Day 39: Santiago

Now I don't like to be that arrogant, rich, ugly American tourist guy, but when we presented our hot sticky selves to the tourist information fella in O Pedrousa the oppotunity to play the part just presented itself. While the temp had not reach 37C of the day before, it had been at least 30C. I had heard from Daniel, the Texas kid, that plans were afoot among the younger folk to 'beat the rush' into Santiago by getting up at 2:00 and doing a bit of night walking. Imagine the fun: an albergue with bunks  for 100, a line for showers, competition for space to dry clothes, and folks rustling around in the hot night as they pack up. Well, this ugly American suggested to Pete that we get a pension for our final night. The tourist information guy suggested one, called ahead to make reservations, gave us printed directions and off we went: ugly, quite ugly, rich (the albergue is 5, while a pension with a bathroom ensuite is 15 to 25), Americans clutching the paper key to a night with only their own snoring to deal with.
A German couple had listened in on our conversation and fell in with us hoping to get a room as well. He was with the tax office and she was some kind of bond and banking lawyer. They weren't ugly at least.  We trudged along the hot road talking of the fate of the Euro when Italy's soon to come bank failures hit, Merkel (he said, 'nien Merkel'), and Germany' prospects against Italy in the EuroCup semifinals. We passed the albergue. There in the front yard were 40 or 50 pilgrims sprawled on their packs in the hot sun waiting to begin the tedious process of check in (show pilgrim credential and get a stamp, show passport, enter name, citizenship, region, mode of travel--foot or bike, and point of origin for pilgrimage). We walked by to the next building. The pension was air conditioned (a first) and had an endless supply of hot or cold water in whatever proportion I selected--paradise. Thank you late middle age, 2 income, American, mid-life, career arc. I'll deal with the ugly and try to repent of the arrogant.
Despite the comforts, I slept fitfully. The next morning brought our last sort through and pack up, our last pack hoist, and our last set out into the cool Spanish bird chirping morning. We only have 17K to walk so the pace is easy and comfortable for my aching knee. The Way winds through a couple of small quaint hamlets full of old stone houses, animal barns, and flower filled gardens just as we have seen for 38 other days. Entire families with young children, rowdy teens, and smiling older types are walking--all beaming with excitement, imagining the square and the church at walk's end today.
There are bars aplenty with numerous outdoor tables sprinkled about this morning. We stop for coffee and treat ourselves to a nutella filled croissant and fresh squeezed orange juice. We strike up conversation with a couple of Irish women (I wish I could say 'lassies' and 'laddies' with the same musical lilt that our Irish friends, Eugene and Peter, had back on day 1 and 2) and an American guy. The women have done about 10 days of Camino Frances as a holiday. We get that look of respect and awe (well maybe I exaggerate the awe part) when we say, "We've done 39 days from Irun--the Northern route".  We pull out our guide books and help them plan their next years holiday--the coast of Cantabria from Bilbao to Santander, a 6 day walk with a couple of lay on the beach days thrown in."  Buen Camino lassies. 
We push on and begin to discuss "What does it all mean?"  We are like the break shot in a game of pool, careening all over the place: God, wives, vocation, wives, church, family, wives, the future, jobs, emotional life, spiritual life, and yes, wives.  We finally get to the equipment requirements and proper techniques for making soup stock and its uses in the various cuisines of fall and winter in Michigan.  We also recount stories of the intense debates and occasional kitchen murders that have occurred over the 'proper' way to prepare meatloaf.  Thirty eight days of difficult and mostly glorious walking in Spain has such a way of focusing the mind on the very core of important existential matters don't you see.
We break again for another coffee as our distance is so short today.  Marta and Hector, the young couple and their friends we met in Vilalba appear.  They are excited to be finishing.  The Irish women and the American fellow appear.  This time I really get to talk with Geraldine.  She's a blood lab tech/manager.  Some years ago she was asked to try to adopt their storage protocols to a lower tech environment.  She worked and worked on the project and then decided she better 'see it throught ya know'.  She travelled for five weeks across west Africa in a truck with a team of 8 others.  She has been back 5 more times from Kenya to Ghana.  I loved listening to her tell her stories.  She is one of those folks you meet who, without tooting their own horn, is just going about the business of bringing about healing to the world.  Her life seems so much about 'give, give, give' and quite frankly my life back home seems so often nothing more than 'take, take, take' or worse, 'talk, talk, talk'.
As we walk on we leave the charm of walking through the countryside behind.  Santiago is the regional capital.  The airplanes that have only been bits of silver shimmering in the sky are now dropping down with all their noise and speed and smell.  We walk past the end on the main runway.  Luckily none drops right over our heads as we pass.  Signs for Santiago are all around now.  We get temporarily sucked down into the seemingly endless undertow of 'please use my camera' to take the same picture of the group in front of the sign.  The Koreans who nearly drowned us in their kodak moment were completely suprised to find I had visited their fair country, and soon I will again, at least as a digital image smiling with them.
As we enter the city we are still 2 or 3K from the 'old city' and its Cathedral.  I have been fortunate to have had only one blister on my feet in the 6 weeks of walking (it was on the top of a toe and did not affect my gait).  Yet now, so close, St. James seems to be reminding me that great blessings sometimes have a price.  My feet seem to explode with hot spots (the first signs of trouble that often lead to blisters).  We find a shady area near the university and sit, take off boots, drink our water, eat an apple, and relax as if this break is no different from any other we have taken.  After a good bit, Pete hoists pack and says, "I'm ready to get there."  Off we go.
We approach the old city.  The streets get narrower and narrower.  Pilgrims, laden with backpacks and smells of exertion crowd in among Spanish folk going about their own business.  The streets get twisty and stone in that medieval sort of way of cities built before automobiles.  Pete and I get turned around and slightly confused about direction.  We hear Gallic pipes playing the spritely Celtic music of the region: a busker dressed in Galician garb is making a living amongst the echoing stone.  We see an opening of light ahead, we must be near square.  We head that way.  Under an arch, past the busker, we see a corner of bright light.  We turn the corner.  It is the square.  Pilgrims are milling about.  The great cathedral of St. James rises to our left.  More pilgrims arrive.  We are bruised.  I limp.  We have carried burdens and joys these many days.  Now we are giddy, absolutely giddy.  We cry.  We hug.  Arms open and raise in triumph.  St. James, so long ago you called my name.  Now, three years and 500 miles, limping but overwhelmed by joy, I have come.  I have come.

