8:16am.

We left a little late, taking a coffee in the village instead of walking an hour first. We were also further delayed by watching the running of the bulls in Pamplona, again. I had no idea that they run those beasties every day for a week! It was just as terrifying watching it a second time. And just as annoying for Cecelia who had to listen to me shriek all over again.

We hit the road at what we thought would be a leisurely pace. We only had 20K to walk after all, with reservations (at a hotel!) at the end of it. I was certainly punchy. Couldn't stop singing "I believe in miracles....where ya from? You sexy thing, sexy thing- yow!" Oh it was in my head for days afterwards. In Marilyn's too I'd say. I think the excitement of the day must've overcome us because we were flying. We left the cafe at 8:16am and arrived in Santiago at 12:45. 13 miles in 4 hours including some mandatory stops to get our credencial stamped. . On this section, the last 100K, of the Camino a pilgrim is required to get two stamps a day in order to prove that he or she has walked the Camino.And almost every cafe or little store on this section of the Camino has a stamp. Since these 65 miles are the minimum one needs to walk to obtain a compostela, this is where most of the cheating goes on! So even if we didn't want to stop, we had to stop. And to be honest , we didn't stop very long, just long enough for the five of us to stamp our credencial and maybe have a quick pee.

The walk was fairly flat and mostly through forests of eucalyptus and pine. The eucalyptus trees were brought into Spain from Australia after Capt Cook's expedition of 1770. They're farmed for pulpwood , ie paper production. Environmentalists have some issues with them as they're somewhat invasive and non-beneficial to indigenous animals, but they are lovely to walk through. The trees soar above your head, like towering, leafy, clipper ship masts. Breezes circulate their aroma through the forest. On a sensory level they really suck you right into nature, making you feel like such a part of it as it wraps itself right around, and up and over you. At the same time, you are keenly aware that you are such a small and insignificant part of this big ol' world as you walk and walk , dwarfed by these giants. Yet another revelation on this Camino. You're only as big as your last step. And that step was just a mimic of another's, and another's, and another's going back centuries.

We know we are near to Santiago when we reach the airport. You don't know its an airport really, as you climb uphill towards it and there are no rental car drop-off lots, or arrival or departure signs to be found. Its only when the plane roars up and over your head on takeoff do you realize that "Hey! I think this is the end of the runway!" And soon you actually do walk around the end of the runway. The Camino must've passed right through the runway years ago. Well, I mean to say that the runway must've been paved right over the original path. One literally walks straight towards it (though there are so many trees and no other 'development' around you don't realize what it is) then you are forced to take a sharp right, another sharp left where one passes by all the lights and the reflective equipment, and then another sharp left up the opposite side of the runway. Its not the busiest airport in Spain either, so one could possibly walk all the way around it and not even see a plane. We are walking by it in the late morning, so we got the airshow. Brief though it may have been.

Soon we are nearing Monte de Gozo. The Mount of Joy. This is the famous hillside outside of Santiago. Traditionally it was the spot where pilgrims could first make out the spires of the cathedral, hence the joy. Nowadays, one sees nothing but modern development. Part of that development is Monte de Gozo itself. First there is a small chapel where, when we arrived, a group of Spaniards were deep into the rosary. Many groups stop or start here to say the rosary before they head into Santiago. In fairness, this chapel would hardly be called modern or developed, though you did have to pass all kinds of stores and cafe's on your approach to it. If you turn to your left, however, and look up the hill you will see the truly modern: the massive, modern sculpture erected in honor of the visit of John Paul II to Santiago in 1989. It is a giant stainless steel sculpture sitting up on the hillside that over looks the city. I don't think they built this hillock up, but I'm certain they cleared all the trees from around it for a

'mejor vista' . It is an interesting sculpture, but it shrieks of modernity, and really stood outfrom all the other monuments on this ancient path. I didn't like it much. We did take a photo there -the mums and the daughters. So regardless of my opinion on the sculpture, it will still be a nice memory.

