Lentejas con Arroz
lentejas + zanahoria + cebolla + arroz + oregano + perejil pimento + Mucho Amor!
...as written by Javier
I stood, rosemary tied to the front of my backpack, tapping my foot impatiently as my walking companion crawled out from under a hydrangea bush, holding aloft his prize of a lemon stolen from a farmers tree. I laughed as this man whose name I still didn't know sliced bits of lemon for our camelbacks, this Frenchman who considered a bottle of basalmic vinegar a necessary weight in his backpack, this man who loved to feed others, this man who grew up in Toulouse and had family in Morocco, this man who never married but loves his girlfriend, this man whose name I still didn't know. I was secretly relieved when he stopped to bat lemons from a tree with his walking stick because when he walked, he set a bruising pace. I generally raced sweaty and out of breath after him as he took what seemed a leisurely stroll across Spain, all while slowly hand rolling and calmly puffing on his cigarettes.
Javier, the man with the pretty eyes who washed my socks and cooked dinner the night before, sent us on our way into the early morning light with full bellies, recipes, flower scented clothing and kissed cheeks.
Though we had left later, we quickly caught up with Manuela and Lucy, the lovely and intelligent Frenchwomen who brought laughter to our day. We stood in awe yet again at the beauty of the waters edge and had a slow coffee in llanes. Our afternoon stretched long though, and as the kilometers added up, our bags and feet grew heavy.
We stopped just outside of Playa de Poo, laying out our picnic treasures of bread cheese tomato and tuna just as the rain began and we ate messily before covering ourselves in raingear, Lucy looking poppy red against the grey backdrop.
Kilometers had grown freakishly long as we wandered into the small highway town of Piñeles. "There is a scout group, there are no beds, but you can walk to the church."
"Where is that," I asked apprehensively. Our faces fell dramatically as the old woman pointed nearly straight up to a church off in the distance, set high into the side of the mountain.
"Oh dear God!"
Saint James laughed, "just wait till you see the view from the top.. You will thank me then!"
Later, while eating our meal of garlic and cumin pasta made by the man whose name I don't know, we toasted to our view of mountains ending in clouds.
I tucked a sprig of wild mint behind my ear as we walked through menthol scented forests of eucalyptus, their delicate thin white tree trunks stretching to the sky. Hills taunted our stiff morning legs as my walking companion and I left San Vincente behind. 48 years old and a Highschool math teacher, my tall wiry French companion enjoyed a familiarity with his surroundings that astounded me. I scurried to collect as he used his walking stick to knock ruby red cherries from a farmers tree, and we howled with laughter when a passing Irishman (also a math teacher..) informed us that we were likely poisoning ourselves. The world was fresh and contained our breakfast. I watched amused as my companion touched, tasted, smelled.... Everything. And should we have paused when wiping cow poop off of the fruit we were about to consume...? Perhaps.
"Every thing is a surprise," my companion said as we stood on a cliffs edge, the sea crashing spectacularly a hundred feet below. The guide books said nothing of this spot, but 5km outside of Colombres we took a tiny path next to the ocean, and for those moments, the churning violent waters and jagged rocks belonged only to us.
Saint James observed us close to the waters edge. "Do you see now why my boat crashed up in Finistere? These waters are wild!" I took a breathe of salt air, prepared to run from the approaching cows and smiled into the wind.
We were four, walking into the silent town of Peduales, following rumors of an albergue with a communal dinner. Lucy and Manuela, both therapists working with children in France, had one week to wander before returning to work and their good humor spread as we walked through a tiny town exemplifying urban sprawl.
"He washes and dries our clothes too?! We have arrived at Heaven's gate!!" I cringed as I handed foul smelling socks that could likely walk on their own to the proprietor of Albergue Aves de Paso. As I ate my delicious soup and pasta salad, I contemplated leaving my husband for this paragon of a man who washed my underwear and cooked me dinner. Our group of twenty pilgrims gathered gratefully around the table in a room with dark wooden ceiling beams and stone walls and we ate our flavorful soup while talking in five languages around full mouths.
I creakily walked up the stairs to my bed after a long chat with an Australian family touring the world. Before tucking myself in to bed, Saint James whispered in my ear, "Jen, you really need to know the name of the man with whom you spent your entire day... Geez!"
"I know, I know! I'll sneak a peak at the registry before leaving tomorrow.. It would be too awkward to ask now!"
*****
"Tomorrow we walk through a town called Playa de Poo." We all snickered.
"Well, I won't be swimming there!"
Lizards darted erratically across the path as a cool wind brushed my face. Cowbells echoed and the scent of carob flavored manure wafted by. Wildflowers and dragon flies danced dainty duets, and my ass hurt!
Caroline and I had said goodbye shortly outside of Santillana del Mar in the morning when our shadows stretched long. I was impatient, ready to test myself against the terrain. I walked through the morning, chatting with cows and horses, and even a llama at one point. The pain in my hip nagged slightly but was manageable. I wandered through cobrèces, taking pictures of the lovely pink church and stopping to eat a cream pastry that should have send me running for tall grass and toilet paper, and I walked on, smiling at any person or creature to come within my orbit. I strolled into the seaside village of Comillas, excited to be finished walking for the day by 130pm and ready to tour the architectural Gaudi creations. However, I arrived at the alburgue to discover that it was completo and a line had formed outside.
"Where is the next town?"
"12 kilometers"
"Son of a B@&$%!!!"
And after a much needed Fanta, I strapped the backpack back on and headed into the unknown.
Perhaps I could have taken the short route and followed the highway, but where the little yellow arrows go, I must follow. Two hours later, I stood atop a very large hill in the very lonely village of Santa Ana, the world dropping off to the side, the ocean winking from the horizon and the wind stealing tears from the corners of my eyes. My hip aching, my feet sore, my skin dried out, my lips chapped, but my step was light. James was with me.
My day ended in San Vincente de la Barquera, 36 km after it began. I shared tomatoes and cucumbers with a lovely Frenchman (aren't they all) as a little girl plucked at my ukulele, her infectious giggle filling the room. All around us, pilgrims laughed, ate and chatted into the setting sun as in the distance, colorful boats came home for the night.
Though we had left later, we quickly caught up with Manuela and Lucy, the lovely and intelligent Frenchwomen who brought laughter to our day. We stood in awe yet again at the beauty of the waters edge and had a slow coffee in llanes. Our afternoon stretched long though, and as the kilometers added up, our bags and feet grew heavy. 
Kilometers had grown freakishly long as we wandered into the small highway town of Piñeles. "There is a scout group, there are no beds, but you can walk to the church."