Day 40: Once, when I was 57 years old, I walked 500 miles across northern Spain

When I came to the end of my walk I had a day of reunion and rest. I was reunited with my wife. We celebrate our 33rd wedding anniversary next week in Barcelona. After all those years together, we have never been apart quite so long. I hope never to be apart so long again. Yet our time apart was rich in reflection on our lives and our ever-growing intimacy. You don't get what we have together without long years of always opening, even when stubborn pride resists, our hearts, in trust, one to another. Her voice, her touch thrill me more each day. Her intellect and her wit charm as ever before. Her own unique way of devotion to Torah and the ways of Judaism inspires me in my own Christian devotion. She puts the Song of all Songs on my lips. "In the place my wonder comes from, there I find you."
Near the square I briefly saw the four Latvian young people who came to Spain, like me, as an act of devotion. In them I saw the future of the Church--energy, openness, piety, wide-eyed wonder at the multitude of joys in the world. We shared a warm embrace and that most modern of information--email addresses. Buen Camino and Via con Dios.
I saw Stefan the Polish professor. He was heading to A Corunna to see the last existing Roman lighthouse. My young friends, Hector and Marta, were in the square. They are truly modern and have already 'friended' me on FaceBook. They are just great kids, and I hope Spain has a good future for them. The two Irish gals were here. The German woman who started the great Miraz cattle stampede by tasting galegos leaf from a wheel barrow was in the square. Some I met along the way had come to the square days ago. I will miss them completely. More arrive who I never got the chance to meet. The raise their walking poles just as I did, in triumph and celebration. They laugh. They cry. They embrace. I want to shout, give the thumbs up, pat on the back, lift a glass of wine in toast to each one I see. A cloud of witnesses, a thousand years of souls' arrivals, a thousand years of tired feet and full hearts greets each and everyone of us who walk so far and sings, "Well done" in a voice that is so high, clear, and bright.  Just listen as you stand in the square; you'll hear.
I meet Pete and we go inside for the Pilgrim's Mass. We have come an hour early to get a seat. The church is massive and ornate. Tourist, tour groups, pilgrims, and some honest-to-goodness worshipers fill the place. Many pilgrims line up to go up behind the altar to 'hug the saint', an ornate statue that many embrace from behind. Others lined up to go below the altar to spend a few moments in the crypt of St. James. As much as I've invoked the name of the saint in these entries, my devotional sensibilities and history really do not include those sorts of expressions of piety. I'm happy to sit, pray, chat with Pete, and people watch. As we wait, Tomoko, the Japanese woman we met approaches, she is looking for other friends, but wishes us a final 'Buen Camino'. Then the American, Dave, who we had met with the Irish gals, asks to join us. We happily slide over. As it turns out, Dave is from Puerto Rico and is a devout Catholic. He had come to the Cathedral early in the morning and celebrated the Mass with a group of seminarians down in St. James crypt. He is a fascinating fellow who talked of his sadness over the state of the church and his delight to be worshipping there today. As we talked a nun approached the microphone on the altar. She asked for 'silencio, por favor'. She spoke in rapid Spanish, but the upshot was she was going to teach us the sung responses for the Mass. She then sang in a high and delicate voice, "Jesu Christi Rex Gloria (Jesus Christ, King of Glory)." She said, "Repeata." When she wasn't satisfied with our volume, she said again, "Repeata." She taught us the tune to two other responses that were a bit too complicated for me to do anything but to hum along. Her beautiful and fraile singing was a very promising start to worship. After a few minutes the processional began with the organ filling the space with wonderful sound. There were seminarians, about 9 or 10 priests, and 2 VIPs (I am woefully ignorant of the dress and its indicators of rank in the Catholic church). The Bishop, I presume, started the service by reading the names of the home countries of the arriving pilgrims for the day. A lay reader read a Psalm (I think, I'm judging more by the rhythm of the reading than by my ability to pick out every 10th word). Another lay reader read the same Psalm in Italian. The other VIP stepped up and asked us to rise for the Gospel reading. It was from Matthew, but I couldn't follow it. The man read with obvious passion. The church was filled with folk who could understand him, so the Gospel went out, many heard, and maybe, just maybe, somebody decided to 'repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.' And indeed it was, for after a sermon on what I took to be the feast day of St. Peter and St. Paul, the Mass started. During Mass, before you partake, you are required to make peace with anybody you've offended. The practice comes from the Day of Atonement rituals in Judaism, Jesus cites the practice, and Paul comments on it as well in the Epistles. As my wife always says, "What good is all that 'gettin right with God ' stuff you Christians keep yapping about, if you don't 'get right' with your neighbor?" Well, the Passing of the Peace is our attempt to 'get right' with our neighbor before we take the bread and cup that gets us 'right' with God. So there amidst pilgrims and tourists and worshipers we turned to one another, strangers, old friends, new friends, families, and we made peace. For a bright moment shalom descends as a gift from above passed hand to hand, heart to heart. Maybe it is really more ritual than real desire, and it is certainly more desire than reality, but it is not a bad place to start, eh?. Turning one to another, offering an open hand, "Peace brother" "Shalom sister."
It is indeed a heady moment. The Mass continues and the priests line the altar rail to distribute the Body to the body. Forward they come, in their hundreds. Graybeards and youth. Folk in backpacks. Fathers and sons. Old friends. I have too much respect for the Catholic church to participate, but I sure joined them in spirit qnd longed to in body. What a time, what a time. As Pete said afterwards, "Now, I am indeed full.
After all who came forward were served, then the show started. The giant Botafumerio was filled with incense and a group of 8 monks sets it to swinging. The thurible weighs over 140 lbs. They use pounds of incense and charcoal to get it going. Alledgedly it swings at 80kph and rises nearly 20 meters high.  The monks swung it for 4 or so minutes befor backing off.  One of the visiting priests up on the altar got his camera out to get some shots.  The crowd went wild.  The whole place was filled with incense--prayers rising up sweetly to God's nostrils as the scrptures say or perfume to cover the odor of pilgrims as others say.  Either explanation works.  Applause broke out. 
Then it was over.  Pete and I got separated.  My wife and I and her traveling companion went off to enjoy a dinner of razor clams and grilled octopus.  Pete went to meet his wife at the station.  The next day I caught a plane to Barcelona.  My wife and I will spend our anniversary in the old Olympic park with several thousand dear friends cheering on Espana in the Eurocup finals.
What does it all mean? 
I would be hard pressed to say right now.  I left Ann Arbor like Abram with the hope that I would be blessed and be a blessing in turn (Gen. 12:3).  Well, I was blessed beyond measure or words: everyday, each day.  Will I, in turn, be a blessing?  I have some deep discussions with my pastor and a couple of confidants, and my wife ahead of me to put together some of what bubbled up for me during those wonderful days.  Will I be a blessing?  I truly hope so.I do so truly hope so. It is though, the future.  No one has a crystal ball.  If they say they know tomorrow, they are sadly mistaken or they are just outright  liars.  As the poet says, "Last I heard only God gets to say what has to be."  What I know for certain now is that once when I was 57 years old I walked 500 miles across northern Spain.  It was and shall ever be: Buen Camino.