Another nice memory is the walk from there. I was desperate for a pee at this point. I assumed we'd find a toilet, because here, on Monte de Gozo, is located the final albergue on the camino before you enter the city itself. Hundreds of pilgrims stay here every night. I think they have 500 beds in a compound just below the sculpture. But, where is the compound?!! We start down the road, we see no sign of an albergue and we think, "crap! We're walking away from it." Mary is also desperate for a pee. We look up the road; no pilgrims are coming. We dart into the bushes. they're big bushes and thorny too. We now have little, bloody souvenirs of our last day streaking down our arms. We push through and suddenly find ourselves in nature's equivalent of a port-a-potty. Dollops of toilet paper everywhere we look. We are not as clever or ingenious or daring as we think we are. Hundreds have ducked into this clearing before us. We then realize, that not all of them came to pee. Yeccchhh. We are sickened. But we are about to wet our pants, so we don't leave. We finish what we came here for, laughing at our desperation, tolerance, and our control over our own gag reflexes. Mary claims its another highlight of my Camp Gordita. I will bring my clients in there for one last, desperate attempt at shedding some weight. They'll pee, maybe poop, and probably throw up all in one spot. Voila! Weight loss.

We stumble out of the overgrowth killing ourselves with laughter. Once again, we have stretched the limits of maturity. Proving again that you're only young once, but you can be immature forever. A few steps down the road we see Marilyn, Mia and Cecelia turn left off the road. When we arrive a few moments later to that spot we look and see the entire pilgrim complex laid out in front of us. Cafes, laundromats, sleeping quarters and -toilets. Figures.

As soon as we leave this complex (after the other three have a civilized pit-stop) we descend into the city of Santiago. The city is not as I would've pictured it. Its not over-developed, but it is not a place that has missed the modern age. There is a roundabout and a highway cross-over as soon as we descend from the hills. We cross over a large bridge. There is the sign: "Santiago" . We have officially arrived. But we don't see anything medieval or even ancient. We are still really in the outskirts. Its another 15 minutes before we hit the old town. The streets suddenly narrow and splay off of each other. It occurs to me that we are in a car-free zone. Old men gather at corners for discussions. Groups of school children huddle in small piazzas. We are getting closer. Cecelia and Mia have left us. They are somewhere up ahead. Oblivious to any kind of ceremony that we adults might have in mind to mark the end of this journey. We look for yellow arrows, but they too have suddenly disappeared in the old town. Too ugly? Too reminiscent of the graffiti that adorns most of Spain? We look for the scallop shells. There they are: brass shells embedded into the pavement. We follow them. Suddenly up on our left is the baroque monster that is the cathedral. We are at its northeast corner. It is so ornate, and dark and ominous. And it is what we have been walking towards for so long now. Goose bumps are pushing up. I can feel a lump in my throat and tears gathering in the lower lids of my eyes. Is this really the end? We walk by the Semanario Major across from the Praza da Immaculada. We hear the unmistakable wail of bagpipes. We are reminded once again that we are in Galicia, home to Spain's Celts. There is a piper in the tunnel that leads to the Praza Obradoiro and the main entrance to the cathedral. We pass him, and come out through the tunnel into the light and the massive, open plaza that is the end of the road for a pilgrim. Now I'm really having trouble seeing; the tears are flowing. Why? Who knows. Clearly release. Besides blisters, I would say that the most common pilgrim experience is tears. Cecelia and Mia are sitting on the ground, smack in the middle of the plaza, waiting for us. Cecelia knows that I'm crying even from 100 yards away. (Maybe that's why she bolted off ahead of us; like she needs to deal with Mum's waterworks again.) But, she gets up to greet us nonetheless. She is not having the same reaction as I am. I think she is just relieved to be done walking. That is her joy, for now. I'm sure she is not the first pilgrim to feel this way. But nonetheless, I'm still glad she decided to walk the Camino. I felt that it would be an incredible experience for her, even if it takes her years to acknowledge it. I'm feeling a little isolated however. Cecelia is glad to be finished, as is Mia. I can't gauge Mary's response to the end of two weeks of trudging. Marilyn has only walked a week. I didn't expect her to be overly emotional. I'm the only one crying. I feel like something or someone is missing. I think of Stefania and Kerstin and Claudio somewhere behind us. That is what's missing. I wish they were here with us.

