I am done walking. I just collapsed onto a bed. I will shower soon. How do I say, "It's wonderful!" and not "It is excruciating"? I cried and cried a while ago, as I surrendered to the Camino a mile and a half from this town. There is much great about my adventure, but the walking is so unbelievably painful: three blisters, Achilles tendonitis, and my other "bad foot" stuff.
Before I set out this morning, a rainbow graced the Villa Mayorga sky. I talked for a while at the albergue with a thirty-year-old American gal who volunteers there. She lives in Santiago and is a part of a small team who hopes to purchase a building in order to create a refuge for pilgrims seeking Christianity. She was more of the Teen Mania/YWAM/Campus Crusade for Christ missionary brand. Although I am not a fan of anyone who thinks they have the complete handle on Big-T truth, I was very interested in her vision and impressed by her resolve. She told me how Mexicans seeking a path to U.S. citizenship often come first to Spain and obtain dual citizenship, because it is easier for emigrants out of Spain to gain legal admittance to the U.S. in order to live as permanent residents for the required five years before applying for naturalization.
After saying goodbye to the girl at the albergue, I followed the yellow arrows through Villa Mayorga. I worried about how hard the day would be and wondered whether I would see anything as sweet as the foal I had seen take its first steps the day before or walk through another wind tunnel screaming cold air at me like an automatic car wash blasting air at a rinsed-off car.
Before I set out this morning, a rainbow graced the Villa Mayorga sky. I talked for a while at the albergue with a thirty-year-old American gal who volunteers there. She lives in Santiago and is a part of a small team who hopes to purchase a building in order to create a refuge for pilgrims seeking Christianity. She was more of the Teen Mania/YWAM/Campus Crusade for Christ missionary brand. Although I am not a fan of anyone who thinks they have the complete handle on Big-T truth, I was very interested in her vision and impressed by her resolve. She told me how Mexicans seeking a path to U.S. citizenship often come first to Spain and obtain dual citizenship, because it is easier for emigrants out of Spain to gain legal admittance to the U.S. in order to live as permanent residents for the required five years before applying for naturalization.
After saying goodbye to the girl at the albergue, I followed the yellow arrows through Villa Mayorga. I worried about how hard the day would be and wondered whether I would see anything as sweet as the foal I had seen take its first steps the day before or walk through another wind tunnel screaming cold air at me like an automatic car wash blasting air at a rinsed-off car.
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What I did see this day were dill fields, almond and olive trees, a valley of cairns, and a cemetery with the following inscription above its entrance: "Yo que fui lo que tu eres; tu seras lo que yo soi" (What I was, you are; what you will be, I am). I saw vineyards, red and pink dirt, and a yard full of painted metal pilgrim-shaped cutouts.
I was beckoned to a porch by a vineyard owner saying, "Come and drink a 'veen' with me." I bought an ankle brace, some sunblock, and a blister pad, and ate cannelloni with a glass of Sangria for lunch in Los Arcos.
When it could not get any hotter and I could not climb another craggy hill, I sat under some scratchy bushes on straw-strewn baked ground and cried and cried and cried. I stopped when I heard three men (hereafter dubbed the Silly Old Dutchmen) come around the bend in my direction. After they passed my spot (while I was in the bushes doing what peregrinos do in the bushes), I followed them into Sansol where we are stayed at the same poorly maintained (by someone surely named Brunhilde) albergue.
I was beckoned to a porch by a vineyard owner saying, "Come and drink a 'veen' with me." I bought an ankle brace, some sunblock, and a blister pad, and ate cannelloni with a glass of Sangria for lunch in Los Arcos.
When it could not get any hotter and I could not climb another craggy hill, I sat under some scratchy bushes on straw-strewn baked ground and cried and cried and cried. I stopped when I heard three men (hereafter dubbed the Silly Old Dutchmen) come around the bend in my direction. After they passed my spot (while I was in the bushes doing what peregrinos do in the bushes), I followed them into Sansol where we are stayed at the same poorly maintained (by someone surely named Brunhilde) albergue.
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