June 2: Astorga - Gonsa - Rabanel
A mini-U.N. on the Camino
Besides Caroline, my two other roommates are from Japan – “Japan City” – says the cordial one who speaks English.
I find many Asians tend to be very early risers on the Camino and these two fit that description. They are up at 4 a.m. to organize their backpacks using flashlights. The two lay down again for 30 minutes, or so, before leaving well before dawn. Other pilgrims told of similar incidents in other albergues throughout this journey. We can't figure out why they don't pack the night before, or why they don't leave immediately after awakening. Everyone has their own way of doing the Camino.
A mini-U.N. on the Camino
Besides Caroline, my two other roommates are from Japan – “Japan City” – says the cordial one who speaks English.
I find many Asians tend to be very early risers on the Camino and these two fit that description. They are up at 4 a.m. to organize their backpacks using flashlights. The two lay down again for 30 minutes, or so, before leaving well before dawn. Other pilgrims told of similar incidents in other albergues throughout this journey. We can't figure out why they don't pack the night before, or why they don't leave immediately after awakening. Everyone has their own way of doing the Camino.
Once out of the city I notice a dozen or so crosses created by individual stones laid out on the dirt road. A simple gesture, a beautiful message, and a powerful symbol focusing on the purpose of the pilgrimage. We are here to learn, share, love and appreciate. One pilgrim, or many gave of themselves with this act.
Near Santa Catalina de Somoza a group of four beefy bicyclists stop in the middle of the Camino for a cigarette break. How incongruent is that! I seriously doubt they started in France. Although I greatly admired any bicyclist I saw for the endurance and physical strength it takes to get over the mountain tops.
While stopping for tea and croissant I have the privilege of an indoor bathroom break at the Meson Cowboy Bar in El Ganso. I wonder what this place would be like at night. Oh well. I’ll be long gone.
The Canadian man, who asked me to join their dinner table the evening in Leon, is walking with another Canadian, a woman he met this morning. The two found common ground upon discovering they both did volunteer work in Israel. I'm an attentive eavesdropper as they speak of Palestine and the United Nations. They both knew firsthand the hardships of living in that area. I am fascinated with other cultures so I'm like a fly speck on the wall. I have little to add to their conversation; aside from a few questions of my own thrown in and hope these are intelligent enough.
My right foot hurts for the first four hours, then perhaps endorphins kick in and I don't feel as much pain. Today I walked 13.3 miles to Rabanel. It took me six hours. I made numerous stops. Half of them unnecessary. Here's why.
"Water, water...but where is it?" quotes the pilgrim
After a while I fall behind today’s interesting walking companions because I can't get a sip of water from my hydration system. Thinking it's empty I almost panic because I drink a lot of water and I'm not sure how far the next village will be.
Throughout the Camino I find I dislike taking off my backpack – unless it's the end of the day - because it’s a chore to lift off and strap back on. This time I have no choice. I stop to empty water from the canteen – my safety net – into the hydration bladder. I hoist the backpack, click both belts and I’m on my way.
In a short while I take another quick stop to relieve myself in the weeds. I don’t even take off the backpack. I'm getting to be a pro, although sometimes I need hiking poles to balance and lift into an upright standing position to offset the load on my back. You get the picture?
Continuing down the road I try siphoning from the water tube. Nothing. There must be a crimp in the tube that’s not allowing water to flow. This time I have to not only take off the backpack, but I have completely unload the contents onto tall weeds to keep my clothes away from dirt while I' m trying not to think of my allergies and pollen transferring from weeds to clothes. I examine the water bag. I see there is an adequate supply. I re-align the tube, although nothing seems out of order. Once again I strap on the backpack and hit the road with hope and a prayer. Still no water.
After fiddling with it for a while I finally realize the mouthpiece has an on-and-off position. I wonder how it got in the off position. The water shortage problem was solved. Now I also understand why on several mornings there was a puddle of water on my bed, or on the floor. Was this off-on device a part of the instruction pamphlet I received when purchasing the device? I did have to telephone the sports store and ask how to open for filling. Talk about learning the hard way.
Another night, another alberque
Upon arriving in Rabanal guess where I stay? The first albergue. La Senda. Caroline, the woman from Brighton, England, whom I roomed with the night before, arrived before me and now sat street-side (I can’t really call it a patio) and already into her meal of the day.
