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I got out of the albergue by 8:30. I took my time and enjoyed slowly packing my sack and rolling my sleeping bag. The cafe was open, so I slowly imbibed my cafe-con-leche elixir. Outside the cafe, I chatted with a fortyish steel-gray-haired Spanish male bicyclist who encouraged me to wear a jacket and uttered his excitement about getting to ride the next twelve kilometers all downhill.
Before shuffling eleven hundred songs on my IPhone, I talked a bit more with two timid German women and a gray-haired Dutch woman with knotted veins behind her dark-tanned knees. I then set off on my way past the in-town barn with its grumpy belled cows and scampering kittens.
Over the next several hours, the French teen scouts and I leap-frogged down the fern-rose-peony-clover-and-ivy-covered mountain. (Okay, so they did most of the leaping.) I skinned my hand when the weight of my backpack caused me to somersault backwards down a hill as I squatted to, er, well, squat. I bought an overpriced braided bracelet from a twelve-year-old girl at her Felicia-style card table as well as purchased sour raspberries, boysenberries, and gooseberries from someone's backyard for one euro; and I, once again, was frightened by a herd of bulls.
In Tricastela, I spent too long in the Iglesia, where the priest gave me a special paper in English with remarks specific to particular prayers I had been praying and other thoughts I had been thinking. He had seen me cry as I read it, had clasped my wet-with-holy-water hand when I left, and had said, "Bien. Bien."
By the time I came out of the church, all of the Tricastela albergues were completo (full), and I had to walk on another five kilometers to find the next albergue. My foot did pretty well with medication. It was through for the day by Tricastela, but I had to walk on. I took more medication and waited a while for it to kick in before going on to San Cristobo and Fort Lusio. I had planned to take an alternate route from Tricastela to Sarria via Samos the next day to visit the Benedictine monastery in Samos, which is one of the oldest and largest in Spain. However, with the Tricastela inns full, I had to begin the alternate route right then. The road I embarked on was said to be a dangerous stretch of highway.
What a surprise awaited me at Fort Lusio-- well worth the extra time and miles. The walk to San Cristobo was comfortable. Those days of 105 degree struggles seemed to be behind me. It was a cool walk with new fauna, a pretty river to the left with tall trees. I walked along the very highway that I had read about in Hape Kerkeling's book, which I had been quite scared to walk along. Maybe it was a difference in traffic flow due to the the time of day that I was traveling versus the time when he had traveled it, or maybe it had been redesigned since he had written his book, but it was not too frightening. No close calls. The scariest part was, not cars traveling dangerously close to me, but having to walk on the other side of a guard rail with a steep drop-off to moving water below.
The walk did not take long, and the medicine boost carried me well. About 3:00, I reached San Cristobo, though I was alarmed a bit by the sight of the town. There was one place that said it had rooms, but I did not like the looks of it. I hoped that it was not the Lucio albergue. I continued on, having decided that, if I had to walk another six-point-six kilometers on to Samos, I would do so rather than stay there. I walked about a quarter mile, through beautiful woodlands-- the kind where the trees grow together overhead like leaf-ceilings.
To my delight, not far ahead, the path forked with the right prong signed for Samos and the left for the albergue. I took the left. The way narrowed. It passed a field and came to a bridge. The slope up to the bridge was covered in thick straw. I sank to my knees in the damp straw as I stepped onto the bridge. I knew I was getting close and was excited to discover what would be ahead in the bushes. Having gotten across the bridge, I continued to ascend the path, only to find a highway at the top. "A L B E R G U E" in spray-painted letters with a big yellow arrow were splayed on the road. I waited for three groups of bicyclists to whiz by then limped to the other side.
A shower, rest, and hopefully food was nearer with each of my off-kiltered steps. As I came around the last curve, I paused to laugh at a chicken pecking a weed on the roadside.
I looked up and saw "A-L-B-E-R-G-U-E" spray-painted across the back of a road sign. Turning the corner, I went up this last street, laughing at more chickens. I looked down a narrow way to my right and saw a very small gray haired man in his yard outside his door. He was saying something to me and dramatically pointing. I pulled my ear buds out and cocked my head. He repeated his Galician message and pointed to what I thought was a church. He waved his arms toward it, and I realized that it was the albergue.
Looking closer, the edifice looked more like a castle than a church. Actually it had been a fort. Fort Lucio. It was my refuge-- except that the doors were locked. I felt like Dorothy knocking on the door at the Emerald City. The massive door had an opened wooden rectangle in its upper third. I reached through the opening and unlatched the door from its inside. Entering, I found a brown-haired girl with glasses behind a desk. I asked if she had a bed; she nodded. She stamped my Pilgrim's Passport, then wrote my name, country, and passport number in the registry. She collected five euros from me then had me remove my boots and place them on a shelf. She showed me the laundry area and the women's showers and then took me upstairs to the dormitory, which had bunkbeds for twenty-two with nine folks already bedded. Mine was bed ten, a top bunk with half a rail on one side and none on the other. I quickly asked God to keep me from falling off, then asked her if there might be a place I could find food. She asked me if I liked tortilla con potatas. I nodded and she made a phone call on her cell phone, then asked me to meet her downstairs in an hour.
