The next 7K from the worlds largest lunch to the albergue were more 'will you roll those fat guys thata' way' than pilgrim jaunt. Yet despite our corpulence we came to the place where the markers pointed onward or to the albergue. An italian peregrino we have seen intermittently since Guemes was at that fork in the markers looking through her guidebook. We got out ours too. Supposedly it is from 5 to 8K on into Gijon (depending on the guide book you consult) and supposedly there is an albergue with 36 beds 200m down this side road, but all we see are car towed and big, self-propelled campers going that way. We decide to explore toward the supposed albergue. We come upon what looks like one of those Jellystone park family camping franchises. Sure enough, there were places for 36 peregrinos. We register and are sent to a group of family cabins just past the brimming with kids pools. There are 20 cabins and 6 are set aside for us. They were very small with 3 bunk beds and a bathroom in each cabin. A man from Poland we had seen for the last couple of days and a bewildered looking young Scotsman were already there. The Italian woman took a lower, so with one lower left (the Scot had taken an upper--for us that is an inexplicable choice since as we approach each albergue we always joke that its time to pray to St. James for a lower bunk on arrival, and as you will see, an unfortunate choice) Pete generously offers me the lower. The cabin is small but has a nice out door table and bench for socializing. We see the German fellows we met at the worlds largest lunch at one of the other cabins, as well as two nice Canadian women (mid 60s, out for 'a little adenture, eh', they say about themselves) we had passed earlier on the great climb. Small as the cabins are, the shower house is luxurious: 5 large stalls and plenty of hot water--want to make a peregrino groan aloud?--give him a hot shower!). At the registration desk we brought tokens to use in the washer and dryers they have on-site, so I volunteer to go do the laundry and let Pete remain to do what he does so well, chat up the folk. Washing clothes in a machine instead of a sink or tub--thank you St. James. Drying clothes using vast amounts of electricity instead of hanging them on a line or pinning them to the pack--thank you St. James (geesh, I might have to become A Catholic with all this St. James talk).
The place is full of families, kids, soccer balls, shouting, running, there is a restaurant, kiddie playrooms, and larger ritzier cabins. A busload of youngsters arrives for 'Campa Futbol', and all and all it is a din of noise and blizzard of activity: home for the night.
I learn from the German fellas that Germany is playing, Portugal in the first round of the European Cup. I promise to hoist a mug and watch a bit with them in the restaurant later. Pete and I eat and order food the menu assures us is 'typical of Asturias'. As it turns out, it seems that 'typical' means in Asturias they will put eggs with orange yolks fried overly hard on any bloody thing you want to eat. Jellystone Park also seems like the place for the good folk of nearby Gijon to bring their young ones for big birthday parties (pools, ropes course area, basketball courts--quite the package). There are very loosely controlled kids screaming everywhere in the dining area. After the third or fourth time, Pete and I are singing, 'Happy Birthday' in Spanish too.
After dinner, Pete walks back for bed, and I join the Germans for a bit of watching Futbol. They know all the players on both teams. These national teams are a bit unusual because the athletes all come home from the professional teams they regularly play for to join the national effort: teammates turn rivals. They also love the Spanish announcers, as they are more colorful than the German ones back home. I had enjoyed a small bottle of sidera (a 6% hard apple concoction) with dinner, so I simply sipped a small glass of beer during the 2 hr match. The German fellas were into their second bottle of wine (one of them was from the Moselle region and his family owned a vineyard) when I joined them, and went on and on. The match was not all that exciting, so there was plenty of time for talk--women futbol, home, work, the relationship between rules and outcomes in American politics, what the heck is a Methodist?, why is the German economy and social network humming along nicely still?, does college really cost so much money in the US?--see why is the German economy humming--etc. It was just a delight, especially as they broke open their third bottle and the Germans scored to put those 'divas' from Portugal in their place. After the match, I said goodnight and made my way back to the tiny cabin.
Now, I did not want to be 'that guy' as I came in so late (10:00). I removed my sandals, unbuttoned my shirt, even unzipped my pants outside the door to minimize the noise. The door opened quietly. The floor didn't creak. I got to my stuff, set down sandals, removed shirt and pants, and prepared to crawl into bed. Now I said these bunks were small, nose to feet small. I quietly crawled in and promptly got stuck with no way to get my feet pulled in past the ladder then turned to rest in the Polish guys face. I quietly back out, reconsider my position, and try again. One foot in first, tuck the head, draw in the other foot, then bang--head against the wooden wall like a gunshot. All occupants of the beds simultaneously clear their throats, 2 turn over--'that guy' has arrived.
It would get rougher. Jellystone Park, Spanish edition, has street lights that don't go off. Kids can play and scream into the night. 14 and 15 year old boys and girls walked by whispering furiously hoping to find the right person and a place away from the lights. Parents shouted futily for their suddenly deaf 14 and 15 year olds to come back to the cabin or camper. To make matters worse, the Scots lad thumped down to the floor, opened the squeaking bathroom door, did in stereo what one does in a bathroom, opened the squeaking door, hoisted back up to the upper, opened a water bottle and replaced what he'd just given back to Spain. The Scotsman went through that cycle at least three times. My head was also exposed to the bright streetlight, so if I rolled over, I suddenly felt the need to confess to the crime. I wanted to get up to draw the curtains but I couldn't figure out how to slither out quietly, and I was afraid of running into the Scotsman. Not to much sleep at Jellystone Park, Deva Spain.
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