Day 37 and 38: A hot, hot day and joining Camino Frances

Our morning began very early.  Since more and more young people have been joining us, the morning noise level has risen.  We were packed up and ready to go by just before 7:00.  The monastery has a large courtyard and the kitchens, study areas, and rooms for pilgrims all open onto the courtyard.  As we prepared to leave, the Latvian kids we had met yesterday invited us to share prayers with them.  As I have written before, outside of services in Catholic churches, Pete and I praying before meals or doing devotions trailside have been the only overt signs of orthodox or traditional religion we have seen (but how traditional are Christian devotions that begin with the Shema ?).   So we eagerly joined them.  I asked them what their tradition was for group prayers, and one of the girls said that one starts, and then they simply go around the circle.  I told them our convention was to hold hands--so we did.  The three girls were accompanied by a large (6ft 4, maybe) guy named Ovais (I'm spelling phonetically here).  I was next to him, his hand engulfed mine, and we started.  My my friends, there are few things sweeter to hear than heartfelt prayers in both Latvian and English for safety, strength, healing for injuries, and hopes for arrival in Santiago after so many days.  As anybody that knows me could predict, I wept unashamedly (I was not alone here).  This was the Church at its best: saying thank you for simple gifts in more than one language, but one heart and one voice.
That turned out to be the high point of the 37th day.  The sky was clear, and the temperature started rising by around 10.  It was fortunate we started so early.  We knocked off nearly half the days walk while it was still below 30C.  The morning walk was also done on some beautiful lanes, as the day wore on we got dumped onto asphalt roads.  Shade became scarce and the asphalt softened in the heat.  In short, it was miserable.  I simply had to sit and rest several times because I was becoming nauseated with the exertion in the heat.  Luckily we got to our destination, Arzura, by about 2:30.  I don't think I could have gone much further. 
In Arzura, the ruta del Norte joins the far more popular Camino Frances (if you see The Way with Martin Sheen, it is on Camino Frances).  Pete and I were simply stunned by all the pilgrims.  There was a municipal albergue with over 60 beds and 4 private albergue.  We had been told that albergue Ultreia was nice so we headed there (10€ vs 5€ in the public one).  The albergue was very clean and new.  It was also very hot.  It filled with boisterous young people.  For them Camino is a holiday.  Their joy keeps them up late at night (now 9:30 is late for an old peregrino).  It is a warm restless night.  
The very early morning brought cooling rain, and by the time we left, overcast skies and very high humidity.  Since we have joined Camino Frances, it looks like morning rush hour.  There are folks by the dozens.  Bicyclist ring their bells, shout 'buen camino' and blow through.  The quiet contemplation is over.  We are in a crowd, an excited crowd, all marching onward together to Santiago.  This morning we meet two American college students from Huston.  I walk for 30 minutes with Daniel.  He graduated with a degree in physics from Stephen F. Austin, and three days later he and a buddy were in Madrid, then Barcelona, and then 800K of Camino Frances.  After Santiago he was headed to Pamploma to dodge some bulls in early July, then onto Rome and Amsterdam.  He was a young man with a healthy appetite for life--interesting, witty, and self assured.  We broke up at the cafe for morning coffee.  I invited an Australian couple I'd spoken with as Daniel and I walked to join Pete and I for coffee.  They were 68 and had started in Ste. John Pied au Port in France (the traditional start for Camino Frances).  They started out as naive as Pete and I about the physical rigors of Camino, but had adapted quite handomely.  They regretted the crowds of the last 5 days.  They said the first weeks were simply lovely--quiet and serene. We hope to greet them in the square in Santiago.
We moved on through small villages and on country lanes.  The eucalyptus groves were old and the trees tall: fine, fine walking amongst a happy throng. As the day heats up we are blessed with a fountain and a shrine.  I drink and cool myself with the waters.  I share prayers with Mark R, Sandy, Fred, Dustin, and Teddy D, and Teresa N--the last prayers from home.  Thank you all for the privilege, may the funds you donated send others on their own journeys of devotion.
We walked on with whole families spending holiday on Camino, and large groups of high school students happily shouting what I can only assume were Spanish versions of the bravado of youth.   All these people all with their various reason, all with their own stories, some of which we get to hear if we sit at a fountain or cafe together. All of these people steaming to Santiago de Compostela.  Some, like a 31 year old Japanese woman we lunched with, came, like me to answer questions about what was next in their lives.  Some like the Latvians, come filled with religious devotion.  Some come filled with joy to be on holiday with friends.  All now here streaming to Santiago--I truly was glad when they said unto me let us go to the house of the Lord.   Tomorrow we arrive, but for today, to feast on these shining faces, expectant and so alive in the hot Spanish sun is enough.  Buen Camino.

