June 4: Acebo to Ponferrada & train to Sarria
Leaving Acebo I take another look at the bicycle memorial as a warning and reminder. The next six miles are uneventful. In contrast the spectacular approach to Molinaseca, sitting snug in a valley, is truly lovely.
Leaving Acebo I take another look at the bicycle memorial as a warning and reminder. The next six miles are uneventful. In contrast the spectacular approach to Molinaseca, sitting snug in a valley, is truly lovely.
At Molinasesa I stop to soak up the charm and treat myself to a real bathroom and a real sit-down breakfast. I even added orange juice to the order of tea and croissant. Unfortunately the servers here are abrupt and not charming, in sharp contrast to the beauty of the town.
This experience is not unlike other service employees along the Camino. This seems a universal experience among pilgrims. Some servers or those behind the bar seem unable to multi-task. They stare at the coffee brewing, or the bread toasting, while they could have been serving up pastries to other customers. Perhaps they are overworked. Perhaps it’s their young age. They seem to be more interested in chatting amongst themselves. Perhaps I’m missing something since I admit I have lots to learn about the why's and how's of other cultures. Still, I would think with Spain’s lagging economy they would be thankful for a job. I also notice this with shopkeepers who are more interested in chatting up their friends rather then waiting on a customer with money in hand.
Exceptions to those lackadaisical attitudes are the volunteers along the Camino who, for the most part, are cheerful and helpful. I'm not in Spain to fix the problem. It's just an observation. Perhaps it's only in the United States where we expect good customer service. Or is that another myth I hang onto? Regardless, I am a patient and grateful pilgrim.
This experience is not unlike other service employees along the Camino. This seems a universal experience among pilgrims. Some servers or those behind the bar seem unable to multi-task. They stare at the coffee brewing, or the bread toasting, while they could have been serving up pastries to other customers. Perhaps they are overworked. Perhaps it’s their young age. They seem to be more interested in chatting amongst themselves. Perhaps I’m missing something since I admit I have lots to learn about the why's and how's of other cultures. Still, I would think with Spain’s lagging economy they would be thankful for a job. I also notice this with shopkeepers who are more interested in chatting up their friends rather then waiting on a customer with money in hand.
Exceptions to those lackadaisical attitudes are the volunteers along the Camino who, for the most part, are cheerful and helpful. I'm not in Spain to fix the problem. It's just an observation. Perhaps it's only in the United States where we expect good customer service. Or is that another myth I hang onto? Regardless, I am a patient and grateful pilgrim.
Lost in Ponferrada
After walking for nearly six hours I've arrived in the lovely city of Ponferrada I saw from a distance yesterday. It’s difficult to find my way around. Even with a map. Many streets are not on a grid. Instead they jut out around a broad plaza like spokes on a wheel.
I did not judge my days adequately and could have by-passed the last bus since now I'm adjusting to walking longer distances through foot pain. I didn't know if there would be another opportunity, other then the train from Ponferrada, to get to Sarria. This is the location from where many people begin the required last 100 Kilometers into Santiago if one wants to get a Compostela. A cherished piece of paper that verifies a person has completed the Camino.
My guidebook shows a train station but it takes me well past noon to find it. The ticket mistress politely nods "no" when I inquire, “Habla Ingles?” I pull out my guide book and point to where I want to go. She pleasantly issues me a one-way ticket to Monforte for less than 20 euros. A second ticket on to Sarria cost less than 4 euros. With ticket in hand, and a timetable, I’m back on the street to find my way back to tour the castle I passed earlier.
Show me Your way, O Lord
teach me Your paths!
Psalms 25:4
A man approaches me, pulls out his wallet and flashes a badge. My brain has nanoseconds to process this. He identifies himself as a policeman – dressed in plain clothes. He asks if I am lost. Oh brother. Is it written across my forehead? Yes, I am lost. I’m lost at least once a day. In this city I'm lost about a dozen times. “I’m looking for the castle,” I say.
