Pinch us, is this real?

The sunrise wakes us.  We eat yogurt and pears, bid goodbye to our friends and set out for a 20K day in Cantabria.  The air is cool and fresh, pungent with pine and echalyptus.  Occasionally we encounter the bell symphony that is a livestock farm in the hill country.  The far off sounds of the A8 highway (think I-94) sometimes push through the calling birds.  The only real disturbance is the occasional local bus that pushes past (the Spainards utilize the bus-and walking or biking-much more frequently than we do back in the States).  Our legs loosen (not a quick process for me-think Tin Man in the Wizard) and we set ourselves on the days first goal: expresso in Liendo, 8K down the Way.
We are so early and the Spanish seem to be so nocturnal that when we arrive in Liendo at 8:00 or so, none of the bars (there are no breakfast joints and few restaurants here--food is served in taverns that sometimes have spaces like restaurant spaces) are open yet it seems.  We have to push nearly 1K through town, asking of several startled older gentlemen who thought walking their dog this early was challenge enough, nevermind inquiring Norteamericanos smelly from an hour and a half of left right left right.  Finally our morning coffee is to hand and we are lucky not to have to share the space with civilians as our clothes are already giving off that exercise aroma.
The day is hot as we pace on.  Nicodemus returns to our minds interspersed with talk of wives and children we are missing more and more each day.  We see no other pilgrims as the day wears on and our path turns sharply toward the coastal fishing and resort towns.  We begin to talk of knees, feet, and toes as this days walking surface is pavement and our feet begin to take on that pounded and tenderized glow.  We ache and trudge on in awe of the european super stars who routinely push on to 30K a day.  
We come out of the hills into the large resort town of Laredo (yes, we sing a bit of Marty Robbins) and walk its 3K of beach front.  The giant concrete walkway is lined with tall apartment buildings and resorts to landward and showers and paths through the sand dunes on the seaward side.  It could be Florida.  Yet it is both very early in the 'season' and the economy has collapsed in Spain to the south.  There are For Rent signs everywhere.  We walk to were the beach meets the river and wait in the sand for a ferry to take us across.  The ferry drives right to the sand, lowers a ramp and we board for the five minute ride across to the tuna canning capital of Spain.  As we ride we nearly break into tired and hysterical laughter.  We are like boys on a great adventure--we are on a 10 passenger ferry boat, riding under a Spanish sun, on Spanish waters on a 40 day journey to Santiago.  As the not so eloquent, but oh so expressive Wavey Gravey said on the Woodstock album (just before the Santana cut I think), "Pinch me man.  Is this for real? real

The rest of the day merely. Repeated the show, beach, mountain, beach, until we reached Nojq. We had be told we would find an albergue here. We did not, so we found the cheapest bed and breakfast we could find, showered, found wine and dinner (yeah like finding wine in Spain is hard) and returned to lay aching feet to rest. Pinch me is this real? My prayer partners were Sue A and anonymous. Our guide books tell us we have come near 258K from Irun our starting point and we have 610K yet to travel. We need stronger feet and continued courage.

