May 20: Puente la Reina - Cirauqui - Lorca
I enjoy taking photos of doors. Not sure why. Perhaps to me they are symbolic of life. One doesn’t know what lies ahead unless we have the courage to go beyond. "Here I am. I stand at the door and knock." Rev 3:20.
The brown painted door to St. Peter's Church is tall. Fifteen feet or more I would guess. I calculate it’s studded with at least 130 hand-crafted black metal diamond shapes. From a distance they look like the French four-sided fleur-de-lis however, this is Spain. The surround is geometrically chiseled and arched with large blocks of stone. It's a stunning sight in this humble village. Further down the road a cross and scallop shell greets pilgrims.
Occasionally I delete photos. Perhaps too many. Probably thinking "just another road." After several days surrounded by all this age, wisdom and history it becomes commonplace. I recall the time my husband and I drove through Glacier National Park and into Canada. One more spectacular scene after another. It’s a crime to say so, but after a while eyes become jaded and all seems to become repetitive. Too much splendor can be overwhelming.
Thoughts and meditations while I continue the pilgrimage - Questioning myself:
Sometimes I don’t know where I am. When I finally have a WI-Fi signal (pronounced wee-fee in Spain) and receive a text from my husband he asks if I went to mass that day (Pentecost Sunday). He said a prayer for me. I didn’t know it was Sunday. On the Camino walking seven days a week - for weeks and weeks - one day is like another.
On, or about, the fifth day I question myself. What am I doing here? I’m a middle-age housewife. My life is way more then half-over. Perhaps I’m older than middle-aged, but I don’t think so. Otherwise why would I be here? Along the trail other pilgrims think I’m 50, or at least in my 50s.That fires up the ego. I’m strong and healthy. I have a wonderful life.
So, why am I on this pilgrimage? Am I searching for something missing in my life? If so, what? Where are the answers?
Since I’ve arrived I’ve been tearing up over the slightest thing. What's going on? A multipurpose green bandana has been washed out overnight several times after lots of nose blowing. Something must be welling up that needs a release. I chalk it up to stress. "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy." Ps. 126:5. I must trust the harvest will be bountiful. Perhaps like the philosophy of ying and yang solitude and encounter each can be revealing.
Nevertheless, I feel so alone. Like on the moon. Everything seems foreign. Well, it is after all. Be careful what you ask for. I wanted this journey to be like a silent retreat. It is alright, and now I do not like it. I’ve never experienced loneliness before. Few people speak English. A friend sends me off with the message, “Have Fun. What good is a trip if it isn’t fun, fun, fun!” I am not having fun. I want to go home.
The Irish poet John O'Donohue writes "On entering your solitude, one of the first presences to announce itself is the negative." Probably awkward and disturbing thoughts as well. What made me think I could go 30 days without talking? Isn’t that like solitary confinement? Don’t people go crazy this way?
Sometimes I don’t know where I am. When I finally have a WI-Fi signal (pronounced wee-fee in Spain) and receive a text from my husband he asks if I went to mass that day (Pentecost Sunday). He said a prayer for me. I didn’t know it was Sunday. On the Camino walking seven days a week - for weeks and weeks - one day is like another.
On, or about, the fifth day I question myself. What am I doing here? I’m a middle-age housewife. My life is way more then half-over. Perhaps I’m older than middle-aged, but I don’t think so. Otherwise why would I be here? Along the trail other pilgrims think I’m 50, or at least in my 50s.That fires up the ego. I’m strong and healthy. I have a wonderful life.
So, why am I on this pilgrimage? Am I searching for something missing in my life? If so, what? Where are the answers?
Since I’ve arrived I’ve been tearing up over the slightest thing. What's going on? A multipurpose green bandana has been washed out overnight several times after lots of nose blowing. Something must be welling up that needs a release. I chalk it up to stress. "Those who sow in tears will reap with songs of joy." Ps. 126:5. I must trust the harvest will be bountiful. Perhaps like the philosophy of ying and yang solitude and encounter each can be revealing.
Nevertheless, I feel so alone. Like on the moon. Everything seems foreign. Well, it is after all. Be careful what you ask for. I wanted this journey to be like a silent retreat. It is alright, and now I do not like it. I’ve never experienced loneliness before. Few people speak English. A friend sends me off with the message, “Have Fun. What good is a trip if it isn’t fun, fun, fun!” I am not having fun. I want to go home.