Suddenly we are wrapped up in documenting the moment. We are taking the obligatory photos with the cathedral as our backdrop. Tourists are staring at us; we have all the markings of pilgrims. We are definitely grungy. Our clothes are stained, our skin is bronzed, our hair is wind blown and yet still matted from sweat and dirt. Oh, and we have rucksacks. Big ones. With big scallop shells hanging off of them. I funny, strange feeling sweeps over me; I feel proud. And I think rightly so.

End of the line...

Our final day on the actual Camino. Sigh....We slept a little late this morning (til 6:45) as we got in late last night. Late for pilgrims that is- 11:00pm!!. Our final night on the road was spent in a town called Arco do Pino. Its a strip of a town just 13 miles or so outside of Santiago. We made decent time yesterday, and all of us made it into the private albergue before it filled up. We tried to save beds for our Spanish family by paying for them ahead of time, but the hospitalero refused. Luckily, Manu, Andrea and Guillermo were the last three pilgrims admitted. We were so pleased by this. We shared our last meal with our band of brothers. Well sort of. There are so many of us now that no restaurant could possibly fit us all at one table. But since there was only one restaurant up at this end of town, we were all dining virtually ensemble anyway. I guess not many of us wanted the evening to end because there we all were, at the bar after dinner, having another....Who you may ask?

The German hand-holders that I met at the peace prayer in La Faba. This adorable couple was always together. They seemed to be in their early 50's. She a blonde and a tad on the pudgy side. He was short, stocky, balding and hearing impaired (hearing aids in both ears) Both of them with a ready smile. And both of them always arm-in-arm or holding hands. We had a bet that they were newlyweds. Hah! It turns out that they had been together for 14 years. But here's the kicker: they weren't married!!!

Next, "the English". They weren't really English; they were Bavarians. But Alwin had such a kicker of a sense of humor. When they made a major navigational faux-pas in a village a few days back, he explained that it was because "we are English", all in heavily accented German. One of those "had-to-be-there" things, but also a saying that he would repeat until our goodbyes. There are three of them: Alwin and his girlfriend Stefanie, and their friend Jurgen. Jurgen is an amazing carpenter. He fashions houses out of whole timber logs. He showed us some photos of his work. Beautiful. I'll never forget the first time I saw him. He looked so Bavarian. He was wearing big-ass hiking boots, the type that rise way above the ankles. They were made of thick leather and had stiff vibram soles. He also wore a pair of hiking shorts that resembled lederhosen in all but the fabric. They were not made out of leather. On his head, he wore a hat with a feather stuck in it. They only thing not stereotypically Bavarian about him was his build: he was as lean as a thoroughbred- not an ounce of fat on him. He had almost no English, and was shy to boot, so our communication was limited. But you could tell from his smile and his eyes that he was a lovely person and a good friend of Alwin and Stephanie. Who else would be a third wheel for 500 miles?! Stephanie, we figured out after several days, was Alwin's girlfriend. Now maybe the two of them figured that out around the same time as we did, I don't know, but suddenly we noticed a little hand-holding, and close whispering now and again. She was a software engineer, with short-cut hair and big, 80's-style eyeglassses. She loved to laugh and to connect with people. Her English wasn't bad, but I think she deferred to Alwin as he was much more confident in speaking than she was. If you talked to her on her own, she fared just fine.