A place of service

Plush Noja was hard to leave. The bed and breakfast was more for late rising honeymooners than for pilgrims intent on the Way. The owner said breakfast was at 7:00, so when we arose late due to our plush surroundings, we hustled to get down to the breakfast room at 7:15. Well, our host rushed in at 7:30 got us some juice and set out bread and a Cantabrian loaf cake (I can't remember the name). She asked us if we wanted eggs fried and mixed (scrambled) and left to prepare them. So we sat, watched Spanish news, and waited. Eggs came (very good--probably the hen house next door!), and she was a little taken aback that we refused jamon anpd queso (ham and cheese) We had noted that the 'new Camino' headed south away from the coast and seemed to add 6K to the journey. The 'traditional Camino' followed a road nearer the ocean west out of town. So being the bright guys we are, we head to the west and wind around through the empty 6 floor apartment developments that grew during the boom and now stand empty during thr bust. With a bit of doing we head toward the medieval town of Isla.<br>
Isla is 6K from Noja, and a fine walk. When we arrive we decide to climb right to the romanesque church. The church was closed, but a news crew was filming a travel spot, and real pilgrims added just the color they needed. We got to go inside as the news crew (the star, the producer, and the camera guy) continued to shoot. The altar piece was a magnificant baroque rococco style--dripping with ornamentation. The stations of the cross and the side chapels and baptistry were seemingly older and in disrepair. If they keep my tape, I'll make regional TV in Cantabria intelligently commenting, "There is nothing like this in Michigan."&nbsp; You can see why many Europeans kind of smirk when we say we are from the United States, and then they say, "We thought so."
We walked on a road and later had a decision between the road and up to another church and on to an albergue the TV producer said was run by a fellow named Ernesto or straight down the road we were on 7K to Somo and the ferry to Santander.  We sat in the church yard, ate our oranges and raisins, shared prayers with Deb P and an anonymous friend, sang the Gloria and decided on the albergue in Guemes, 6.5K into the hills.
The country road became country lane and Nicodemous returned to our lips.  We walked and walked down quiet pleasant lanes past small farms enjoying the sun and finding refreshment at the occasional fountain.  At about 1:30 we see a sign pointing straight up a steep hill to the albergue.  Up we climb, stronger now than day 1.  At the top we see a cluster of buildings in the white masonry style of the Sterling vineyards in in the Napa Valley or like tourist magazine pictures of the Greek Isles.  We walk in the reception area trailing a not sweaty, every hair in place German family (dad, mom, bud, and sis--or whatever Nordic types call 'bud and sis').  There a hospitalero hands us a glass of cool water and offers a box of cookies.  As we sign in and get our credentiala stamped we note tables being set with plates, dinnerware, wine, and water.  Another hospitalero takes us to the next building and shows us the shower rooms and on to the sleeping rooms.  He tells us that lunch is served at 2:00.  We shower quickly and return to the dining area.  We are last to arrive to a long table filled with the workmen we had seen painting one of the buildings, the hospitaleros who greeted us, some other pilgrims, and a few I couldn't place.  We were served spaghetti with tomato sauce, rice with a bit of chicken (one of the hospitaleros and his wife seemed to be from the New World, and she apparently cooked the chicken and rice dish), wine, bread, and water.  After a bit, a dish of sliced hard boiled eggs in a slightly sweet tomato sauce appeared and apples and oranges were presented for dessert.  The whole time the hospitaleros moved the food, took the empty plates, and treated us as special guests.  After lunch we did our laundry and hung it in the bright sun to dry.  Other pilgrims arrived throughout the afternoon, as well as about 30 middle school aged children and a couple of teachers.  The children ran to the soccer pitch and began to what middle school children without benefit of phones and gameboys do so well.  We met 'old' friends from earlier in the week, and lounged around until 6 or so when we were called to the library to meet Ernesto.
Ernesto turns out to be a genial 70 something man or who organizes translators from among the pilgrims so all (English,Dutch,German,and Italian) could understand his Spanish.  Ernesto wanted to welcome the pilgrims and tell us about this albergue.  Ernesto was born on this property, but his family was forced to move east to find employment when he was 7 or 8.  He grew up loving to work with his hand but also called by God to serve the Church.  After ordination he asked his Bishop to assign him to a town in the Picos de Europa where we both served as a pastor to, and worked in the earth with, zinc miners.  After a time (translation rendered unclear some of the details) Ernesto is in Venezuela doing the same with gold miners there: pastor and co-worker.  He returns to Spain in time to be arrested by Franco for standing up for workers.  After release from jail, he asked his Bishop to assign him to the family hometown.  He has a vision that on the family land his parish will build an albergue for pilgrims on the Camino.  All of the buildings, maintenance, cooking, and serving are the fruit of his parishioners remembering the scripture my family reads as we learn the lessons of the Passover: "you too were once a stranger in the land.  . ."  And also the scripture we read at my church, "when I was homeless you took me in".  As the years went by the albergue added beds and a new mission: environmental awareness and organizing.  It seems that many area farmers were turning increasing numbers of acres over to monoculture: the euchalyptus tree.  They are native to the region, come to quick commercial maturity (10 years), and the euchalyptus oil producers pay big bucks.  As with any monoculture there are environmental costs: shrinking habitat for other native flora and fauna and mudslides after the clearcutting.  The albergue houses a center that studies alternative cultivation methods and organizes political opposition to the industrial interest behind the change to monoculture.  Recently the albergue started inviting school groups up to see the environmental program and to dine with the pilgrims many of their parents came up from the village church to serve.  He thanked us for the opportunity to serve us, wished us 'buen Camino', and invited us to dine. He said if we would work for a better world, the albergue was ours, ther were no owners here.
We went to the dining area now about 70 of us.  I began to see others of the albergue community, neither pilgrims nor hospitaleros, but those hurting in some way in mind or body, who simply seemed to need a place and time to heal. 
Ernesto was very interested to meet Pete as they shared professions: pastor.  The idea that he was Protestant took a little explaining (his wedding ring is a source of great confusion to folk from Italy and Spain we meet--many have never met a Protestant).  Ernesto told Pete, "Here there is no Protestant or Catholic only Christian."  Then he looked around the room and said, "Here there is no Christian, only human."
That night we ate a great feast and you know what that's like . . .

