The albergue in San Vicente was far from the most plush we have stayed in thus far. Yet, the atmosphere was plush with hospitality and joy. As Sophia (70+ years and bright red died hair) signed us in I was humming the Gloria, Pete started singing it, and she joined in Spanish. Most pilgrims do not share our devotion, but many of the hospitaleros do. We settled in, showered, did laundry and I lazed around catching up this blog and Pete went exploring the big church. The american boys showed up with cheese, beer, wine, and sidera (a local and very ancient hard cider). Somehow while find fruit and veggies (which just do no appear in quantity on Spanish plate), these college age guys find alcohol--imagine that, eh? Nick was there too along with Italians, Dutch, and a fella from Japan. Our hosts charged us 6 Euro for the bunk bed in the dorm and said they would provide dinner and breakfast for a donation. At 8:00 (20:00 in Spain) we were called to table. Crackers with a smear of Picon cheese (one of my 'find and eat' cheeses--it is a very strong blue aged in caves in the Pico de Europas), a chacuterie plate (thin slices of cured meats), wine, water, and bread were on the table. The host bid us fill our glasses and offer a toast to Santiago (to Saint James). So all were bound by hospiality, bread, wine, and common purpose. Then we were served delicious Asturias stew: beans, rice, zuchinni, carrots, and bits of ham, pork neck bones, and maybe a bit of blood sausage. It was simple, humble, and completely welcome. I wish I had the assurance to serve my guests food that so obviously met our needs. A bit of salad mixto followed with fruit and plain yogurt for dessert. Dinner was a great feast, or a hint of what the great feast will look like--all welcome and served just what they need.
We awoke at 6:30, dressed, packed our gear, and headed into a beautiful dawn. We walked steadily for 3 hours talking of Nicodemus (again--why does he come 'in the night', what is his real question, who else might be in the room and how would that influence question, answers, and atmosphere?), my future, our wives (we come back to this joy at least 3 or 4 times each day), and the beauty of the gift this long slow journey has become. The day is warm, but not oppressive. We stop in a village for coffee and a tortilla (in Spain a tortilla is an egg and potato mixture, baked in the shape of a pie) at bar Gloria, and yet again sing. We say Shema, read the Psalm, and joined Ed L and Virginia D in prayer.
We marched on into Bustio and crossed the bridge into Asturias (the next region or state). On a park bench we ate our fruit for lunch, and I discovered I had a broken shoelace--clever chap I am (well really I took Carol Werheit' excellent advice), I have a spare, and we motor up the 100 meter slope out of the river valley. It is about 1:30 and we have covered 18K since morning light, and we feel absolutely cocky. Pride cometh before the pain, and the Camino dumps us onto the busy coastal highway for 4 painful (slap, slap, slap those weighted down by a backpack, toes onto hot asphalt), loud (truck after truck) kilometers. After a welcome jog off the highway, we get lost and walk 2K before we discover our mistake. The sun is now hotter and there is a 150 meter hill that our map does not show. Well, by 3:30 we are ready to call it a day and the nearest albergue is 13K more. We as at a bar for a pension. He gives us a flyer for a place in the next town and says it 1K further. As many of the Nordic types had said,"Is that a Spanish 1K?" So hot and tired we find welcome rest, a shower, and a chance to thumb these words into the phone as we wait, leaning back in chairs against the stone storefront, for the owner to serve us dinner at 8:00, dinner in Asturias.
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