When someone says “you can’t miss it,” I no longer believe them. After more wrong turns I find the structure I walked past earlier in the morning on the way to the train station. I didn't dare stop to sight-see this morning not knowing the schedule and fearing the train would leave any second and without me.
After walking for nearly six hours I've arrived in the lovely city of Ponferrada I saw from a distance yesterday. It’s difficult to find my way around. Even with a map. Many streets are not on a grid. Instead they jut out around a broad plaza like spokes on a wheel.
I did not judge my days adequately and could have by-passed the last bus since now I'm adjusting to walking longer distances through foot pain. I didn't know if there would be another opportunity, other then the train from Ponferrada, to get to Sarria. This is the location from where many people begin the required last 100 Kilometers into Santiago if one wants to get a Compostela. A cherished piece of paper that verifies a person has completed the Camino.
My guidebook shows a train station but it takes me well past noon to find it. The ticket mistress politely nods "no" when I inquire, “Habla Ingles?” I pull out my guide book and point to where I want to go. She pleasantly issues me a one-way ticket to Monforte for less than 20 euros. A second ticket on to Sarria cost less than 4 euros. With ticket in hand, and a timetable, I’m back on the street to find my way back to tour the castle I passed earlier.
Show me Your way, O Lord
teach me Your paths!
Psalms 25:4
A man approaches me, pulls out his wallet and flashes a badge. My brain has nanoseconds to process this. He identifies himself as a policeman – dressed in plain clothes. He asks if I am lost. Oh brother. Is it written across my forehead? Yes, I am lost. I’m lost at least once a day. In this city I'm lost about a dozen times. “I’m looking for the castle,” I say.
When someone says “you can’t miss it,” I no longer believe them. After more wrong turns I find the structure I walked past earlier in the morning on the way to the train station. I didn't dare stop to sight-see this morning not knowing the schedule and fearing the train would leave any second and without me.
Suddenly, there it is before me. In all its splendor. Looking like a Disneyland castle. Except this is the real thing. I'm as excited as a schoolgirl. Now I can leisurely explore this Templar Castle - Castillo de los Templarios. For once I have the time to sight-see and act like a tourist. Alas, the doors are locked. All museums and such are typically closed on Mondays. I knew this from visiting Europe several times in the past. But I forgot. Or didn't know today is Monday. I am discouraged and continue to be disappointed about this missed opportunity even after returning home as I view the photo of this 12th century monument. Had I pulled out my guide book at least I could have taken the walkway along the riverside for another angle of the castle.
Later and once at home and building this website I learn St. Bernard of Clairvaux was the Knight's Templar patron. The order was founded on taking the vow of poverty as the emblem on two Knights on a horse signify. The Knights wore a white mantle with red cross. They were closely tied to the Crusades. Their role was to protect Christian pilgrims and wage war on infidels. According to Wikipedia, in 1150 they generated letters of credit for pilgrims, who deposited their values with a local Templar, thus setting up an early form of banking. This Order grew wealthy and powerful and were destroyed by King Phillip IV, who envied them and hungered for their wealth. This King turned Pope Clement against the Templars many of whom were persecuted and burned at the stake. With their colorful history it's no wonder they are fodder for fiction writers.
I bide my time with yet another daily lunch of chorizo bocodillo at a near-deserted outdoor café. I know what I said about being overcharged just to eat outside, but I am willing to pay an extra euro or so just to have a seat lingering on the street overlooking the castle. I also get a WI-Fi signal after asking for the code. I send Randy a photo, but don't hear back today. He is my lifeline to my other world.
Strangely, I cannot find any business in Ponferrada that offers a Sello to mark my credential. I forgot to ask at the sidewalk café across from the castle. This would have repercussions later in the day.
Winding through the maze of streets I find my way back to the train station – after only a few wrong turns. I don't realize how tired my right foot, my body and mind are until I sit down. I search the many compartments in my backpack for the cell phone charger and pray I did not leave it behind at the albergue. It’s so easy to lose items when packing in the dark.