We meet the Queen's guard!

<p>We roused ourselves in the morning, ate yogurt and raisins from the supermercado.&#160; On my wife's good advice we also buy sports drinks when we can, so we drink stuff that is of a color and flavor not found in nature, but Ketl says we need the salts and minerals.<br>
During our break fast, we consult our map.&#160; If we followed the Camino we would walk away from the coast and up some 300 meter hills.&#160; Quite honestly we are a bit gun shy after our moments of crisis in the Basque hills.&#160; So we pick a route that is marked as an alternative.&#160; It is closer to the coast and follows a road (not quite a state highway-US12-but not a dirt track).&#160; We will cross the same hills, but we will walk on grades for cars, not goats.&#160; It will also trim a few K off our day.&#160; We are quite humble about our capabilities now days.&#160; Our target is Ponteferron and it is only 11 or 12K (between 6 and 7 miles).&nbsp; So off we set into the cool of the morning and begin, for reasons I will not recreate here, to talk about the Nicodemus stories in John's Gospel.  What transpired was a weak Christian version of the Jewish practice of midrash.  We began to solve puzzles in the story (in this case, the text merely says Nicodemus comes in the night--puzzle: what is the precipitating incident?) By retelling the story with details filled in.  Imagine a morning walk in sunny Cantabria swapping version after version of the same tale and running off on politics, theology, philosophy, art and laughter.  My,my but we are happy fellows.  As an aside, I know so little about this method of interpretation, but it seems so rich compared to historical-critical methods and propositional methods.  What I do know comes from Bob Levy and Lisa Delson, rabbis at the family synagogue and a scholar named Kluge (The Bible as it Was, Jacob, and some others I can' bring to mind just now).
So we get Ponteferron.  The abergue was empty but open.  We choose bottom bunks and left in search of food.  There was a supermercado 2K away so we loaded up with tinned fish, bread, tomatoes, pears, yogurt, and some microwave in the pac lasagna (yes, the abergue had a microwave) and headed back for a bite and a nap. 
As we slept we were joined by two Hollanders and a Czech.  There were great guys, but they took one look at the lasagna as it came out of the micro wave and begged off from our offer to share.  They walked down to the market themselves, and by the time we finished we too decided they were right.  So we sat and drank wine and talked into the night.  The Czech was living in Munich working as an engineer.  He and his girl friend had planned a two week holiday on the Camino, booked the flights, then broke up.  They flew silently next to each other to Bilbao, and she agreed to a one day head start on Camino so they wouldn't have to travel together.  One of the Dutch was head of IT for a small and elite bank.  He was quiet and good humored.  He played guitar for us.  His traveling partner was head of security for the Dutch Royal family.  Now if ever there was a man with stories to tell . . . But he couldn't, well unless he killed us after he told.  He also said it was so difficult to leave work behind, this was his third time on the Camino.  The physical exertion, after one or two days--they were 30K a day guys--would 'clear is head'.  So we met the Queen's guard but don't know much about guarding a Queen.
This day I mingled hopes and sorrows with Tony A and Luene S. 