Day 36: A strange walk to a monastery

We checked out of our elegant pension in Praga.  We got a cab back to Miraz, and we walked over to the albergue to thank the hospitaleros for inviting us to Praga.  They really were a great pair of folk, bound in service to peregrinos for the love of Camino.
We set our sights 28K further on to the monastery of Sobrado des Mionxes.  Both our guidebook and Jim our hospitalero said that the days walking would be even better than the day before, which we hac consider absolutely fabulous.  We set out with very high spirits and great expectations.  We crossed boulder strewn ground covered with gourse and scrubby pines.  There were sections of clear cut pine forests, but we really were headed straight out to lands with absolutely no hamlets or villages.  It was a lovely clear morning, but the clear sky also promised heat later in the day.  The rest of Spain is sweltering in near 40C heat.  The north has been spared thus far, but the heat seems to be moving this way.
There are some spectacular vistas along our route, but we seem to be spending more and more time on roads and less out in the woods.  As the day heats up the roads are less and less appealing.  They reflect the heat right back up at us.  Our feet feel pounded by the asphalt.  We move without much shade as the sun rises higher. 
We keep hoping we'll get to the enchanting part of the walk, but now the Camino seems to endlessly follow the road.  Our boredom (can you believe it, we are walking in Spain and complain of tedium) is relieved by a sign that points to a farmhouse and promises refreshment and food.  Pete wants to give it a try so we duck in.  A woman greets us a 4 young people leave.  She invites us in to sit at her long granite topped table in the kitchen.  We ask for coke, and she offers us home made bread, cheese, and sausage.  The coke is cold, and the cheese is very good.  It is a dairy farm after all.  We sit and cool off a bit.  She fills our water bottles as we depart.  For 5€ we got a refreshing rest, and she made a bit of cash for the household .  During our devotions, we included her among those we had been blessed to meet.
We trudge on and run into some kids we had met a few days back in Vilalba as they looked for the albergue in the morning.  They were looking a little beat up: bad feet and sore shoulders.  It was good to see them and they seemed happy to see us as well.  We talked for a few minutes and moved on.  Pete noted that now in our 6th week of walking, we are the Nordic types: we easily leave them in the dust. 
The road walking is now getting downright oppressive.  We pass a group of Germans who started walking in France 1500K back.  They complain as well.  It is getting miserable and probably approaching 30C.  We cannot fathom why we had been told that this would be an excellent day of walking.
We eat some cereal bars, nuts and raisins, and drink water for lunch since we have not come to a town in hours.  After our lunch, we do come to a town so/we stop for a cold drink and a seat in the shade.  We have walked for about 5 hours, covered 22K, and 80% of it has been miserable.  Luckily we are only 5K from our destination, and 3K of it is really lovely walking down quiet, tree shaded lanes on soft ground.  Once in Sobrado we are back to street and side walk, but we soon see a fountain and the spires of the church. The fountain is gushing cool water.  We drink.  We fill our bandanas and soak ourselves.  We wash our faces.  We squeeze it from bandana to arms and legs.  It is a luxurious coolness on a blistering day.  "Thank you for fountains" joins "feet, legs, lungs, knees, shoulders" in our daily litany of thanks.
We walk onto the cathedral and monastery grounds.  It is stunning.  The facade of the church is magnificant (finished in 1706 our guidebook says).  The grounds are elegantly manicured and feature two huge pines.  Sprawled under the pines are the 4 young people we had seen earlier in the day at the woman's kitchen refreshment bar.  It turns out they are Latvians.  They started in Bilbao and had quite a few physical problems: severe blisters, twisted ankles, and sore knees.  Several times they could not make it to an albergue and were forced to sleep in the open.  Yet their spirits were good as they know Santiago is close.  It turns out they are devout Christians, among the few we've met on Camino.  After we check into the monastery, we go to the supermarcado and make dinner together in the monastery kitchen.  They are as full of stories of blessings and grace in tight spots as Pete and I.  They have traveled, in summers past, to the Taize community in France.  Now our paths cross on Camino to Santiago de Compostela.
The monastery is absolutely fantastic.  The monks make wine and cheese for sale, and only charge 5€ for the night, showers and blanket included.  As we get closer to Santiago, the number of pilgrims has increased.  There look to be 40 of us here tonight.  It is very satisfying to be in a place were since 1000CE monks have proclaimed the gospel, tried to live a kingdom life, and to this day offer hospitality ('remember you were strangers once in Egypt') to all who come. Even though the walking wasn't all we had thought it would be, the day has been full, and I sleep tonight yet again safe, warm, and secure because a Jewish carpenter from years ago and far away still invites folks like these monks to open their doors and hearts.  Buen Camino.