I spent the while unpacking, charging my phone, and showering. A bit later, she came by my bed, as I was combing out my hair, and said that she would be ready in fifteen minutes and that she would be my companion. I was unsure what awaited me. I did not know if she had called her mom and was taking me to her home. All I knew was I was hungry and I was grateful for her kindness.
Fifteen minutes later, I met her downstairs. She told me her name was Rocia and walked me (quite briskly, I must say) to the very yard of the small, gray-haired man! Rocia and I rounded the corner, as the thin man, his wife, and a teen-aged boy finished setting a tiny table with one chair. On the table were a paper tablecloth, a place setting, a plate with three kinds of meat and cheese, and a fresh green salad with tomatoes, onions, and corn. They greeted me excitedly, then all four, including Rocia, sat me at my table. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, "How beautiful! Thank you so very much!"
I got out of the albergue by 8:30. I took my time and enjoyed slowly packing my sack and rolling my sleeping bag. The cafe was open, so I slowly imbibed my cafe-con-leche elixir. Outside the cafe, I chatted with a fortyish steel-gray-haired Spanish male bicyclist who encouraged me to wear a jacket and uttered his excitement about getting to ride the next twelve kilometers all downhill.
Before shuffling eleven hundred songs on my IPhone, I talked a bit more with two timid German women and a gray-haired Dutch woman with knotted veins behind her dark-tanned knees. I then set off on my way past the in-town barn with its grumpy belled cows and scampering kittens.
Over the next several hours, the French teen scouts and I leap-frogged down the fern-rose-peony-clover-and-ivy-covered mountain. (Okay, so they did most of the leaping.) I skinned my hand when the weight of my backpack caused me to somersault backwards down a hill as I squatted to, er, well, squat. I bought an overpriced braided bracelet from a twelve-year-old girl at her Felicia-style card table as well as purchased sour raspberries, boysenberries, and gooseberries from someone's backyard for one euro; and I, once again, was frightened by a herd of bulls.
In Tricastela, I spent too long in the Iglesia, where the priest gave me a special paper in English with remarks specific to particular prayers I had been praying and other thoughts I had been thinking. He had seen me cry as I read it, had clasped my wet-with-holy-water hand when I left, and had said, "Bien. Bien."
By the time I came out of the church, all of the Tricastela albergues were completo (full), and I had to walk on another five kilometers to find the next albergue. My foot did pretty well with medication. It was through for the day by Tricastela, but I had to walk on. I took more medication and waited a while for it to kick in before going on to San Cristobo and Fort Lusio. I had planned to take an alternate route from Tricastela to Sarria via Samos the next day to visit the Benedictine monastery in Samos, which is one of the oldest and largest in Spain. However, with the Tricastela inns full, I had to begin the alternate route right then. The road I embarked on was said to be a dangerous stretch of highway.
What a surprise awaited me at Fort Lusio-- well worth the extra time and miles. The walk to San Cristobo was comfortable. Those days of 105 degree struggles seemed to be behind me. It was a cool walk with new fauna, a pretty river to the left with tall trees. I walked along the very highway that I had read about in Hape Kerkeling's book, which I had been quite scared to walk along. Maybe it was a difference in traffic flow due to the the time of day that I was traveling versus the time when he had traveled it, or maybe it had been redesigned since he had written his book, but it was not too frightening. No close calls. The scariest part was, not cars traveling dangerously close to me, but having to walk on the other side of a guard rail with a steep drop-off to moving water below.
The walk did not take long, and the medicine boost carried me well. About 3:00, I reached San Cristobo, though I was alarmed a bit by the sight of the town. There was one place that said it had rooms, but I did not like the looks of it. I hoped that it was not the Lucio albergue. I continued on, having decided that, if I had to walk another six-point-six kilometers on to Samos, I would do so rather than stay there. I walked about a quarter mile, through beautiful woodlands-- the kind where the trees grow together overhead like leaf-ceilings.
To my delight, not far ahead, the path forked with the right prong signed for Samos and the left for the albergue. I took the left. The way narrowed. It passed a field and came to a bridge. The slope up to the bridge was covered in thick straw. I sank to my knees in the damp straw as I stepped onto the bridge. I knew I was getting close and was excited to discover what would be ahead in the bushes. Having gotten across the bridge, I continued to ascend the path, only to find a highway at the top. "A L B E R G U E" in spray-painted letters with a big yellow arrow were splayed on the road. I waited for three groups of bicyclists to whiz by then limped to the other side.
A shower, rest, and hopefully food was nearer with each of my off-kiltered steps. As I came around the last curve, I paused to laugh at a chicken pecking a weed on the roadside.