The Irish poet John O'Donohue writes "On entering your solitude, one of the first presences to announce itself is the negative." Probably awkward and disturbing thoughts as well. What made me think I could go 30 days without talking? Isn’t that like solitary confinement? Don’t people go crazy this way?
Thomas Merton writes in Vocation to Solitude –
"To deliver oneself up,
to hand oneself over,
entrust oneself completely to the silence of a wide landscape
of woods and hills, or sea, or desert;
to sit still while the sun comes up over the land
and fills its silences with light."
What holds me together is a practical passage attributed to the late Julia Child suggesting that in dark moments, in times of stress, if you just pay attention and keep going all will turn out as it should. And I found that it does.
Upon returning home I read, "... the first third of the Camino will break you down emotionally. The second third will break you down physically." I wish I would have known this before. But still, would I have been prepared?
My relatively new iPhone has a recording device, but I never properly learned how to use it. I could have fumbled my way through and learned how, but more importantly that function is a drain on the batteries. Day after day my thoughts are a jumble. Each step of the way I wish I had a recorder. I never know when or where I can charge my iPhone. My new charger is broken. I will have to borrow one.
After I return home a most gracious couple gave me a much-coveted Olympus recorder. I will use it in the future. Thank you Velta and St. George-Slaying-the-Dragon, which I saw above the Gaudi building in Leon. Not quite like Barcelona, but I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Deep reflections of old friends and family
My life passes before my eyes. While walking I have flashes - images – like near-death experiences - of people during my 66 years who have touched my life. Sometimes small insignificant events. Something said. Soothing words. Encouragement. A kind gesture. A heartfelt gift. I’ve been blessed in so many ways and admired by an abundance of friends. I have negative thoughts, too. The writer O'Donohue emphasizes this is the time to exercise kindness toward the negative.
My thoughts are an explosion when I’m walking. After getting settled at albergues in the afternoons I try journaling, but nothing comes. I remember only bits and pieces of what seems so significant a few hours ago.
"To deliver oneself up,
to hand oneself over,
entrust oneself completely to the silence of a wide landscape
of woods and hills, or sea, or desert;
to sit still while the sun comes up over the land
and fills its silences with light."
What holds me together is a practical passage attributed to the late Julia Child suggesting that in dark moments, in times of stress, if you just pay attention and keep going all will turn out as it should. And I found that it does.
Upon returning home I read, "... the first third of the Camino will break you down emotionally. The second third will break you down physically." I wish I would have known this before. But still, would I have been prepared?
My relatively new iPhone has a recording device, but I never properly learned how to use it. I could have fumbled my way through and learned how, but more importantly that function is a drain on the batteries. Day after day my thoughts are a jumble. Each step of the way I wish I had a recorder. I never know when or where I can charge my iPhone. My new charger is broken. I will have to borrow one.
After I return home a most gracious couple gave me a much-coveted Olympus recorder. I will use it in the future. Thank you Velta and St. George-Slaying-the-Dragon, which I saw above the Gaudi building in Leon. Not quite like Barcelona, but I’m getting ahead of myself again.
Deep reflections of old friends and family
My life passes before my eyes. While walking I have flashes - images – like near-death experiences - of people during my 66 years who have touched my life. Sometimes small insignificant events. Something said. Soothing words. Encouragement. A kind gesture. A heartfelt gift. I’ve been blessed in so many ways and admired by an abundance of friends. I have negative thoughts, too. The writer O'Donohue emphasizes this is the time to exercise kindness toward the negative.
My thoughts are an explosion when I’m walking. After getting settled at albergues in the afternoons I try journaling, but nothing comes. I remember only bits and pieces of what seems so significant a few hours ago.
I come across an un-smoked cigarette on the ground. I wonder if it was carelessly dropped from a pack, or is someone trying to give up smoking and deliberately threw it on the ground to be trod over by others. I think of Dad and his inability to quit even after his diagnosis of lung cancer and susequent death. I smell smoke when nobody else is around. A few days later a red, morning sky reminds me of Dad. What would that red sky have signaled to a farmer such as him?
Many years ago when an old boyfriend flew me to Kansas in a single-engine airplane and we landed near the family farm on the grass airstrip next to the Webster Dam, I asked him to take Dad up so he could see his acres of land from the air. Dad was as thrilled as a schoolboy from the experience. Dad affectionately thought of me as his 'wild child' and late on I learned he was immensely proud of me and my adventuresome spirit. He wouldn't have been surprised by me walking the Camino at age 66. He only lived to be 68.