Over the last three days I have gratefully shared prayers with Kitty H., Kathy H., Fonda H., Renette B., Bruce U. And Beverly B.  I am sorry that I did not record that in my blog in a more timely fashion.  I have been lifted up each time I open a new day's prayer.  As I wrote in an earlier entry, one of my discoveries on this Camino has been that I live not by my own inner resources, but my the strength of my connections with my wife, children, family, church, friends, and yes very crucially those I have not yet, and may never, meet.  (I should note here, when my pastor laid hands on me to send me forth from Stony Creek so many weeks ago, he prayed for just such a discovery.) These prayers I have carried so far, so many miles, and share with such a hopeful heart have been crucial to my Camino, and I thank all who took the time and look forward to the prayers to be offered in these final days.   

Day 35: Market Day in Parga

The hospitaleros at the albergue in Miraz were volunteers.  The woman, Neva from England, had come for two weeks every summer for the last 7 years.  The man, Jim from Canada, was on his first go round, after 7 times walking the various Camino routes.  We told them of our 'problem': having an extra day.  They said that they were going to a town called Parga for the market.  They suggested we come along, visit the market, a 12 century castle, and spend the night in a pension there.  We could get a cab back to Miraz on Monday morning and be on our way walking to Santiago.  It sounded better than any idea we had cooked up.
We arose in the morning with the rest of the peregrinos.  We said goodbye to some friends, including Stephan, the Polish professor we have seen over the last 5 or so days.  We also said goodbye to a young Madrid couple we have walked with for only 2 days.  The fella had a hurt knee and I offered him some cream I've been using and we struck up a bit of a relationship.  Seeing he and his girl friend, so young and affectionate, so passionate, reminded me of my children and the gift such a trip would be for them.  They also reminded me of the joy of affection with my wife.  I took their picture and told them how watching them together gave me joy.  They seemed genuinely pleased.  It is part of the Camino that I love--simple fellowship between strangers.  I realize that the situation is unlike any other and our fellowship is in part a product of its short life span.  Nonetheless our shared participation in the journey to Santiago does indeed bind us into a community different than any other I've ever been a part of.
We said goodbye and then, since the taxi to Parga would not come until 10:30, we helped the hospitaleros with chores.  We changed sheets on beds, and our main task was to trim a hedge that was beginning to encroach on space for a clothes line (every night the clothes lines are full--you only carry 2 or 3 days of clothes, so you launder daily).
As chores were done we sat and talked.  Neva was in her 70s and had walked Camino Norte once 10 years ago.  She divorced her husband of 43 years soon after--Yikes, don't worry hon.  She made clear at dinner the night before that she was almost militantly anti-church and clergy.  Yet she had served, at her own expense, as a nurse on various trips for the ill and invalids.  She said she felt she 'owed' it for her long and happy career in nursing.  Like so many others I've meet, orthodox religion was just not part of their world, yet their participation in the Camino was not merely because it was a good and offbeat way to spend a holiday.  Their questions were not exactly the same as mine, but the profundity of their quest put to shame the easy versions of Christianity or secular humanism I've encountered so often back home.  Indeed, I've met plenty of folk here whose quest for something deeper and more meaningful in and with their lives will challenge me long after I've returned to the States.  We simply don't, where ever we are, have to settle for what is set before us by accidents of birth, situation, and circumstance. 
So the taxi delivers us to a small town crowded with people.  The Parga market is on every 4th Sunday.  You can buy jeans, junk, jewelery, produce, pigs, goats, bread, tools and hats.  You name it, you can buy it.  There is also food everywhere: grilled meats, homemade cheeses, churos (fried dough-Spanish elephant ears), and octopus.  The Galicians love their octopus, and so do I.  The octopus is cooked in large kettles of water.  When you order, they use a hook to bring one, cut off two or three legs, slice them onto wooden plate, dress it with olive oil and paprika, and rush it to your table (rank after rank of them under awnings).  Some folk purchase a whole octopus to go and have it poured into a plastic bag to carry home.
What a great day.  We wandered the market.  Got stares from everyone.  We are the only men in shorts.  Since I lost my good sandals in the Basque country, my non-boot foot wear are a pair of cheap chinese bath flops.  To add to the aura of 'cool', I wear them with socks. Pete wears a large hat, and we both don't know much Spanish and photo everything.
The market starts packing up at 2:00, so we walked up to a hill overlooking the town.  There is a 'stronghold' built on foundations a rich Roman had set in place before the time of Jesus.  There was also a church built in the 12th century.  Not much like that back home eh?  I wonder how the people who live in the house now, or worship in the church are shaped by that history?
What a day of rest and refreshment.  We will get a taxi at 7:30 in the morning.  We'll head back to Miraz to begin a 25K day in the final week, the 6th week on the Way.  Buen Camino.