I top off the water hydration bag a little too full and several items get wet. Three pieces of clothing, along with the not-at-all-warm-enough silk sleep sack, are strung along the bench I commandeered at the train station. Now I look like a homeless person for certain – which I am for the duration. I am constantly humbled and appreciative of what I have waiting for me at home. Endless hot water and shampoo. A comfortable bed. More then two changes of clothes. Clothes washer and dryer. A husband who loves me and helps me with decisions.
Lead us, O Lord,
that we will reach our destination in safety
and happily return to our home.
Book of Blessings
This is has been a journey of trials, tests and ordeals. Moving out of my comfort zone. Out of the unknown. Away from the predictable. The Camino has been more stressful than anticipated. So many obstacles and uncertainties. Extremes of hot and cold weather, uneven roads, water, shelter. I’m really emotionally tired. But I’m not a quitter.
Protect us, who are also your servants;
walk by our side to help us;
be our companion and strength on the road
and our refuge in every adversity.
Book of Blessings
Walking into Ponferrada this morning was okay, but I’m worried about holding up another 83 miles to finish what I came to achieve. I wonder how my journey would have unfolded had I started up the Pyrenees, at St. Jean PdP two and a half hours earlier, at 6 a.m., and the gale wind not an issue. I struggle to get a grip on what seems a failure (in my mind) on the first day. I could have pushed on, but I know it could have been dangerous…. or fatal. I also regret not facing the challenge of climbing O’Cebreiro lying two days ahead, since I would bypass it by taking the train.
Snapping back to the present I realize the connection by second train - leaving from Monforte and taking me into my destination at Sarria - will not arrive until seven p.m. or after. Who knows how long it will take to walk to an albergue that was not completo at that hour. I would deal with that later, but the thought is firmly planted in my sub-conscious and solar plexus.
The train and track in Ponferrada are well marked as I board for Monforte and take a seat. I’m restless and wander into the food service compartment. There are no seats. I order a Coca cola, just for something different from water for a change. I stand looking out the window and hold on to the handrail as the train jostles along. After 90 minutes the train arrives into the small station at Monforte without incident.
Gotta be my train..si?
Over the next 65 minutes I pace the walkway between the station and track watching other trains come and go. One arrives about 30 minutes before departure. It didn’t move, unlike the other trains that were in the station no longer then 5 minutes. Using sign language and my broken Spanish I ask an official-looking young woman if this is my train. She waves me off, “No.”
Among the top 10 tips for a pilgrim: Anticipate the questions and potential answers. Learn basic Spanish before you go. Don’t bother with lessons that teach you, “Where is the subway… movie theater… opera house... the jeweler.”
Junk food at the station does not appeal to me. Thank goodness for the hazelnuts I purchased last night at the tiny tienda market in Acebo. More people board. People with backpacks. They look like pilgrims to me. But the nice young woman earlier said “no,” so I continue to pace.
Beer-drinking men at track-side watch me pace as if I’m a nervous animal without a cage. Perhaps a beer will relax me. I insert coins into the outdoor beer vending machine. It’s out of order. But there’s no sign saying this. I feel like a nuisance but go inside and try my best to explain how the machine kept my euros. From inside the café she reaches into the cooler and hands me a cold Estrella Galicia. I'm not a beer drinker. The beer is bitter and heavy. 5.5%. I continue to pace. I take three sips. I don't like it.
A man approaches and motions that I am to board this train. Now. Pronto. But the nice lady said “no.” Who to believe? The train was not marked and the overhanging flashing billboard does not indicate its destination. I dump the cerveza. I take a deep breath, board the train at 6:27 p.m. and take a seat. Just as quickly the train is moving. It look at my watch. It’s now 6: 32. Nobody comes to take my ticket. How can I be sure this is the right train?
