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.