The albergue cost 5 euros. The second cheapest so far. A horse is tied up and I wonder if it belongs to a pilgrim. I read Tim Moore’s book about taking a donkey on the Camino. The sub-title is: One Man and His Ass on a Pilgrimage to Santiago. As I unpack I start to sneeze. My bed is located under the window with the horse standing just yards away. Horse dander. Luckily, it’s only the second time I’ve sneezed during my journey. It’s another miracle considering how allergic to pollen and dander I can be.
After the routine of shower, foot tending, and hand-washing laundry I seek a clothes line. It’s across the road with a sign warning other competing-albergue-users this is private property and for use only by customers of La Senda, such as me.
By now it’s 1:30. I decide to have my big meal of the day: soup, chicken, salad, flan, bread and wine. 9 euros. At the next table Caroline and Seglinde, from Germany, are still there. They've already been there an hour and still stuck listening to a ‘blow-hard’ pontificating on his worldly- and military- accomplishments, and name dropping of foreign Generals and other world leaders he has influenced. While he sounds believable and knowledgeable he is either the most-interesting-man-in-the-world, or a psychopath. The two women can neither get a word in edge-wise, nor escape. The man only wants an audience. I’m glad I didn’t accept the invitation to sit with them. Sometimes my instincts pay off.
This albergue has an open Wi-Fi signal and a code is not needed. Yip-ee! This is a first. Now I text and email all I want. This village is small and literally there is nothing else to do. Although later I read there are 7 p.m. vespers and a pilgrim’s blessing offered by the Benedictine missionary monks. There’s a lot of Benedictine influence along the Camino. I must tell my Benedictine monk brother, Fr. Duane Roy OSB - now in Goiania, Brazil going on 40 years - although I suspect he already knows.
While trying to nap the sound of rain drops alerts me to potential trouble. I sprint across the street to the clothesline only to see my clothes are missing. I discover some kind soul – probably the keeper of the albergue – collected my clothes and those of other pilgrims and laid them to dry on racks in the community-dining room in front of a heater. All 11 pieces were accounted for. I am grateful for his kindness. Another small miracle.
Feeling a chill in the air I rustle through my backpack for the pink pashmina-scarf to throw around my neck and shoulders. (I’ve also used it to wrap my body and/or hair after a shower, as a pillowcase, and headscarf against the wind. Also used it to wipe my teary eyes and blow my nose. It's hand-washable. Now that’s one multi-purpose item.)
I’m nervous about what tomorrow’s weather will bring. Will I be cold without the infamous black hoodie jacket I was forced to ditch? And get wet without the rain pants I lost a few days ago? Did the protective sack containing the rain pants and attached to my backpack blow off in the wind? Did I leave it behind? Did one of the Asian women I shared the window ledge with a few days ago pick up the bag by mistake?
Upon arriving in Rabanal guess where I stay? The first albergue. La Senda. Caroline, the woman from Brighton, England, whom I roomed with the night before, arrived before me and now sat street-side (I can’t really call it a patio) and already into her meal of the day.
The albergue cost 5 euros. The second cheapest so far. A horse is tied up and I wonder if it belongs to a pilgrim. I read Tim Moore’s book about taking a donkey on the Camino. The sub-title is: One Man and His Ass on a Pilgrimage to Santiago. As I unpack I start to sneeze. My bed is located under the window with the horse standing just yards away. Horse dander. Luckily, it’s only the second time I’ve sneezed during my journey. It’s another miracle considering how allergic to pollen and dander I can be.
After the routine of shower, foot tending, and hand-washing laundry I seek a clothes line. It’s across the road with a sign warning other competing-albergue-users this is private property and for use only by customers of La Senda, such as me.
By now it’s 1:30. I decide to have my big meal of the day: soup, chicken, salad, flan, bread and wine. 9 euros. At the next table Caroline and Seglinde, from Germany, are still there. They've already been there an hour and still stuck listening to a ‘blow-hard’ pontificating on his worldly- and military- accomplishments, and name dropping of foreign Generals and other world leaders he has influenced. While he sounds believable and knowledgeable he is either the most-interesting-man-in-the-world, or a psychopath. The two women can neither get a word in edge-wise, nor escape. The man only wants an audience. I’m glad I didn’t accept the invitation to sit with them. Sometimes my instincts pay off.