Numerous wild rose bushes appear around curves in the road. Roses were Mom’s favorite flower. Approaching the next village I smell bread baking. Mom was well-known for her dinner rolls, bread loaves, cinnamon rolls. After I moved to the big city I introduced Mom to many novelties one of which was cream sherry, originating here in Spain. She hauled it out for very special occasions. I also introduced her to Baked Alaska - perfected by the French - but hey, I'm just one country away. Oh, how my mind wanders to keep pace with the feet and to fill the void.
In a café, called bars here (unlike bars serving alcohol in the U.S.) I order a chocolate croissant stored under glass and think of my husband, Randy. He loves them and would have especially enjoyed this one. As I leave I hear Elvis singing, “The Wonder of You.” Did my husband send in a long-distance request? I walk through vineyards in the Navarre region famous for their grapes. Randy would have enjoyed this experience, as well.
Along the road I see a succulent, or sedum plant called ‘chicken and hens’ in the U.S. It reminds me of my sister, Joan, who lovingly shared some from her garden a long time ago for a house my husband and I own in Colorado.
The Spanish enjoy nostalgic, American music even though less then two percent of pilgrims on the Camino are from the U.S. (At least in 2013). At dinner that evening I hear “That’s Amore,” as recorded by Dean Martin, and reminds me of the first television set my dad brought home one Saturday afternoon during my childhood in the late '50s. One of the favorite programs was, Your Hit Parade on which Perry Como often appeared. He was born Pierion Ronald Como. (His middle name was my late brother's name.) A conversation comes to mind with Shannon, a childhood girlfriend. Neither of us had ever met an Italian in our youth. Surely in Rooks County, Kansas - the place of my birth - an Italian would be considered a foreigner. Later I married one. The father of my dark-haired, smart, talented and handsome son, David.
A few days before I passed through Pamplona, made famous with running of the bulls. Now a poster of a bullfight in Sahagun shows a roster of matadors -(toreros), bullfighters - including one who couldn't have more then 19 years old. He looks the spitting image of my great-nephew, Cole Mooney at that same age.
The poster also reminds me of a chance meeting around 1978 on the street in Guadalajara, Mexico leaving the Ballet Folklorico. Carlos introduced himself. He was a torero - a bullfighter - and also one of the dancers. He studied ballet to fine-tune his footwork. Carlos took me to watch him perform in the bullring where the bull was purposely not killed. No bull!
One pilgrim points out a fellow pilgrim, from Kazakhstan, who looks like the actor in the movie, Borat. To me the pilgrim looks like Vladimar, a businessman from their capital city of Almaty, whom we hosted for a month twelve or so years ago during a sister-city exchange program with Tucson. Also in the exchange program we hosted Vassily, who still stays in touch via email and air-mailed Christmas cards from his far-off land.
Another Elvis song – Suspicious Eyes - brings more memories. In 1964 when I was eighteen and kinda cute, I was invited on three dates by Terry Stafford, the #1 rock star for a minute, when he was on tour in Denver. My 15-minutes of fame by association. He sang Suspicion. The single reached #3 on the Billboard nationwide - topped only by the Beatles.
I see the eyes of Christ in a dog. Am I losing it? Is this what LSD, or Acid is like? I’m on a trip alright. Walking, walking, walking and breathing in fresh air. Maybe I’m getting too much oxygen. All these memories come flooding to the surface.
I recall people I love whom I have hurt and whom have hurt me. I ask to be forgiven. I forgive them. I pray the Lord’s Prayer. … forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. My nose is running. I need a second bandana for the cleanup.
Perhaps thoughts rush in and emotions run high because I’m sensitive to the holy ground I'm walking on where worse than mere feelings and tender egos have been hurt. Blood has been spilled. Lives lost along 12th century Roman bridges where wars were waged.
I walk through villages associated with the Knights Templar. I first heard the name, in not a positive way, through Dan Brown’s sensational writing. Instead I read for myself: “Devoted to the protection of Christian pilgrims. A military order. Taking monastic vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Defending holy places from the infidel. Early bankers and financiers.” What could be so bad? I must learn more. It’s not until later that I reflect on the influence of the Knight’s Templar.
I’m becoming more aware and increasingly humble as I walk on these ancient Roman roads in the footsteps of ancient pilgrims, royalty and saints. As I walk through one humble village after another I see the roots of the country before large cities existed.