Into Cantabria

We took the train to Portugalete to avoid the choking factory sections of Bilbao.  So at 8:00 the morning we emerge from under ground near the famous moving bridge over the Nevron River there.  We start the steep descent to the river when a Swiss couple we have seen before on Camino tell us the path is up.  Luckily there are large public escalators in Portugalete and we don't have to be embarrassed by Swiss leg power so early in the day.  Many cities do no seem to encourage the painting of yellow guide arrows all over. So we depend, as we so often do, on Spain's good citizens to recognize that when middle aged folk with back packs, boots, and walking poles start turning circles and squinting in the middle of their cities, well they are pereginos looking for the Camino.  We get directed on our way and begin leaving the land of the Basque and crossing into Cantabria on the sea.
It is warm but we are accompanied by dozens and dozens of Spaniards at their morning exercises and dog walking.  The air gets a bit cooler and breezier as we near the sea.  We expect to walk to a town called Moines about 16K along and there are no big hills to climb--superb, smashing, vunderbar. 
I can't really see the pictures I take all that well, but I hope they capture a bit of the majesty.  Pete and I were breaking into song, and slowing down to take photo after photo.  What a day!  We actually felt great after our day of rest (and a bit of pack lightening--hon, I threw out the razor, I will be grizzled and gray in Santiago). 
In our destination city at about 1:30 we first over shot the turn by about 1 K.  Then we turned and walked into the village to find that the owners of the pension had taken holiday, so no rest for the weary.  We set our sights on Castro Urdailes about 10K further on down the coast.  We left the Camino a bit to follow the road and got lost at the north end of town.  Our guidebook assured us there was an albergue to sleep in, but we had no idea where (and Castro Urdailes is no village).  Following our usual practice we approached folk with the book open to the address and say, "No hablo espanol.  Habla ingles?  Donde esta...."  point point point.  As we were asking a young, harried mother with a stroller and two other little ones, a 20 something woman enters the scene and took over the attempted conversation.   Eventually she voluntered to walk us across town to the albergue (40 minutes!).  We called her Maria the angel.  As she left us, we once again noted that whever we have needed food, water, directions, a bit of inquiry produces an abundance of the desired good.  This adventure in Spain is everything I dreamed it would be and more: beauty everywhere, especially where it counted for us the most--in the heart of a young  woman who saw some pilgrims who had lost their way in Cantabria and remembered she too had been a stranger once. 

Reunions

As our rest day in Bilbao wore on we were able to rally for a walk towards the world famous Guggenheim art museum (designed by Frank Gheary).  We crossed Bilbao's famous bridge of glass and lo and behold--two French chaps we had met three days ago on Camino, but who seemed to disappear yesterday are there!  Pete and I had even bemoaned their absence.  We commented on both the intensity and the ephemeral in relationships along Camino.  So we were very surprised to see Christian and Jon Luc strolling down the avenue.  We shouted with delight and just had to sit down share a beverage and some olives (spainish olives are not cured with so much salty brine--they go very well with my favorite beverages).
Christian has a fair to good command of English, Jon Luc knows pigden English and phrases like "super hero", "scandalized" (spoken with a comic turn of the head--imagine Yves Montand with the soul of Jerry Lewis), Pete took French in high school and I know a bit of Latin, so we communicated just fine.  I've been asking others "Why Camino?"  Christian said his wife made Camino from Brittany in France to Santiago in 2008 (over 1750K!) .  Thereafter she would take Christian to reunions with her travelling partners and he enjoyed and envied their esprit.  Jon Luc told a story of suburban emptiness--he said he was married with a handsome 15 yr old son, but he took off his wedding ring when he was away from home--and as he put it, " it was Camino or the psychologic."   We told them we made pilgrimage out of devotion, and they were quite surprised.  Europe is so unlike America in that regard. Europe is full of churches of great beauty, but they are little used.  America is still teeming with people of piety like Pete and I.  In any case there in the warm afternoon sun of Bilbao, we agreed that meeting as we had was, "buen camino".
We met Christian and Jon Luc later that evening for pinxtos in the square of Casco Viejo.  They brought along a Belgian and Swiss pilgrim we had all crossed paths with earlier in the week.  It was a delightful evening of wine and laughter.  Pete and I decided to take the subway to Portugalete the next day and continue from there, skipping a day of walking along the industrial docks and suburbs.  Our friends wanted to walk "the full way" as they called it.  We promised to look for each other again in Santander in a week.  I do hope we find each other again.  Reunions are such a delight.