The Camino is not for "sissies"
“Calm down,” I tell myself. The worst that can happen is I get to the end of the line, of wherever I land and take another train back. But that would take more time. I would have to go all the way back to Ponferrada to stay in an albergue. Or return here and spend a lot of euros for a hotel room, since this town is not on the path of the Camino. I worry too much. I've heard it before.
I feel like a wreck and look even worse. My baby-fine hair is fly-away. Bags under eyes. Skin wrinkled. Nails jagged and broken. And now both feet hurt. I feel unkempt. My hiking pants are baggy. I’ve lost weight. I need a mouth-guard for the water hose that's been dragged on the floor and through the dirt. And I'm not certain of where I'm headed.
My cell phone is not always charged and seldom can I get a WI-Fi signal. Randy is more worried about me then I am about him, or myself. I try to stay in touch, but for several days I’ve been without communication. My gut tells me something must be wrong at home. Gratefully, I later learn that my typically accurate intuition is wrong this time and all is well at home.
In the train I untie my hiking boots and switch to sandals. There’s no way to securely tie boots to my backpack. I'm on overload - an emotional roller coaster as the result of bad decisions and consequences from before I left home. Now I doubt whether I should have come on the Camino. So many false starts. I’m like a nervous cat. Unable to settle down. I wonder if another cerveza will relax me or heightened the stress and uncertainty. Better not. I need all my senses once I reach my destination.
The surprise, wonder, elation and pride in what I've accomplished so far is coupled with setbacks and let downs. I'm reduced to survival on Maslow's bottom rung on the hierarchy of needs - food, water, shelter, sleep.
My comfort level is also tested and I'm hypersensitive to loud and strange noises and the constant talking. I’m tired of hearing rapid-fire Spanish that sounds to me now like constant arguing. Yesterday I know I must have scowled at the loud German tourists in Acebo. All has been emotionally draining. Blah, blah, blah. Pity party.
Even before leaving home during my training I became aware of what it must feel like to be on uppers and downers. Once on the journey I'm more compassionate to those who live with these mercurial feelings every day. Since I started this journey my emotions have been like a graph similar to the topographical path I'm covering.
Not allowing enough time for the entire journey is the single worst mistake I made considering my foot injury. Only now I read on page five of the guide book that it takes five weeks to arrive walking to Santiago gracefully. This journey has been enlightening, yes. But graceful? No.
Beyond the Tears
Copyright Lyrics used with permission Juan Jose Aguirre
Beyond the tears
Behind the truth
Before the healing flows
And comfort comes to you
Believe His heart
Because He died
Be still and know
God loves you so
Beyond the tears ... Refrain
Your private pain
Consumes your every breath
And your secret fears
Paralyse your faith
But you are not alone
In this fight
Oh Jesus is standing by your side ... Refrain
He heals
He heals
He know you
He cares
He feels
He loves you
Oh yes He loves you ...Refrain
I still struggle with reasons for the Camino aside from the obvious ones: Honoring my parents. Gratitude for many blessings. Asking forgiveness of those I’ve hurt. Forgiving those who have hurt me. Forgiving myself. I’m not getting any younger, as the saying goes. Still I’m in good health, aside from my retina issues. Time’s a-wasting.
Looking out the train window I see mountains rushing by. And trees, poppies, stone buildings, villages, backyards and homes with gardens, roses, roiling water in streams, lakes, tunnels, narrow streets, winding roads, hillsides of yellow gorse and lavender heather-like foliage.
My nerves are a wreck. I sit back and try to relax. Instead, my eyes begin to leak. I don't have enough tissues to stop the flow. I don’t know where I lost my green paisley bandana a few days back. I use my elegant pink pashmina to dry my eyes and blow my nose. Not to worry. It's hand-washable.
I read, "The soul is where the inner and outer worlds meet." It’s as if my entire life has been condensed in this trip. Most times it all works out. Just like life. Hand it over to the Lord.