Since I didn't know what the Order of St. John is - my father’s name and Randy’s given name - I Googled once I returned home. What else in these electronic times. The Order was later known as Knights of Malta. (I wish I would have read about this four years ago when we had a cruise stop in Malta.)
The Order of St. John were called hospitallers and established infirmaries and hospices to care for sick pilgrims who flocked to Holy Places. I learn the Knights of St. John and the Knights Templar were a mixed order. St. John being more religious. Knights Templar purely military. Both generated revenues and became rivals. In moved the Muslims who practiced piracy.
In more recent years - since 1870 - the Order of St. John evolved became devoted to ambulance service on the field of battle. Now I understand the connection between the Order of St. John and the British and American Red Cross, as we know it, although the Red Cross adopted the symbol of the Knights Templar, which was a red cross on a white mantle. In my solitude my mind is whirling with my ignorance of the past. Will I live long enough to get caught up with parts of history I’ve yet to learn?
When will the incessant chatter in my mind stop? Where is the enlightenment?
A Blessing of Solitude
John O'Donohue
May you recognize in your life the presence, power, and light of your soul.
May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you
intimately with the rhythm of the universe.
May you have respect for your own individuality and difference.
May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that you have a special destiny here, that behind the
facade of your life there is something beautiful, good, and eternal happening.
May you learn to see yourself with the same delight, pride and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.
Many years ago when an old boyfriend flew me to Kansas in a single-engine airplane and we landed near the family farm on the grass airstrip next to the Webster Dam, I asked him to take Dad up so he could see his acres of land from the air. Dad was as thrilled as a schoolboy from the experience. Dad affectionately thought of me as his 'wild child' and late on I learned he was immensely proud of me and my adventuresome spirit. He wouldn't have been surprised by me walking the Camino at age 66. He only lived to be 68.
Numerous wild rose bushes appear around curves in the road. Roses were Mom’s favorite flower. Approaching the next village I smell bread baking. Mom was well-known for her dinner rolls, bread loaves, cinnamon rolls. After I moved to the big city I introduced Mom to many novelties one of which was cream sherry, originating here in Spain. She hauled it out for very special occasions. I also introduced her to Baked Alaska - perfected by the French - but hey, I'm just one country away. Oh, how my mind wanders to keep pace with the feet and to fill the void.
In a café, called bars here (unlike bars serving alcohol in the U.S.) I order a chocolate croissant stored under glass and think of my husband, Randy. He loves them and would have especially enjoyed this one. As I leave I hear Elvis singing, “The Wonder of You.” Did my husband send in a long-distance request? I walk through vineyards in the Navarre region famous for their grapes. Randy would have enjoyed this experience, as well.
Along the road I see a succulent, or sedum plant called ‘chicken and hens’ in the U.S. It reminds me of my sister, Joan, who lovingly shared some from her garden a long time ago for a house my husband and I own in Colorado.
The Spanish enjoy nostalgic, American music even though less then two percent of pilgrims on the Camino are from the U.S. (At least in 2013). At dinner that evening I hear “That’s Amore,” as recorded by Dean Martin, and reminds me of the first television set my dad brought home one Saturday afternoon during my childhood in the late '50s. One of the favorite programs was, Your Hit Parade on which Perry Como often appeared. He was born Pierion Ronald Como. (His middle name was my late brother's name.) A conversation comes to mind with Shannon, a childhood girlfriend. Neither of us had ever met an Italian in our youth. Surely in Rooks County, Kansas - the place of my birth - an Italian would be considered a foreigner. Later I married one. The father of my dark-haired, smart, talented and handsome son, David.
A few days before I passed through Pamplona, made famous with running of the bulls. Now a poster of a bullfight in Sahagun shows a roster of matadors -(toreros), bullfighters - including one who couldn't have more then 19 years old. He looks the spitting image of my great-nephew, Cole Mooney at that same age.
The poster also reminds me of a chance meeting around 1978 on the street in Guadalajara, Mexico leaving the Ballet Folklorico. Carlos introduced himself. He was a torero - a bullfighter - and also one of the dancers. He studied ballet to fine-tune his footwork. Carlos took me to watch him perform in the bullring where the bull was purposely not killed. No bull!