This albergue has an open Wi-Fi signal and a code is not needed. Yip-ee! This is a first. Now I text and email all I want. This village is small and literally there is nothing else to do. Although later I read there are 7 p.m. vespers and a pilgrim’s blessing offered by the Benedictine missionary monks. There’s a lot of Benedictine influence along the Camino. I must tell my Benedictine monk brother, Fr. Duane Roy OSB - now in Goiania, Brazil going on 40 years - although I suspect he already knows.
While trying to nap the sound of rain drops alerts me to potential trouble. I sprint across the street to the clothesline only to see my clothes are missing. I discover some kind soul – probably the keeper of the albergue – collected my clothes and those of other pilgrims and laid them to dry on racks in the community-dining room in front of a heater. All 11 pieces were accounted for. I am grateful for his kindness. Another small miracle.
Feeling a chill in the air I rustle through my backpack for the pink pashmina-scarf to throw around my neck and shoulders. (I’ve also used it to wrap my body and/or hair after a shower, as a pillowcase, and headscarf against the wind. Also used it to wipe my teary eyes and blow my nose. It's hand-washable. Now that’s one multi-purpose item.)
I’m nervous about what tomorrow’s weather will bring. Will I be cold without the infamous black hoodie jacket I was forced to ditch? And get wet without the rain pants I lost a few days ago? Did the protective sack containing the rain pants and attached to my backpack blow off in the wind? Did I leave it behind? Did one of the Asian women I shared the window ledge with a few days ago pick up the bag by mistake?
While emptying the backpack I find the missing bag and rain pants I had resisted buying after seeing the exorbitant price. When I dug for them in days past I touched the sack and thought it was the fabric at the bottom of the backpack. Oh glory! Another small miracle.
To celebrate I find a hot chocolate machine in the community room and insert one euro. And get change. Someone is cooking in the small kitchen and I ask where he found the tienda. The kind Frenchman gave directions of 300 meters down the road to the little market. I wasn’t sure how far a meter is, but I figured I would run into it.
Before I left the man in the kitchen suggests that if I care to purchase an apple and another tomato I was welcome to join them for dinner later that evening. Off I went. I also pick up a bar of chocolate for dessert, and an orange for my breakfast the next morning.
Over the next two hours I learned the Frenchman, Jean Frederick, is a chef from Lyon- the capital of haute cuisine. Carolena, his wife’s English is better, and he often defers to her during conversation. Their three children are grown and think their parents are wild and crazy to embark on this journey. What a happy, secure and compatible marriage they must have to tackle this trip that requires so much tenacity and the give-and-take of flexibility.
Jean Frederick started our meal with his steaming soup concoction. How civilized. I learned from Francoise Epzstein, my one-time French neighbor, that the French take meals very seriously and would never consider such things as eating pizza out of the box, like many Americans do. Next came pasta - the favored meal for runners, bikers and walk-distance walkers for its lasting carbohydrates-giving energy over the long haul. The Lyon chef also prepared a marvelous and simple dessert of stewed apples with crumbled cinnamon cookies they carried in their backpack. My dark chocolate bar is a hit, as well. The rest of the bar went into my backpack for a treat the next day. The end of a lovely encounter.
To celebrate I find a hot chocolate machine in the community room and insert one euro. And get change. Someone is cooking in the small kitchen and I ask where he found the tienda. The kind Frenchman gave directions of 300 meters down the road to the little market. I wasn’t sure how far a meter is, but I figured I would run into it.
Before I left the man in the kitchen suggests that if I care to purchase an apple and another tomato I was welcome to join them for dinner later that evening. Off I went. I also pick up a bar of chocolate for dessert, and an orange for my breakfast the next morning.
Over the next two hours I learned the Frenchman, Jean Frederick, is a chef from Lyon- the capital of haute cuisine. Carolena, his wife’s English is better, and he often defers to her during conversation. Their three children are grown and think their parents are wild and crazy to embark on this journey. What a happy, secure and compatible marriage they must have to tackle this trip that requires so much tenacity and the give-and-take of flexibility.
Jean Frederick started our meal with his steaming soup concoction. How civilized. I learned from Francoise Epzstein, my one-time French neighbor, that the French take meals very seriously and would never consider such things as eating pizza out of the box, like many Americans do. Next came pasta - the favored meal for runners, bikers and walk-distance walkers for its lasting carbohydrates-giving energy over the long haul. The Lyon chef also prepared a marvelous and simple dessert of stewed apples with crumbled cinnamon cookies they carried in their backpack. My dark chocolate bar is a hit, as well. The rest of the bar went into my backpack for a treat the next day. The end of a lovely encounter.