TRAIN STATION AHEAD - A sigh of relief. I see a sign ahead announcing Sarria. I find my way to Albergue San Lazaro. The closest shelter to the train station. Strangely, even at this hour, this albergue is nearly empty. I only see about eight other pilgrims. I unpack, wash socks and head off to find something to eat.
The helpful, young volunteer at the albergue gave me a recommendation. After walking for 30 minutes the place she recommends is out of business. There is nothing open except for "drinking bars" where only men are customers. Regardless, I poke my head in to ask and learn these did not provide a stamp for my credencial.
I hear from several sources that two sellos (stamps) per day are required beyond Sarria to prove one has walked the last 100 kilometers. I ask directions to the Cathedral Santa Marina and got there just in the nick of time to get a sello stamp before they close the office door. By now I've walked a combined total of more than 15 miles today.
The Camino would be a tough place to be if one didn’t like oneself. Luckily I feel blessed. I’m not perfect, but I’m a decent person. Still there is plenty of solitary time on the Camino for demons to mess with your head, as well as time to reflect on the good I’ve done in life. I'm reminded of the words of author Joseph Campbell, "Instead of confessing our sins, perhaps we should restate all the good we've done in the world the previous week. Focus not the negative, but instead on the positive." Good begets good.
I am ready for bed and to begin a new mind set. I'm determined to be positive the rest of the journey. But will it last?
Later and once at home and building this website I learn St. Bernard of Clairvaux was the Knight's Templar patron. The order was founded on taking the vow of poverty as the emblem on two Knights on a horse signify. The Knights wore a white mantle with red cross. They were closely tied to the Crusades. Their role was to protect Christian pilgrims and wage war on infidels. According to Wikipedia, in 1150 they generated letters of credit for pilgrims, who deposited their values with a local Templar, thus setting up an early form of banking. This Order grew wealthy and powerful and were destroyed by King Phillip IV, who envied them and hungered for their wealth. This King turned Pope Clement against the Templars many of whom were persecuted and burned at the stake. With their colorful history it's no wonder they are fodder for fiction writers.
I bide my time with yet another daily lunch of chorizo bocodillo at a near-deserted outdoor café. I know what I said about being overcharged just to eat outside, but I am willing to pay an extra euro or so just to have a seat lingering on the street overlooking the castle. I also get a WI-Fi signal after asking for the code. I send Randy a photo, but don't hear back today. He is my lifeline to my other world.
Strangely, I cannot find any business in Ponferrada that offers a Sello to mark my credential. I forgot to ask at the sidewalk café across from the castle. This would have repercussions later in the day.
Winding through the maze of streets I find my way back to the train station – after only a few wrong turns. I don't realize how tired my right foot, my body and mind are until I sit down. I search the many compartments in my backpack for the cell phone charger and pray I did not leave it behind at the albergue. It’s so easy to lose items when packing in the dark.
I top off the water hydration bag a little too full and several items get wet. Three pieces of clothing, along with the not-at-all-warm-enough silk sleep sack, are strung along the bench I commandeered at the train station. Now I look like a homeless person for certain – which I am for the duration. I am constantly humbled and appreciative of what I have waiting for me at home. Endless hot water and shampoo. A comfortable bed. More then two changes of clothes. Clothes washer and dryer. A husband who loves me and helps me with decisions.
Lead us, O Lord,
that we will reach our destination in safety
and happily return to our home.
Book of Blessings
This is has been a journey of trials, tests and ordeals. Moving out of my comfort zone. Out of the unknown. Away from the predictable. The Camino has been more stressful than anticipated. So many obstacles and uncertainties. Extremes of hot and cold weather, uneven roads, water, shelter. I’m really emotionally tired. But I’m not a quitter.
Protect us, who are also your servants;
walk by our side to help us;
be our companion and strength on the road
and our refuge in every adversity.