Kelly. Kelly is a teacher at a private high school in Ohio. SHe's 30ish. She has popped in and out of our lives since Astorga. I think she started there. She is fun, fit, and has an appropriately dry sense of humor for our little crowd. She is a delight to bump into when we do. Always ready to share a glass (or bottle of wine) and chat. She is also impressive in her independence; she finds her way and her walking partners each day it seems.

time they're a group of Spanish guys from Burgos. Mary and I are wondering which one she has "a thing" for! No matter, they all seem very nice. One of them was nicknamed Sid Vicious by Cecelia and Mia. He earned this not because of his temperament; he walks with, and dotes on, a lovely mutt. Nope, despite his piercings and punk appearance, he acquired his moniker solely

from a Sid Vicious t-shirt he apparently wore. I never saw it.

Also burning the "midnight oil" (at 10:30pm!) was Manu. He was buying everyone their last drink. To be honest, I don't remember if I had one. Knowing me I did, but...! Marilyn was there of course, as was Kelly. We were so enjoying ourselves when we suddenly realized, in Cinderella-esque fashion, that it was five minutes to eleven. The albergue locks its door at 23:00! Suddenly all of us are chugging our beers, and not all of it making it into our stomachs, with the dribbling, backwash and snorting. We dash across and up the street just as the hospitalero is closing the door. One by one we squeeze into the foyer. We huddle together, checking to be sure we are all inside. After several hours of beverages and belly laughs we are suddenly forced to whisper; there are pilgrims asleep just a few feet around the corner. This is not an easy task I'll tell you, not with a belly full of beer and the giddiness of your final night upon you! And giddy we were. It was if we were transported back to our college days, sneaking into the dorm or the summer cottage, all liquored up. Kelly has it easy; she got a bed on the first floor. She bids us all goodnight and tiptoes around the corner. The rest of us have to navigate the 20 steps up to the second floor. The place is very airy, with high ceilings and tile floors- all the better to amplify the snickers and chortles. There is very little light, and like all albergues at this hour, there is now an obstacle course of shoes and backpacks and bunkbeds to navigate around in order to reach one's own bed. But then we have to back track this same course because we have to pee and brush our teeth before we retire. This was not seamless or silent, need I add. Again, very sophomoric, but we were enjoying it all!

The three of us, Marilyn, Andrea and I, are finally back from the toilets, getting into our sleeping sheets when suddenly, from out of no where, I have a funk attack. The song "I Believe in Miracles" has jumped into my brain. From where or why, I still have no idea. I lean over towards Marilyn, whom I can barely see through the "curtain" of her drying underwear and socks, and sing " I believe in miracles...where ya from? You sexy thing, sexy thing yow!" We lose it. A chorus of "shhhhhhhs" erupt. We lose it some more. I sing it again. Though this time softer. More snickers. More "shhhhhhs" . More memories. We fall asleep, smiling.

One more time....

We were up and out not-too-early this morning. Not because of World Cup celebrating, but because we had two suffering peregrinas: Mary, still weak from nausea and etc....; Cecelia still nauseous and weak from not eating, and meinself, hobbling on a bad ankle. We slumped along 3K to the town of Arzua. An armpit of a town if ever there was one. Our Spanish friend Manu has done the Camino three times, he has been advising us as to where we should stay. He has been ¨spot on¨ with every recommendation and opinion. Ribadiso was bonita and Arzua was ugly! We did stop for our cafe con leche and croissants. We also caught a TV update on the frenzy that has taken over Spain since their World Cup win last night. We were in a tiny village, but in the big cities in Spain, they put up huge jumbotrons in the major plazas for everyone to watch the matches together. We hadn´t much of a sense of the celebration until we walked into Arzua (pop 8000) and saw all the confetti (and other not-so-tasteful remnants) strewn about the streets. The camino was quiet as well. Lots of partiers, lots of partying for pilgrims too. Our little bar was wild with excitement even though there really weren´t many Spaniards there. We were mostly excited for our Spanish family. This was such a special moment for them, like being in Red Sox nation when they finally won the World Series. There were tears. (And of course, I was crying because they were crying.) Manu grabbed 14 year old Guillermo, his only son, and hugged him like there would be no tomorrow. It was a lovely moment for father and son.