One pilgrim points out a fellow pilgrim, from Kazakhstan, who looks like the actor in the movie, Borat. To me the pilgrim looks like Vladimar, a businessman from their capital city of Almaty, whom we hosted for a month twelve or so years ago during a sister-city exchange program with Tucson. Also in the exchange program we hosted Vassily, who still stays in touch via email and air-mailed Christmas cards from his far-off land.
Another Elvis song – Suspicious Eyes - brings more memories. In 1964 when I was eighteen and kinda cute, I was invited on three dates by Terry Stafford, the #1 rock star for a minute, when he was on tour in Denver. My 15-minutes of fame by association. He sang Suspicion. The single reached #3 on the Billboard nationwide - topped only by the Beatles.
I see the eyes of Christ in a dog. Am I losing it? Is this what LSD, or Acid is like? I’m on a trip alright. Walking, walking, walking and breathing in fresh air. Maybe I’m getting too much oxygen. All these memories come flooding to the surface.
I recall people I love whom I have hurt and whom have hurt me. I ask to be forgiven. I forgive them. I pray the Lord’s Prayer. … forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us. My nose is running. I need a second bandana for the cleanup.
Perhaps thoughts rush in and emotions run high because I’m sensitive to the holy ground I'm walking on where worse than mere feelings and tender egos have been hurt. Blood has been spilled. Lives lost along 12th century Roman bridges where wars were waged.
I walk through villages associated with the Knights Templar. I first heard the name, in not a positive way, through Dan Brown’s sensational writing. Instead I read for myself: “Devoted to the protection of Christian pilgrims. A military order. Taking monastic vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Defending holy places from the infidel. Early bankers and financiers.” What could be so bad? I must learn more. It’s not until later that I reflect on the influence of the Knight’s Templar.
I’m becoming more aware and increasingly humble as I walk on these ancient Roman roads in the footsteps of ancient pilgrims, royalty and saints. As I walk through one humble village after another I see the roots of the country before large cities existed.
Since I didn't know what the Order of St. John is - my father’s name and Randy’s given name - I Googled once I returned home. What else in these electronic times. The Order was later known as Knights of Malta. (I wish I would have read about this four years ago when we had a cruise stop in Malta.)
The Order of St. John were called hospitallers and established infirmaries and hospices to care for sick pilgrims who flocked to Holy Places. I learn the Knights of St. John and the Knights Templar were a mixed order. St. John being more religious. Knights Templar purely military. Both generated revenues and became rivals. In moved the Muslims who practiced piracy.
In more recent years - since 1870 - the Order of St. John evolved became devoted to ambulance service on the field of battle. Now I understand the connection between the Order of St. John and the British and American Red Cross, as we know it, although the Red Cross adopted the symbol of the Knights Templar, which was a red cross on a white mantle. In my solitude my mind is whirling with my ignorance of the past. Will I live long enough to get caught up with parts of history I’ve yet to learn?
When will the incessant chatter in my mind stop? Where is the enlightenment?
A Blessing of Solitude
John O'Donohue
May you recognize in your life the presence, power, and light of your soul.
May you realize that you are never alone, that your soul in its brightness and belonging connects you
intimately with the rhythm of the universe.
May you have respect for your own individuality and difference.
May you realize that the shape of your soul is unique, that you have a special destiny here, that behind the
facade of your life there is something beautiful, good, and eternal happening.
May you learn to see yourself with the same delight, pride and expectation with which God sees you in every moment.
Arriving in Lorca: Going Up, what floor please?
Before I left home the doctor at Urgent Care, in Tucson recommended Dr. Scholl insoles. At $49.00 I received a $10 rebate soon after the pilgrimage. Being Sunday, the Doc recommended the machine at WalMart (although not of fan of made-in-China-WalMart products) that computer-measured feet to determine exact insole needed. Money well spent. I also purchased Superfeet brand hard-inserts although they added to my foot pain and rarely wore them.
My boots are wet from walking in the rain into Puene La Reina yesterday. I had not yet learned the newspaper trick. Luckily, I packed a roll-up cloth sack and it’s clipped to my backpack with my boots stowed inside now swaying to and fro.
Today I'm forced to wear the new sandals, which I later learn are water sandals. By the end of the day the non-adjustable straps on my sandals are pressing into swollen flesh. I can't wait to wear my precious boots again. At least I can lace them loosely to avoid pressure.
I must walk delicately and deliberately. I find it difficult walking over today’s rocky terrain. I’m grateful I don't have another foot injury. I’m grateful for many things - great and small - along the Camino.