Book of Blessings
Walking into Ponferrada this morning was okay, but I’m worried about holding up another 83 miles to finish what I came to achieve. I wonder how my journey would have unfolded had I started up the Pyrenees, at St. Jean PdP two and a half hours earlier, at 6 a.m., and the gale wind not an issue. I struggle to get a grip on what seems a failure (in my mind) on the first day. I could have pushed on, but I know it could have been dangerous…. or fatal. I also regret not facing the challenge of climbing O’Cebreiro lying two days ahead, since I would bypass it by taking the train.
Snapping back to the present I realize the connection by second train - leaving from Monforte and taking me into my destination at Sarria - will not arrive until seven p.m. or after. Who knows how long it will take to walk to an albergue that was not completo at that hour. I would deal with that later, but the thought is firmly planted in my sub-conscious and solar plexus.
The train and track in Ponferrada are well marked as I board for Monforte and take a seat. I’m restless and wander into the food service compartment. There are no seats. I order a Coca cola, just for something different from water for a change. I stand looking out the window and hold on to the handrail as the train jostles along. After 90 minutes the train arrives into the small station at Monforte without incident.
Gotta be my train..si?
Over the next 65 minutes I pace the walkway between the station and track watching other trains come and go. One arrives about 30 minutes before departure. It didn’t move, unlike the other trains that were in the station no longer then 5 minutes. Using sign language and my broken Spanish I ask an official-looking young woman if this is my train. She waves me off, “No.”
Among the top 10 tips for a pilgrim: Anticipate the questions and potential answers. Learn basic Spanish before you go. Don’t bother with lessons that teach you, “Where is the subway… movie theater… opera house... the jeweler.”
Junk food at the station does not appeal to me. Thank goodness for the hazelnuts I purchased last night at the tiny tienda market in Acebo. More people board. People with backpacks. They look like pilgrims to me. But the nice young woman earlier said “no,” so I continue to pace.
Beer-drinking men at track-side watch me pace as if I’m a nervous animal without a cage. Perhaps a beer will relax me. I insert coins into the outdoor beer vending machine. It’s out of order. But there’s no sign saying this. I feel like a nuisance but go inside and try my best to explain how the machine kept my euros. From inside the café she reaches into the cooler and hands me a cold Estrella Galicia. I'm not a beer drinker. The beer is bitter and heavy. 5.5%. I continue to pace. I take three sips. I don't like it.
A man approaches and motions that I am to board this train. Now. Pronto. But the nice lady said “no.” Who to believe? The train was not marked and the overhanging flashing billboard does not indicate its destination. I dump the cerveza. I take a deep breath, board the train at 6:27 p.m. and take a seat. Just as quickly the train is moving. It look at my watch. It’s now 6: 32. Nobody comes to take my ticket. How can I be sure this is the right train?
The Camino is not for "sissies"
“Calm down,” I tell myself. The worst that can happen is I get to the end of the line, of wherever I land and take another train back. But that would take more time. I would have to go all the way back to Ponferrada to stay in an albergue. Or return here and spend a lot of euros for a hotel room, since this town is not on the path of the Camino. I worry too much. I've heard it before.
I feel like a wreck and look even worse. My baby-fine hair is fly-away. Bags under eyes. Skin wrinkled. Nails jagged and broken. And now both feet hurt. I feel unkempt. My hiking pants are baggy. I’ve lost weight. I need a mouth-guard for the water hose that's been dragged on the floor and through the dirt. And I'm not certain of where I'm headed.
My cell phone is not always charged and seldom can I get a WI-Fi signal. Randy is more worried about me then I am about him, or myself. I try to stay in touch, but for several days I’ve been without communication. My gut tells me something must be wrong at home. Gratefully, I later learn that my typically accurate intuition is wrong this time and all is well at home.
In the train I untie my hiking boots and switch to sandals. There’s no way to securely tie boots to my backpack. I'm on overload - an emotional roller coaster as the result of bad decisions and consequences from before I left home. Now I doubt whether I should have come on the Camino. So many false starts. I’m like a nervous cat. Unable to settle down. I wonder if another cerveza will relax me or heightened the stress and uncertainty. Better not. I need all my senses once I reach my destination.
