Day 21: Disaster and a St. James moment

Sunday is supposed to be a day of rest--a Sabbath, 'for you were once slaves in Egypt'.  We rested in Bilboa.  We took two short days last week.  We are ahead of our own schedule. Our vague plan is to stop very early just beyond Gijon (pop. 250,000).  We had even talked with the Canadian gals about getting a bus through Gijon as urban walking is just not that pleasant. 
Well, none of that happened, a disaster and much more happed.
We can't quite figure out the bus schedule, so we just set out walking.  It is only 6-8 K to Gijon.  It is probably 2-3K through the worst of the downtown, so off we set.  I'm having trouble warming up this morning.  My hips feel tight.  My shoulders are uncomfortable in the pack.  It starts to rain, so we unpack the rain gear to make it stop.  It works again.  Five minutes under the poncho and it stops.
Sunday morning in Spain is even slower than the rest of the week.  We enter the suburbs a bit hungry as the cured lomo slices and apple from our packs weren't quite enough.  We finally find a bar, and lo and behold the Canadian women are there along with a German woman we met back in the Basque country.  We sit order coffee and tortilla.  We eat, say 'buen Camino' to the women, and go across the street to the fountain in the park to fill water bottles.
We now are walking into downtown Gijon.  As the buses wake up, we start to talk again about climbing aboard.  The tortilla is not sitting well on my stomach, and my left knee begins to feel funny.  Now you must understand, everyday brings a new and unique pain to us somewhere.  One day your toes are jammed into the front of your boots by the downhill walking and your toenails bruise.  The next day its a hot spot on your heel.  My shoulder had ached for two days despite my best efforts to readjust my pack.  Pete has had a series of blisters, and brought a brace for his right knee.  The smaller toes on our feet are numb.  We have walked over 330 miles in 20 days of walking.  I ignore the funny feeling in my knee.   
The way is marked in town by bronze markers on the ground.  We watch carefully, and every now and then a helpful citizen helps us on our way if we lose sight of the markers.  We leave the posh section of downtown and enter the working class highrises.  My knee is beginning to talk back to me and my stomach is still unsettled.  It is near noon, we are across Gijon and heading for a small town where we hope to find a pension to hole up in for our rest day.
The small town turns out to really be the site of a large series of power plants and smelly factories.  Since Gijon is on a river, we are climbing slowly but surely out of the river valley through sulpher fumes (you want an electric dryer at Jellystone, somewhere coal is burnt to make it possible and somebody lives near there or a pilgrim walks through there).  There is no pension.  My knee is now painful.  We walk upward.  At one point we sight a train station. We are uncertain about a place to stay short of a town called Aviles 13 or so K away.  Pete asks if I want to jump on the train.  Stupidly, I say no, we'll find a pension in the next village.  Our guide books have never listed all the pension and small hotels we see.  We start climbing.  Climbing is okay, but I am starting to limp on the flat and downslope.  We meet the Scotsman and he and Pete walk a bit ahead as I am slowing.  At a stand of blessing someone has set up with a sign in three languages 'for Pilgrims Only' we take some water, share a lemon, and sign the book, and stand resting for a moment.  Someone else remembers and believes 'because you were strangers once' and we are refreshed again.  The Scot pushes on and we take a last drink and do so as well.
Now my limp is getting pronounced and I wince with every step on flat and broken ground.  We find a table and sit for a bit but my heart is sinking.  I know I cannot walk 10K or more to Aviles (well, I could but we would arrive at midnight).  We have to cross a 200m high ridgetop that turns out to be a historical park (there are 3000 year old burial sites called dolmen here)  there are also clear cut euchalyptas stands.  The road is dirt and flat along the top of the ridge.  I limp slowly filled with dread for today and heartbroken to think of tomorrow.
The K pass slowly.  Pete tries to encourage me.  It is 3:30 in the afternoon so in America they are starting to worship at Stony Creek, surely some one there will hold me in their prayers. We make our St. James jokes like we did in Madrid. "St.  James told us to rest on Sabbath."  "Don't mess with brother James."  Well, then comes a St. James moment.  As we start down the ridge into the village of El Valle, Pete walks ahead to the shade of the church.  My phone rings.  Its Rachel, my daughter.  What a delight!  My spirits lift.  She left for her summer internship in NYC before I left for Spain.  I've only talked to her twice in 4 weeks and I miss her so.  As we are talking and I am approaching the church were Pete sits, the first person we have seen in hours is walking near Pete.  Instead of telling Rachel to call back, I asked her to wait.  I approach the woman, "No hablo. . ."  She replies, "No hablo Inglese'.   I ask "Pension? Hotel?  Aqui?"  She breaks my heart, "No".  I then try "Taxi?" I get a blank stare.  I get on the phone with Rachel.  "Will you talk to her about a taxi from here to Aviles?"  I give the phone to the woman and say "Mi hermosa habla Espanol".  Rachel and the woman chat happily for a few minutes.  The woman hands the phone to me and Rachel says, "she will help you get a cab to Aviles."  Rachel, I've loved since she was the "little seahorse" in her mother's womb, but I have seldom loved her more and wanted to shower her with all I had or will ever have.  I said my goodbyes, and the woman pulled out her phone.  She even knew the number (could you just pick up a phone and dial a cab?). I kissed her hand--second woman in Spain I've kissed like that.  Pete said he was gonna tell Ketl I was kissing women.  Five minutes later a cab pulled up.  We loaded our packs in the back. I got in front and showed him the list of pension, but could not communicate that we did not care which one.  He called one, got directions, and off we went.  The ride was like a roller coaster for the first few minutes--not because he was a bad driver, but because we have been walking (except for a two minute train ride near two weeks ago).  It was practically dizzying, but euphoric. 

I tell you what, after all is said and done, there will be no more St. James jokes.  Call it what you will, I know what happened.  I was there--a witness.  I was hopeless and hurt in a foriegn country.  My daughter called, a woman walked by, and I was rescued off a ridgetop when I had no other hope or resources.   Gratis, Gratis--it is a sweet sound for limping wretches like me.

The pension was down by the docks and Pete said no way. Hey even a guy that sleeps in rooms full of snoring smelly people can have standards.  The driver called another one from the list and seemed to get the Spanish version of the run around.  So we pointed to a hotel, and the driver looked shocked.  He repeatedly said, 'hotel' 'hotel'.  We (well me) were done in and he found the hotel.  It was a three star in the old city section of town.  We got out and looked a bit for a pension, but I could hardly walk.  So we went to the 3 star hotel and made the gal that checked us in laugh when we said 'peregrinos, 2 nights'.    
So we watched Spain play Italy in futbol.  We took long baths.  We ate pizza at the restaraunt next door.  Came (I limped), back to the room and to watch Croatia crush the Irish (we both fell asleep--Pete woke long enough to turn off the TV.  I slept from 10 to 8, Pete longer.  We have laid around the entire day.  Pete went out this morning to go to Mass and look around for a bit.  We watched Nidal win the French Open and some Spanish cooking show.  I went out to get a knee brace, but the Farmicia was closed for siesta.  I think, and hope, and pray  I'll be able to continue tomorrow--slow, crippled, with a brace on my knee.   For now, here I am sitting alone at the hotel bar, enjoying a glass of beer, thumbing this post, thinking about disaster and St. James, and all the twists, and turns of fate that make today and me and my daughter and an unnamed woman and this nice beer in a posh hotel such a wonderful miracle of the unexpected and mind boggling contingent, and tomorrow and all our tomorrows such a mystery and such a wonderous portion of the divine.  Buen Camino. . .kiss someone you love.