Over these days I have shared prayers with an anonymous, but no less blessed or in need of blessing, friend, Oma T and Homer T, Al F., Cheryl T, and Tim T.  May God grant our dreams and heal our hurts.

Pentecost, Bilbao, A day of sabbath rest

Since we checked into the pension here in the Casco Viejo section of Bilbao it has been a time of letting go of the tremendous physical strain of the Camino.  We have come over 100K by foot.  We have crossed some of the highest mountains of the Basque region.  We are physically and emotionally spent.  I sent a note to my Sunday school class that said I was exhausted, poured out, and exhilarated.
Yesterday we showered and strolled to find a Vodafone store to make one more attempt to 'fix' the phone situation.  We had no luck, but we did find gelatto, and that more than made up for the phone failure.  We returned to the neighborhood church of St. James in time for Mass.  The church has a gigantic gothic interior, stone arches rising 3 stories overhead.  There were about 100 attending worship and a constant flow of tourist at the back where we were sitting.  Those in attendance looked much like any church in the States: some were kneeling in fervent prayer as the psalm and epistle were read, some husbands with that dutiful and bored looked stared off into space, and the littlest ones simply wanted to visit the side chapels and play with the hundreds of candles.  We were called to rise for the Gospel and in my weakness and fatigue my legs shook.  I had to grasp the back of the next pew to remain upright.  The physical exhertion has also made me very emotional (as if I'm not anyway!).  In my weakness there I was overcome by the presence of the church--in faithfulness and faithlessness, for good and for ill, with charity of purpose and sometimes, with purposes all too full of spite and malice--this body of folk were still trying to proclaim that love is stronger than death and that life has the final word.  When we sat for the sermon, I started weeping.  Here in my weakness, among people I couldn't understand, the priest told the story of another day when people who couldn't understand each other were all in Jerusalem on pilgrimage and fire came and alighted over their heads and all were bound to one another: wild shoots grafted into my wife's family and her ancient family.  No miracle of re-enlivening occurred.  I was still weak of body when the Mass ended.  My spirit--well, Pentecost is coming eh?
We went out into the square and found Donner Kabob (Anthony Bourdain describes a Donner Kabob as one of the 'stoner food groups').  As we ate a flute started playing outside,, and we emerged to Basque dancing in the streets.  Hundreds were gathered in and around the square, dancing, drinking, strolling--l'chaim!  Right outside our pension a group of drummers set up for what would turn into three sets, loud and raucous.
This morning we slept and slept and slept.  We didn't really get moving until 11.  Our plans to visit the Guggenheim-abandoned.  We are in the park, watching people, sitting, sharing juice and bread.  It's Pentecost, Bilbao,  Sabbath day of rest.  
Buen Camino.