Day 34: A beautiful day, a great afternoon, futbol tonight

Last night, I'm sorry to say I was 'that guy' in the albergue.  I drank 3 small beers as we watched the first bit of Germany v Greece at the local bar.  Unfortunately that meant that twice in the night I had to make a journey that made the floorboards of the albergue creak and groan.  I was not alone in making that journey, but I heard a couple of coughs that seemed to indicate that I had disturbed peaceful sleep.  Now my partner in this venture snores, as did another guy down the way, so I' m not the sole guilty party here.  Then again at 6:45 as we we packing up, I did drop my toiletries bag with a bang that woke folk who expected to sleep until 7:30.
The morning was very cool and foggy.  Pete put on his long sleeves, and we did 3K of road walking.  It was a foggy, foggy morning, but luckily only a few cars appeared out of the fog to drive us to the very edge of the road. Once we left the road, the Camino crossed several medieval bridges (restored I think) and a church our guidebooks said was from the 14th century (again restored).  In the cool morning mist and sunlight the beauty of the stone church surrounded by ancient oaks shaggy with hanging moss and tall pines  was moving beyond words.  The Camino wound on following thousand year old footpaths though meadows, forests, and small hamlets.  The Way was soft underfoot--no asphalt.  The day warmed and the fog lifted.  It was the most peaceful morning of walking in a series of wonderful mornings these past days.  Prayer, song, and small talk came easily to our lips.  The birds chirped.  The flowers perfumed the air.  Quiet peace filled us.  I told Pete that this was the Camino of my dreams: contemplative and filled with shalom.  Restless hearts could well find their rest on Ways such as the Way we walked this morning.
We meet our Polish friend at a break spot that several other pilgrims had stopped at.  He had spent the night nearer to the highway in a pension.  He said with obvious delight that he took a long bath.  When brief showers either too hot or too cold are the norm, a hot soak in a real tub is quite the well deserved luxury.  Buen Camino my Polish professor.
On our way through one of the small hamlets, we saw the home of a local sculptor who invites all peregrinos to step into his yard and worshop.  His generousity of spirit and creativity just brought a smile to my lips.  We couldn't make out more than a word or two of his rapidfire Spanish (after we did our 'No hablo . . . Speech he just kept going). Yet his work and desire to share it with us said all that we needed to understand.
We walked happily to our day's destination, Miraz.  A 70 year old German woman who had walked from Irun as we had was at the albergue entrance and told us the place didn't open until 2.30.  It was 12:30, so we all adjourned to the bar next door.  Now I'm becoming European--I ordered beer.  Since college, I can't remember drinking alcohol at midday, but here it is commonplace, so when in Spain eh?  The German woman ordered a sandwich, as did Pete, and we adjourned to the patio under the grape arbor.There with the warmth of the afternoon, we talked with the bar owner in our pigdin Spanish, less than pigden German, and little to no English.  Despite, or maybe because of, our different languages, we managed to share quiet laughs, common concerns, and a bit of talk of futbol (the 60 something tavern lady thinks Spain will face Germany in the finals).  I kept looking at Pete and repeating our go to phrase, 'dude, we're walking in Spain'.  The peace of the morning blended seamlessly and perfectly into the easy fellowship of the afternoon. 
Some other customers came and the tavern owner hurried inside to be as delightful and gracious with them as she had been with us.  Across the street workman are painting a large house.  A neighbor drops by to inspect and offer comments to the homeowner.  The painter steps into the conversation pointing and talking rapidly.  As all this life is bustling away, a man wheels a barrow full of gelagos (a large leafy green veggie looking like an overgrown broccoli without the flower) through the scene.  Gelagos is grown in large quantities in every garden we've seen, but until I ate cauldo gelagos, we could never find any evidence of its use in the cusine.  We figured they pickled it for winter.  Anyway, our German friend stopped the fellow with the barrow full of green to ask about the veggie.  She tasted the raw leaf stopping the conversation about housepainting and simply stunning the barrowman.  Who knew that there was a raw gelagos taboo?  In the nick of time, before things got ugly in that cross-cultural miscommunication sort of way a large horned cow, the head of a mini-cattle drive comes onto the scene.  It like a scene from an American western.  A dozen beeves (that's what they call them in the movies although I doubt the Spanish use the term) amble right into town.  A large woman with a stick yells out something just as the lead cow seeks to break the raw gelagos taboo too.  Then the other cows pour into the scene, each and everyone threatening to break taboo as the housewife yells at the cows not to step on the painters tarp and the barrowman looks for a way to safely exit the scene with all his gelagos unchewed by the now thoroughly interested in taboo-breaking cows.  Friends as the scene unfolded before me I could only say that it is just such a wonderful wonderful world.  This is a world of great beauty, warm fellowship, and zany fun.  Find some for yourselves--make some for yourselves.  On this Camino such beauty, such fellowship, and such fun have filled me up and my heart just begs for more.
The albergue finally opened.  Its time for showers, laundry, and chewing the cud (since I'm still overjoyed by bovine hijinxs) with the Canadian and English hospitaleros.  They are retired, but for the love of the Camino they come year after year to spend two weeks in this small, hardly on a map Spanish village, to welcome and serve peregrinos.  They promise me that the tavern keeper will cheer as loudly as anyone when Spain meets France in tonight's quarterfinal futbol match.  I'll be sure to lift my glass in her direction when they score--a salute from a pilgrim to yet another person who has the phrase, "remember you too were once a stranger" written in her heart and giving life to all her graceful ways.  Buen Camino.  