I started at 7 a.m., and now it's only noon. Even with my aching foot I’m not tired. I’ve walked not quite nine miles and planned continuing on to Estrella. A long line at an albergue in Lorca suggests the next village might be just as full. Besides, it now raining. And damp. Typically I stay warmer walking. My darn right foot. And wet socks and shoes.
I fear bronchitis. Sick woman walking is not a good combination. I'm not sick yet, and I don’t plan to be. Perhaps I’m too cautious. Already I’m worried I’ll never get to Santiago at this slow speed.
Upon returning home I rely on sello stamps to tell me the name of Albergues, but in this case the blue oval sello just says ‘Camino de Santiago, Lorca (Navarra). After paying a pittance of seven Euros I park my wet boots halfway up the stair steps as instructed.
It’s here I learn to tightly stuff hiking boots with newspaper to wick moisture and dry them overnight. For the most part. It works good enough. Tomorrow I would be back on track with my trusty ankle-high boots and feeling secure.
I’ve developed a rhythm on the Camino. Find a place to sleep. Hopefully a lower bunk. I’m shown my room upstairs. Yeah. I got my wish.
This afternoon I strip in the shower, and stomp, stomp, stomp mud-splattered clothes with my feet while I suds up. Picture Lucy and Ethel (naked?) stomping grapes. Nevermind.
A hot shower calms the chill for a while, although many albergues post signs cautioning to save water. Especially hot water for the next pilgrim. As another courtesy – signs encourage mopping up shower-water splashed on floors. Few do.
The soapy clothes are finished with a rinse in the bathroom sink. Laundry is most often hand washed. Will I have enough detergent to last for the month? No clothes dryer. I hang clothes on the balcony outside my room overlooking the street, which otherwise would have been positively charming had the weather not been damp. You can guess the outcome.
I check for blisters or other maladies of the feet. None. Only a callous on a little toe that had been there before I left.
Back downstairs I order a bocodilla for a late lunch. That familiar crusty bread with Iberico ham. Along with hot tea. I’m too chilled to drink beer – cerveza - and it's too early for vino. It’s still drizzling. Again I recall that I stay warmer walking. I keep my rain jacket on and eat alone inside the small bar. I look around. Where is everyone? Probably still walking.
Back upstairs I pull wet clothes from the balcony, ring them out again, and tuck them into the upper bunk slats hoping they will dry overnight. In a few hours I will sleep amidst a forest of laundry dangling from head-to-toe knowing in the morning the clothes will still be damp and I'll be forced to wear the clothes I'm sleeping in. Deodorant doesn't help, but who cares.
Many times before and after there would be trouble with the Internet. Although here, at this unlikely humble albergue in Lorca, free telephone service is offered to the United States. This is a first and last opportunity of this kind. I call Randy and probably wake him. He doesn’t mind.
Foreign (Pilgrim) Exchange Time
Over dinner that evening I meet five other pilgrims from Germany, France and Holland over a fixed-price meal costing 10 euros - salad with lots of fresh tomatoes, pasta, chorizo sausage and Iberico ham, bread, apples, oranges, water and vino tiento.
Along the way I’ve noticed even more Koreans. Young and old. Today there are a group of seven girls. Probably college age. Four are together in another room. The remaining three share a room with me.
It’s too chilly to walk around the village. I’ve learned if there is no blanket on the bed you can ask and sometimes a blanket is available. Today I'm lucky. Mid-day I snuggle under a woolen blanket and stay toasty warm listening to a few more chapters of one of three audiobooks on my iPhone, and then take a nap.
My three roommates are considerate. The one whose English is best apologizes for them being so noisy and waking me. I don’t mind. They go to the room next door with the four other Korean girls and continue talking from two until 10 p.m. Just minutes before lights out.
My roommates are young and thin. I suspect I won’t need an Ambien to sleep tonight. Sure enough. They don’t snore. It’s more like purring.
Before I left home the doctor at Urgent Care, in Tucson recommended Dr. Scholl insoles. At $49.00 I received a $10 rebate soon after the pilgrimage. Being Sunday, the Doc recommended the machine at WalMart (although not of fan of made-in-China-WalMart products) that computer-measured feet to determine exact insole needed. Money well spent. I also purchased Superfeet brand hard-inserts although they added to my foot pain and rarely wore them.
My boots are wet from walking in the rain into Puene La Reina yesterday. I had not yet learned the newspaper trick. Luckily, I packed a roll-up cloth sack and it’s clipped to my backpack with my boots stowed inside now swaying to and fro.
