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I have been on The Camino seven days! I have a scab on my nose and two on my lips from the sun. Today, I walked from Lorca to Villa Mayorga-- much farther than I had intended. A little way before arriving in Estella, I met Igor from Slovenia. Igor was thirty years old, bright red, with an oversized, very-round, bald head. He looked a lot like the pictures of children in Children's Research Institute type donation drives. Igor loudly laughed through every Italian-accented syllable he spoke. He was not particularly attractive, but there was something so beautiful about his simplicity and goodness. We walked and talked for a long while, with him slowing his pace way down to accommodate me. We walked into Estella, purchased goods from a store, then sat under an elm tree's shade to eat. We were joined by Eindt, an older somewhat-arrogant German pilgrim whom Igor had previously walked with on the Camino. Eindt had run many marathons in the past, but expressed how very different and difficult he had found walking The Way to be. Eindt was planning to walk all of the way to Finesterre and to rent a seaside cottage there.
After Igor had finished his lunch, I told him that I planned to stay in Estella, so he walked on. I had not entirely decided to stay there, but I was not sure about him and wanted my space and quiet back. After he had left, I decided to continue walking as it really was too early in the day to stop.
I got turned around in the city, but I finally made my way through it. Just past the cemetery, I turned around and found Igor following me. At first, I was embarrassed and worried that I may have hurt his feelings by telling him I would be staying in Estella when I clearly was not doing so. I then became concerned by the fact that he was odd and had maybe been watching and following me. In the end I just walked on with him, choosing to counter the American tendency to suspect the worst about others instead of expecting the best.
We walked most of that day together. He was really quite interesting. He was a chemical engineer who owned his own business and was very knowledgable about art, history, philosophy, and theology. He kept insisting I put on sunscreen and he gave me his hat to keep the sun from burning my nose any worse. Together, we visited the Irache Bodega, with me sipping red wine from its fountain, while he rested on a wooden bench and loudly laugh-talked to other peregrinos under its trees.
Igor's conversation topics kept my mind off my foot pain, and I tried very hard to hasten my pace so as not to slow him down too much. By mid-afternoon, I could not go on, though, so I stopped in a small village, hoping to find a room, and he went on.
There were, however, no rooms whatsoever in that town. I was physically shattered by this point, having walked for hours with the overhead sun beating down on me and the temperature well over 100 degrees. I was in a plaza in that no-room town when I met the Nurturing Hungarian. I had seen him before on the Camino. He was one of the many zen-like men I had seen traveling alone. (Funny, middle-aged women traveling solo looked matronly and forlorn; middle-aged men traveling solo looked healthy and serene.) The Nurturing Hungarian could not speak English, but he could see that I was terribly overheated and ill. He brought me cool water from the fountain in a metal cup with a fizzing lime mineral tablet to revive me. He then left me with a bag of sugar candies to energize me enough to walk on to the next town of Villa Mayorga, which I hobbled into an hour and a half later. Both Igor and the Nurturing Hungarian were at the Dutch Christian albergue when I arrived. There was no space in the dormitories, but I was offered an individual room for twenty-five euros. I spent the twenty-five euros and got a room to myself at the tip top of the house on the fourth floor. It did not have its own bathroom, and I had to shower in another building, but I did not mind. All I wanted was a warm meal, a cool beverage, and beautiful, wonderful rest.
I have been on The Camino seven days! I have a scab on my nose and two on my lips from the sun. Today, I walked from Lorca to Villa Mayorga-- much farther than I had intended. A little way before arriving in Estella, I met Igor from Slovenia. Igor was thirty years old, bright red, with an oversized, very-round, bald head. He looked a lot like the pictures of children in Children's Research Institute type donation drives. Igor loudly laughed through every Italian-accented syllable he spoke. He was not particularly attractive, but there was something so beautiful about his simplicity and goodness. We walked and talked for a long while, with him slowing his pace way down to accommodate me. We walked into Estella, purchased goods from a store, then sat under an elm tree's shade to eat. We were joined by Eindt, an older somewhat-arrogant German pilgrim whom Igor had previously walked with on the Camino. Eindt had run many marathons in the past, but expressed how very different and difficult he had found walking The Way to be. Eindt was planning to walk all of the way to Finesterre and to rent a seaside cottage there.
After Igor had finished his lunch, I told him that I planned to stay in Estella, so he walked on. I had not entirely decided to stay there, but I was not sure about him and wanted my space and quiet back. After he had left, I decided to continue walking as it really was too early in the day to stop.
I got turned around in the city, but I finally made my way through it. Just past the cemetery, I turned around and found Igor following me. At first, I was embarrassed and worried that I may have hurt his feelings by telling him I would be staying in Estella when I clearly was not doing so. I then became concerned by the fact that he was odd and had maybe been watching and following me. In the end I just walked on with him, choosing to counter the American tendency to suspect the worst about others instead of expecting the best.
We walked most of that day together. He was really quite interesting. He was a chemical engineer who owned his own business and was very knowledgable about art, history, philosophy, and theology. He kept insisting I put on sunscreen and he gave me his hat to keep the sun from burning my nose any worse. Together, we visited the Irache Bodega, with me sipping red wine from its fountain, while he rested on a wooden bench and loudly laugh-talked to other peregrinos under its trees.
Igor's conversation topics kept my mind off my foot pain, and I tried very hard to hasten my pace so as not to slow him down too much. By mid-afternoon, I could not go on, though, so I stopped in a small village, hoping to find a room, and he went on.
There were, however, no rooms whatsoever in that town. I was physically shattered by this point, having walked for hours with the overhead sun beating down on me and the temperature well over 100 degrees. I was in a plaza in that no-room town when I met the Nurturing Hungarian. I had seen him before on the Camino. He was one of the many zen-like men I had seen traveling alone. (Funny, middle-aged women traveling solo looked matronly and forlorn; middle-aged men traveling solo looked healthy and serene.) The Nurturing Hungarian could not speak English, but he could see that I was terribly overheated and ill. He brought me cool water from the fountain in a metal cup with a fizzing lime mineral tablet to revive me. He then left me with a bag of sugar candies to energize me enough to walk on to the next town of Villa Mayorga, which I hobbled into an hour and a half later. Both Igor and the Nurturing Hungarian were at the Dutch Christian albergue when I arrived. There was no space in the dormitories, but I was offered an individual room for twenty-five euros. I spent the twenty-five euros and got a room to myself at the tip top of the house on the fourth floor. It did not have its own bathroom, and I had to shower in another building, but I did not mind. All I wanted was a warm meal, a cool beverage, and beautiful, wonderful rest.
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