pilgrim eats the cream croissant when she knows she shouldn't and spends the rest of the day looking for bushes.

A bad pilgrim can't remember the name of the last town.. Or the next.

A bad pilgrim occasionally ignores the arrows, choosing her own way, despite Saint James whispering a warning in her ear. 

A bad pilgrim is not sure of what she believes or if she is on the right path.

A bad pilgrim does not let go of the other paths.

A bad pilgrim makes bad choices.

... Or is afraid to make choices at all.

I  am all of these things.

I am a bad pilgrim.

I am a pilgrim.

I am sleeping Where?

I awoke in the morning in a frilly bed surrounded by the most feminine apartment, yet the following night found me sleeping on a table in a catechism classroom... Ah, the Camino.

 My day began as I put in my contacts in a bathroom surrounded by more makeup and perfume than in a pharmacy and I sat to have a quiet coffee with Maru before starting my walk. Bright eyed with moss green eyeliner, purple nails and styled blonde tinted hair, Maru teased that I must be a little crazy to make the pilgrimage. But she sent me on my way with a full belly and her well wishes. 

The San Fernin festival begins in Pamplona on July 7th of each year and commences each day for a week with the running of the bulls, finishing at the ring where the bulls are then put before the matador. Many have raised voice to the cruelty of the practice and the region of Catalonia has even banned bullfighting. However the Basque consider the battle between the matador and the bull to be a testament of grace and respect. And many would agree that the respect and care with which the Basque raise their animals is far more humane than the typical American factory farm. Hemingway wrote quite romantically about the dance of bullfighting. However, as he liked to hunt lions.. I won't put much stock in his idea of romance. And honestly, I can't help but lack sympathy for gored runners and matadors; they chose the game, the bulls didn't.  

My walk began with a flat track running directly along the coast with a slightly hazy sky. Sailboats dotted the horizon and people walked from town to town, beach to beach. Six km brought me to the lovely seaport town of Geteria, home to Magellan's protege, Juan Sebastián Elcano, who completed the first circumnavigation of the globe after Magellan was killed.  

Narrow pretty streets led downhill towards the church and as my walking stick clicked against the cobblestones, I heard the chanting and excited squeals of children. I rounded the corner to catch a progression of little ones all in white, except for telltale red bandanas tied around their necks. As they shrieked, restauranteurs and residents from the surrounding balconies tossed buckets of water on the happy children in an innocently sweet reenactment of the running of the bulls.  

Leaving Geteria, the route turns steeply uphill, so steep, in fact, that the engines of scooters choked and sputtered while trying to ascend. Enjoying a hilly walk with a horizon made out of ocean, I was happy to see Ole wander up the hill in my direction. We ambled into the town of Zumaia while he told me that somehow he had magically found a room the night before. As we sat at a tiny cafe, drinking Fanta and cerveza con limon, old men played cards and unleashed dogs weaved through the bar patrons. 

We walked on, talking of our homes and differences, our partners and ex-partners and all the other details that pilgrims share. Upon reaching the next town, we said goodbye as I was feeling a growing nagging pain in my hip. I intended to stay in Itziar to soak in a hotel tub while Ole, continued on to Deba. However, minutes later I was told by towns people at a cafe that there is no hotel, the alburgue is full and I must continue on. So with growing aches and pains I continued through a lovely, relatively easy walk into Deba. Much to my horror, I discovered that in the pretty whaling town of Deba, all three alburgues were full, as were all the hotels and pensions. I stumbled around in shell shock, beginning to contemplate a night sleeping on the beach when I noticed another group of dazed tired pilgrims. I started following them figuring they knew more than me and sure enough, a priest was letting them into the classrooms next to the church. And after considerable wine and food (and no access to showers)  that is how our stinky group of two Spaniards, a Canadian, an Italian and an American came to be sleeping on the floor and tables in a church catechism classroom... There was monumental snoring... And laughter. 

As a side note, I saw Ole at dinner and he said he found a hotel..How the F@$K!! I am beginning to think that he is actually Finnish royalty..