Today I'm forced to wear the new sandals, which I later learn are water sandals. By the end of the day the non-adjustable straps on my sandals are pressing into swollen flesh. I can't wait to wear my precious boots again. At least I can lace them loosely to avoid pressure.
I must walk delicately and deliberately. I find it difficult walking over today’s rocky terrain. I’m grateful I don't have another foot injury. I’m grateful for many things - great and small - along the Camino.
I started at 7 a.m., and now it's only noon. Even with my aching foot I’m not tired. I’ve walked not quite nine miles and planned continuing on to Estrella. A long line at an albergue in Lorca suggests the next village might be just as full. Besides, it now raining. And damp. Typically I stay warmer walking. My darn right foot. And wet socks and shoes.
I fear bronchitis. Sick woman walking is not a good combination. I'm not sick yet, and I don’t plan to be. Perhaps I’m too cautious. Already I’m worried I’ll never get to Santiago at this slow speed.
Upon returning home I rely on sello stamps to tell me the name of Albergues, but in this case the blue oval sello just says ‘Camino de Santiago, Lorca (Navarra). After paying a pittance of seven Euros I park my wet boots halfway up the stair steps as instructed.
It’s here I learn to tightly stuff hiking boots with newspaper to wick moisture and dry them overnight. For the most part. It works good enough. Tomorrow I would be back on track with my trusty ankle-high boots and feeling secure.
I’ve developed a rhythm on the Camino. Find a place to sleep. Hopefully a lower bunk. I’m shown my room upstairs. Yeah. I got my wish.
This afternoon I strip in the shower, and stomp, stomp, stomp mud-splattered clothes with my feet while I suds up. Picture Lucy and Ethel (naked?) stomping grapes. Nevermind.
A hot shower calms the chill for a while, although many albergues post signs cautioning to save water. Especially hot water for the next pilgrim. As another courtesy – signs encourage mopping up shower-water splashed on floors. Few do.
The soapy clothes are finished with a rinse in the bathroom sink. Laundry is most often hand washed. Will I have enough detergent to last for the month? No clothes dryer. I hang clothes on the balcony outside my room overlooking the street, which otherwise would have been positively charming had the weather not been damp. You can guess the outcome.
I check for blisters or other maladies of the feet. None. Only a callous on a little toe that had been there before I left.
Back downstairs I order a bocodilla for a late lunch. That familiar crusty bread with Iberico ham. Along with hot tea. I’m too chilled to drink beer – cerveza - and it's too early for vino. It’s still drizzling. Again I recall that I stay warmer walking. I keep my rain jacket on and eat alone inside the small bar. I look around. Where is everyone? Probably still walking.
Back upstairs I pull wet clothes from the balcony, ring them out again, and tuck them into the upper bunk slats hoping they will dry overnight. In a few hours I will sleep amidst a forest of laundry dangling from head-to-toe knowing in the morning the clothes will still be damp and I'll be forced to wear the clothes I'm sleeping in. Deodorant doesn't help, but who cares.
Many times before and after there would be trouble with the Internet. Although here, at this unlikely humble albergue in Lorca, free telephone service is offered to the United States. This is a first and last opportunity of this kind. I call Randy and probably wake him. He doesn’t mind.
Foreign (Pilgrim) Exchange Time
Over dinner that evening I meet five other pilgrims from Germany, France and Holland over a fixed-price meal costing 10 euros - salad with lots of fresh tomatoes, pasta, chorizo sausage and Iberico ham, bread, apples, oranges, water and vino tiento.
Along the way I’ve noticed even more Koreans. Young and old. Today there are a group of seven girls. Probably college age. Four are together in another room. The remaining three share a room with me.
It’s too chilly to walk around the village. I’ve learned if there is no blanket on the bed you can ask and sometimes a blanket is available. Today I'm lucky. Mid-day I snuggle under a woolen blanket and stay toasty warm listening to a few more chapters of one of three audiobooks on my iPhone, and then take a nap.
My three roommates are considerate. The one whose English is best apologizes for them being so noisy and waking me. I don’t mind. They go to the room next door with the four other Korean girls and continue talking from two until 10 p.m. Just minutes before lights out.
My roommates are young and thin. I suspect I won’t need an Ambien to sleep tonight. Sure enough. They don’t snore. It’s more like purring.