Day 33: Another experience with Spanish K

Since we have a day to spare before Santiago, we leave the albergue late (8:00). There is light fog and it is very chilly (I wear a long sleeve shirt as we walk for the first time, Pete zips the 'legs' onto his shorts). Nevertheless, it looks like the skies might clear for the first time since we entered Galicia.
We stroll into town, find a bar/cafe and sit down for some coffee. We meet s young girl and boy (just around 20 I think). They ask us where the albergue is, and we are sure puzzled because it is so early and they are on the wrong side of town (1K past the albergue). They explain that they too, the overnight bus from Madrid, will meet others at the albergue, and start the Camino tomorrow. She said this was her 5th Camino, but this time she was with her boyfriend and it was very 'romantico'. In the spirit of leaving the curmudgeon behind I did not remark on the romantic character of bunk beds and 27 smelly snoring strangers. Buen Camino young ones. Have an adventure.  Hold hands, be carefree and a little wild.
Our guides tell us there are markets here in Vilalba, but none for many a K after that. We are going to wait in town for the market to open, but we find out it does not open until 9:30. I also ascertain with a bit of pigdin Spanish and meaningful pantomime that there is one market in our destination for the day: Baamonde, 17K away. So off we go into the chilly but rapidly brightening morning. The Camino winds through the peaceful countryside. The sun begins to cut the fog. It is simply beautiful now--flowers, pines, green pastures, quiet lanes, and medieval stone bridges over small creeks. What a morning. Our spirits sing. We sing. The birds sing. Pretty soon Juile Andrews is gonna show up and start singing about the hills (now kinda distant).
The Camino dances back and forth under the A6 (a 4 lane 'interstate') and the N634 (2 lane 'state highway').  The back country lanes are lovely, but we only had coffee this morning (the cafe did not have tortilla--as a matter of fact here in Galicia, none of the bars have totilla in the a.m.).  We are a little hungry.  I'm taking Ibuprofen so I can walk, and if I don't have a bit to eat it makes me queasy.  After 2 1/2 hours we stop for devotions.  I share prayers the Deb and John P and Virginia D.  I take the pills and eat my last food, a small can of tuna.  Lucky thing this tuna in Spain is so different and so good.  We set off again, cross the state road and see that our destination is still 11K down the road and we've only come 4K from our start point.  Yikes.  We walk on the Camino as it winds like a snake around the road.  At noon we break at a bar for a coke.  With pigdin English and pigdin Spanish we find out from the locals that via the road our destination is 10K and via Camino its 15K.  The 'interstate' has pulled most of the traffic off the N634, so we road walk the next 6 miles (10K).  Road walking hurts our feet (and my knee!).  Slapping left right left right on asphalt for a couple of hours is just not the same as muddy paths through quiet forests and meadows.  Yet our hunger moves us (and several other peregrinos we see) to sacrifice beauty for speed.
We arrive at another gorgeous Galician albergue (now they are getting large as we near the 100K to Santiago point).  We shower, do laundry (I put a photo of the wash facilities here), and head to the restaurant for menu al dia.  I have Cauldo Galiego (potato soup with greens--yes believe it or not there are vegetables in one Spanish dish!) Followed by fried fish.  Delicious.  Tonight we'll sit in a bar and watch the Germans eliminate the Greeks from the Eurocup.  Tomorrow we hope to find a bar to watch Spain play.  The Camino is a walk of great beauty, mystery, and wonder.  It is a great mystery to me who is measuring for the guidebooks and the road signs.  I wonder if it is a Spaniard?  On one sign today we saw that had we followed the road, we would have to walk 8K to get to our start point and 9K to get to our destination.  After a 1/2 hour walking, it was 9K back to the start, but 6K to the finish.  Beautiful math huh?  Buen Camino. 