Guernika to Bilbao

After an exhausted arrival, I slept like a lamb until the French couple below us started packing up at 5:30.  Up and at'em as they say!  The French couple are yet more of the European all star team who seem to have started the same day we did out of Irun seemingly so long ago.  She has the build of a distance runner.  I suspect she is in her 60's.  She has a 'european' attitude toward changing in front of us.  Me, I'm more of a mid-western boy.  They are gone by 6:15. Pete and I creak and grown ourselves to the bathroom, pack, and head down to the food set out--long loaves of bread, butter, packets of lime marmelade that several open, but one look at the green goo and no one eats it, juice in a box, and water to heat with tea bags.  We dine with friends and head out across the town with few others astir so early on Saturday morning.  This is the emotional heart of the Basque region, and we pass the famous Oak of Meeting.  Out of town the traveling is beautiful, but as always, it is up and up.  Everyboy soon bids us "bon chance" as the disappear up the trail.  We do manage to see some of them again as they take a wrong turn and run into a bunch of cows headed down mountain for breakfast.  We contine on thoroughly enjoying the morning.  At our morning break I think and pray for my wife and am overcome with loneliness--"In the place my wonder comes from, there, I find you" I sing to the morning birds.  As we march on, bodies still very beat up from yesterday and feet, well feet are making themselves known, we decide to take the guidebook and other pilgrims advice.  Instead of marching 10K through the industrial suburbs of Bilbao (imagine walking through southfield mile after mile) we will hop on a bus, splurge for 1.75 Euro and ride in style into Bilbao.  No one will sit near us.  We stink and have mud all over our boots and legs.  We ride until I recognize the Casco Viejo (Old City) from our visit to see Rachel as a student here in 2009.  We jump off, find the hotel Jardines, but they are full.  The football crowd is here from last night's drubbing at the feet of mighty Barcelona.   I'm sick thinking there will be no room at the Inn for two language challenged Peregrinos.  We finally find a pension and here we will rest for a day.  Now to Mass at the Church so St. James and then a delightful dinner.
Today I shared hopes and prayers with Mary K. And Diane K.
Once again I started my day with a blessing from my daughter.
Buen Camino.

The toughest day

Day 5 was the hardest day yet.  The temp climbed past 30C.  We had to do the most climbing yet--up one side and down the other 3 times.  In the morning we walked into Bolibar (Bolivar): named for the great liberator.  From there it was up, up and up through beautiful forests and across farmland.  We meet up with a friend from the last couple of days.  He is a 70 year old Frenchman who can walk us into the ground.  He doesn't stay in the albergues with the rest of us, and he's always surprised when he asks how long we've been walking.  He warned us of rain tomorrow on the way into Bilbao.  After lunch, the heartbreak began---up and down over the Basque hills.  I fell asleep during one break I was so tired.  At a stream, I wanted to soak my handkerchief and apply it to my head, while Pete wanted to move on (he is stronger than I am).  We agreed to meet at the hostel in Guernika.  I. almost didn't make it.  I had to stop almost every 20 minutes to rest.  I was stumbling on the muddy rocky paths.  I was on the move (except when I was flopped down on the ground from exhaustion, for nearly 12 hours today. 
At one point I was having some serious inner dialogue about what the heck I was up to.  I wondered if I had really been "called" to Camino or if it was just vanity, look at me and what I can do (and at that moment couldn't do).  I was seriously considering spending the night in the hills, crying for momma, or inventing a teleporter like Star Trek to beam me out of there.  At 5:00 and 4 miles from Guernika, I came upon a house with 4 generations of women sitting in the shade together.  I begged, "Agua por favor,"  I must have looked a pitiful sight, because the ran to fill my bottle, watched me down it, brought me more and a separate bottle from the refrigerator.  Then they offered me a beer too!  As I was nearly kissing them goodbye, and invoking the blessings of Saint James, they screamed I was going the wrong way.  The Camino path went higher into the mountain, while the road, "just over there" was nicely gaded and met up with the Camino in Guernica.  After I met up with Pete again, he said he was worried about heat stroke as he climbed.  I covered my head and stumbled down the hill.  A very tough day.  Laundry, dinner. (Meatballs and carrots, pasta with tuna, and bread in the hostel dining room), and now I hope to sleep tonight, but Barcelona and Bilbao meet in football tonight---it could get very rowdy hereabout.   There are about 40 people staying in the hostel, and about 20 have come in for football.
Todau I mingled hopes and fears with Magdalena V.
Buen Camino.