I looked up and saw "A-L-B-E-R-G-U-E" spray-painted across the back of a road sign. Turning the corner, I went up this last street, laughing at more chickens. I looked down a narrow way to my right and saw a very small gray haired man in his yard outside his door. He was saying something to me and dramatically pointing. I pulled my ear buds out and cocked my head. He repeated his Galician message and pointed to what I thought was a church. He waved his arms toward it, and I realized that it was the albergue.
Looking closer, the edifice looked more like a castle than a church. Actually it had been a fort. Fort Lucio. It was my refuge-- except that the doors were locked. I felt like Dorothy knocking on the door at the Emerald City. The massive door had an opened wooden rectangle in its upper third. I reached through the opening and unlatched the door from its inside. Entering, I found a brown-haired girl with glasses behind a desk. I asked if she had a bed; she nodded. She stamped my Pilgrim's Passport, then wrote my name, country, and passport number in the registry. She collected five euros from me then had me remove my boots and place them on a shelf. She showed me the laundry area and the women's showers and then took me upstairs to the dormitory, which had bunkbeds for twenty-two with nine folks already bedded. Mine was bed ten, a top bunk with half a rail on one side and none on the other. I quickly asked God to keep me from falling off, then asked her if there might be a place I could find food. She asked me if I liked tortilla con potatas. I nodded and she made a phone call on her cell phone, then asked me to meet her downstairs in an hour.
I spent the while unpacking, charging my phone, and showering. A bit later, she came by my bed, as I was combing out my hair, and said that she would be ready in fifteen minutes and that she would be my companion. I was unsure what awaited me. I did not know if she had called her mom and was taking me to her home. All I knew was I was hungry and I was grateful for her kindness.
Fifteen minutes later, I met her downstairs. She told me her name was Rocia and walked me (quite briskly, I must say) to the very yard of the small, gray-haired man! Rocia and I rounded the corner, as the thin man, his wife, and a teen-aged boy finished setting a tiny table with one chair. On the table were a paper tablecloth, a place setting, a plate with three kinds of meat and cheese, and a fresh green salad with tomatoes, onions, and corn. They greeted me excitedly, then all four, including Rocia, sat me at my table. I clapped my hands and exclaimed, "How beautiful! Thank you so very much!"
Such royal treatment! It was reminiscent of a magical tea party I had been served by my children when they were tots. To think this fantastic surprise was to be ahead for me, when I was sitting on the side of the road, heavy-hearted, five kilometers back, in inns-filled Tricastela.
Tickled that I was truly blessed, Rocia beamed, waved goodbye to me, and went back to resume her hospitolera duties at the refugio. The gray-haired man's family went on to serve me a tortilla con potatas (similar to a fritatta or omelette with potatoes) with a basket of bread. He asked me if I would like wine. I asked him instead for a glass of water. I wanted the meal to last forever, but the time soon came when I had eaten my last bite of ice cream and the family's chickens had all strutted out of the yard.
I paid the Senora for the family's dinner-gift. I gave her a bit more than I could afford, with my funds drying up and my ATM-withdrawal problem not solved, but I wanted to bless her family as they had blessed me.
What kindness! If only I could take their generous spirits back home. I wish I could run an albergue and cook hearty soups and meals for people on spiritual journeys (as well as for spiritual people on human journeys).
Back at the albergue, the air was electric. The place was full. Another dormitory had opened, and the original nine who had arrived before me were in rare form. The Lindsay Lohan in the bunch was very loud but not as annoying as I had prejudged. She was just very happy and made everyone who came into her sphere happy too. I contentedly drifted to sleep to her joking, laughing, and telling animated stories in rapid-fire Spanish.
Tickled that I was truly blessed, Rocia beamed, waved goodbye to me, and went back to resume her hospitolera duties at the refugio. The gray-haired man's family went on to serve me a tortilla con potatas (similar to a fritatta or omelette with potatoes) with a basket of bread. He asked me if I would like wine. I asked him instead for a glass of water. I wanted the meal to last forever, but the time soon came when I had eaten my last bite of ice cream and the family's chickens had all strutted out of the yard.
I paid the Senora for the family's dinner-gift. I gave her a bit more than I could afford, with my funds drying up and my ATM-withdrawal problem not solved, but I wanted to bless her family as they had blessed me.
What kindness! If only I could take their generous spirits back home. I wish I could run an albergue and cook hearty soups and meals for people on spiritual journeys (as well as for spiritual people on human journeys).
Back at the albergue, the air was electric. The place was full. Another dormitory had opened, and the original nine who had arrived before me were in rare form. The Lindsay Lohan in the bunch was very loud but not as annoying as I had prejudged. She was just very happy and made everyone who came into her sphere happy too. I contentedly drifted to sleep to her joking, laughing, and telling animated stories in rapid-fire Spanish.
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