Day 31: A new wine, a new friend, down to the plains

Galicia built new albergues for the holy year (when the feast of St. James falls on a Sunday, its a holy year and good mojo for the Camino).  So as the number of pilgrims increase (and their average age falls dramatically) there is, so far, still plenty of room. We finished walking, showering (there is always plenty of hot water in these new albergue), and laundering in time to go to the supermercado and get the ingredients for a fine bean stew (many of the albergue have ill equipped kitchens--a few pans, some plates, glasses and silverware).  At the store I found a regional wine made from the Mencia grape, also unique to Galicia.  As I chopped the veggies for the stew, I sampled the deep purple wine.  Yowie, zowie was it good.  The hospitalero noticed the bottle, and being a proud Galician, started telling me I had purchased a local treasure (£4.50, pricey by most standards here).  We greeted a guy from Poland we had met a week ago and shared with him.  The four of us now sat and swapped stories while the stew bubbled away.  The Polish fellow is a retired professor of English literature.  The Galician was young and full of stories--a regular Chaucer fest.
Then we were joined by a most surprising fellow--a United Methodist pastor from Seattle, WA.  He was making his fourth Camino (2 on Camino Frances and one on the route from Seville to Santiago--he didn't do the whole 1000K).  His church was the Seattle 1st near the Space Needle.  Pete and he were diametrically opposites in their theological convictions and also starting talking shop, so I engaged with Stefan, the Pole.  We had an illuminating talk about the Modernist/Symbolist movement in the early part of the 20th century (Joyce, Pound, Eliot etc).  He recommended Under the Volcano by Malcolm Lowry as the final summation of the Modernist impulse.  I hope to get it when I return home.  A perfectly lovely evening--a good wine, a serviceable stew, and just dandy stimulating conversation.
The morning was cold and overcast.  We set off in full rain gear both for protection and warmth.  We had only 22K to walk.  However we missed the coffee stop in a small village, and thus had no morning pick me up.  We are now walking amid a larger group of pilgrims as we approach Santiago.  They are young.  They listen to music as they walk.  The talk loudly in the 'dormitorio' when the old veterns want to sleep.  As they passed us, or we passed them, I began to mar the day with a curmudgeonly heart.  I vowed, for the sake of my family, to leave some of my curmudgeonly ways behind here on Camino.  The young grow to the joy of life and thrive in their self-confidence when they are surrounded by loving support, not the nagging criticism of graybeards.  My prayers today included a request to have a bit lighter heart as these final days will be evermore crowded with these young folk streaming to Santiago.
We climbed only a bit, and then looked out on the plains of inner Galicia.  There will be no more climbs for us, only gentle rolling country lanes through green pastures just as the Psalmist says.  The route avoided the road completely (and also coffee!).  As the clouds broke in the late morning we crossed streams on ancient bridges, shared prayer with Jason N, Virginia D, and Doug T, and finally came to the albergue just in time to shower, do laundry, and find some food.  The nearby restaurant had baby octopus with peas and potatoes--what is a starving peregrino to do?  Buen Camino.

Day 31: A beautiful walk, an easy day; the beginning of the end

We awoke, packed, pinned the laundry that didn't dry to our packs, and went down to enjoy our breakfast (inclusivo--included in the price) of coffee and toast. It was not raining! We hitched up, rain gear on since we were headed up into the clouds, and set off at a leisurely 8:15.
The walk out of town was a bit confusing, but following the normal rules of Camino, the way up was the way out. It was so steep a couple of bicyclist (about 1/4 of peregrinos we see are on bicycles) we shared confusion with had to walk their bikes (and they were young!). As we walked, we remembered the Basque hills and all the problems we had. We both agreed that now, in our 5th week of walking, we were finally ready for the Basque hills. We climbed and climbed up the steep road. The clouds seemed to break a bit and we actually saw sunshine and a bit of blue sky! That brought forth a huffing and puffing version of the Gloria. In the Basque country we were walking west over a mountain, down into a river valley, and up the other side. Here we are walking south west. Our path takes us up the side of a valley, then down its length. Once we are up we have gorgeous views across the valley.  All that we have come to love is before us: cattle, donkeys, horses, goats, and sheep (alas, the bell symphonies are gone), old farms with lovely ancient stone walls and slate roofs, birds chirping, flowers filling the air with their delicate scents and filling the eye with their loveliness, even the dogs (every farm has a big dog lounging around) with their "I'll tear you to bits if I can just break this chain" blood howls. This is simply a wonderful walk on a peaceful morning.
I told Pete at lunch that this pilgrimage was often bigger than my dreams of pilgrimage. In so many ways, as we near the end of the journey (a mere 140K) I have been blessed because all my dreams have been fulfilled and more. The physical challenge has been beyond both my preparation and my imagination. The difficulty and yes even the pain have driven me to my emotional and spiritual limits. Yet especially there on those edges, blessing has come--cool water from fountains, directions from a stranger, a shout of 'buen camino' from a passerby, a thought of my wife and children, a deeply heartfelt prayer from home, a knee bound up with a brace from the Farmicia able to walk one more step. Those very blessings that came when I had little else in the way of inner resources revealed to me a world not of my own extra ordinary inner, do it on your own, strengths, but instead a world in which I am deeply connected to others with whom I must now share as generously and freely as they shared with me. This time of prayer and walking in Spain is drawing to a close, but as one of the blessing of leaving that my home congregation invoked for me says, 'Blessed are you peregrino when you come home to realize the Camino has just begun'. Blessed indeed. . .Buen Camino.

I had the privilege of sharing prayer today with Will S and Virginia D.  May our hopes find fulfillment.