The surprise, wonder, elation and pride in what I've accomplished so far is coupled with setbacks and let downs. I'm reduced to survival on Maslow's bottom rung on the hierarchy of needs - food, water, shelter, sleep.
My comfort level is also tested and I'm hypersensitive to loud and strange noises and the constant talking. I’m tired of hearing rapid-fire Spanish that sounds to me now like constant arguing. Yesterday I know I must have scowled at the loud German tourists in Acebo. All has been emotionally draining. Blah, blah, blah. Pity party.
Even before leaving home during my training I became aware of what it must feel like to be on uppers and downers. Once on the journey I'm more compassionate to those who live with these mercurial feelings every day. Since I started this journey my emotions have been like a graph similar to the topographical path I'm covering.
Not allowing enough time for the entire journey is the single worst mistake I made considering my foot injury. Only now I read on page five of the guide book that it takes five weeks to arrive walking to Santiago gracefully. This journey has been enlightening, yes. But graceful? No.
Beyond the Tears
Copyright Lyrics used with permission Juan Jose Aguirre
Beyond the tears
Behind the truth
Before the healing flows
And comfort comes to you
Believe His heart
Because He died
Be still and know
God loves you so
Beyond the tears ... Refrain
Your private pain
Consumes your every breath
And your secret fears
Paralyse your faith
But you are not alone
In this fight
Oh Jesus is standing by your side ... Refrain
He heals
He heals
He know you
He cares
He feels
He loves you
Oh yes He loves you ...Refrain
I still struggle with reasons for the Camino aside from the obvious ones: Honoring my parents. Gratitude for many blessings. Asking forgiveness of those I’ve hurt. Forgiving those who have hurt me. Forgiving myself. I’m not getting any younger, as the saying goes. Still I’m in good health, aside from my retina issues. Time’s a-wasting.
Looking out the train window I see mountains rushing by. And trees, poppies, stone buildings, villages, backyards and homes with gardens, roses, roiling water in streams, lakes, tunnels, narrow streets, winding roads, hillsides of yellow gorse and lavender heather-like foliage.
My nerves are a wreck. I sit back and try to relax. Instead, my eyes begin to leak. I don't have enough tissues to stop the flow. I don’t know where I lost my green paisley bandana a few days back. I use my elegant pink pashmina to dry my eyes and blow my nose. Not to worry. It's hand-washable.
I read, "The soul is where the inner and outer worlds meet." It’s as if my entire life has been condensed in this trip. Most times it all works out. Just like life. Hand it over to the Lord.
TRAIN STATION AHEAD - A sigh of relief. I see a sign ahead announcing Sarria. I find my way to Albergue San Lazaro. The closest shelter to the train station. Strangely, even at this hour, this albergue is nearly empty. I only see about eight other pilgrims. I unpack, wash socks and head off to find something to eat.
The helpful, young volunteer at the albergue gave me a recommendation. After walking for 30 minutes the place she recommends is out of business. There is nothing open except for "drinking bars" where only men are customers. Regardless, I poke my head in to ask and learn these did not provide a stamp for my credencial.
I hear from several sources that two sellos (stamps) per day are required beyond Sarria to prove one has walked the last 100 kilometers. I ask directions to the Cathedral Santa Marina and got there just in the nick of time to get a sello stamp before they close the office door. By now I've walked a combined total of more than 15 miles today.
The Camino would be a tough place to be if one didn’t like oneself. Luckily I feel blessed. I’m not perfect, but I’m a decent person. Still there is plenty of solitary time on the Camino for demons to mess with your head, as well as time to reflect on the good I’ve done in life. I'm reminded of the words of author Joseph Campbell, "Instead of confessing our sins, perhaps we should restate all the good we've done in the world the previous week. Focus not the negative, but instead on the positive." Good begets good.
I am ready for bed and to begin a new mind set. I'm determined to be positive the rest of the journey. But will it last?