Our walk was lovely again, for the most part. Mostly through eucaplyptus groves and small villages. So small, that I hadn´t a clue where we were most of the day. We had to stop a number of times as we were a weakened lot. With one stop we were graced with a most delightful mullet. They really are everywhere, aren´t they?! Though mostly in small towns. I like to think of them as ¨Coiffures Sans Frontieres¨. A worldwide phenomenom. Too bad they weren´t patented. Someone would be very rich.

We passed a small village that was just inundated with huge hydrangea bushes. I´ve never seen anything like it- even in Nantucket. Giant white and blue balls. (hmmmm...there´s a joke there I'm sure)We walked past over a hundred yards of hydrangeas only to arrive at a crossroad with a hundred more yards in each direction. Amazing.

Well, tonight is our last night in an albergue. Tomorrow we will be in Santiago. In a hotel, with our own bathroom. Whoa. The walk into the city will be very strange indeed, I imagine. Cecelia and I have been walking for 4 weeks. She has had it with walking. Me? Not so much. I told them I might walk to the airport on Thursday. They laughed, but didn´t disbelieve me. Mary says I just want more publicity for my Gordita Camp. But it really is strange to think that it will be all over tomorrow.
We won´t get up early, and we won´t walk in with the moving mass of pilgrims that heads down from Monte del Goza to make the noon pilgrims´mass. We will have our own pace and really take our time; we have a reservation afterall!
And now...Cerveza time! Adios amigos!

Viva Espana!

I´m sitting in a Meson Rural, 40K from Santiago. We walked 27K over hill and dale to get here. It is beautiful. The albergue sits on a river. It is part of an old stone farm complex. There´s this restaurant next door to it and little else besides incredible views and cows looing. The sad part is that both Mary and Cecelia are lying in their bunks. Sick. Mary is nauseous and Cecelia has a mild fever and is also queazy. We don´t know what it is. It could be a bug, it could be some water they drank, or it could be dehydration. They are not drinking enough, thats for sure. It could also be the bocadillo sandwich that Mary ate after hiking 6 hours with it stuffed and stewing in her backpack! Oh well, if anyone else comes down with it, we'll know for sure.

The preview to the World Cup match is on the tv over my head. There are 8 minutes to the kickoff and the small group here, mostly pilgrims and mostly Spanish, are revved up.

We had a lovely walk today, though it took us 2 hours to get our first coffee. Not a good thing. It is Sunday afterall and everything is closed until, I dunno, 11am? They open for a couple of hours and then all is closed again. I don´t mind, but the cafe con leche is quite tasty here.

We can´t beleive that we are just two days from Santiago. We will have two fairly easy days of 22K or so. Easy if everyone is feeling ok. I limped into this village myself. I tightened my boots yesterday, a tad too much. My ankle is sore. Very sore. Hopefully tomorrow it´ll be a memory.

Oooh! The bar went quiet- Holland´s national anthem. I wonder if they´ll explode when Spain´s starts!
This post will be short- its too distracting to write with the World Cup final starting over one´s head! They just turned up the volume for ¨Viva Espana¨! I´ll upload some photos and be done. Wish us all well for the next 48 hours- we will need prayers for the final push I´m sure!

Sarria to Portomarin

Sarria is a frumpy little town. There's not much to distinguish it besides the fact that it is 100Km from Santiago, the minimum distance required to walk if one wants their Compostella from the church. So it is in Sarria that thousands of Spaniards deposit themselves in order to start their Camino. Suddenly the 4 Contemplatives are swimming through teenage church groups. Dozens of sluggish Spanish girls with sour pusses on their faces and Hello Kitty sneakers on their feet shuffling begrudgingly towards Santiago. An equal number of teenage boys traveling as an attached mass, like a singular organism, take up most of the path. We approach each one until there is some kind of wiggle room and then, "Perdon!" we rush to squeeze by them in a single pass. We have breathing room again. Fortunately this mass also sleeps en masse. They stay in gymnasiums and giant albergues and camping sites. We have though, as a precaution these last few nights, resorted to making reservations at private albergues ahead of time. These algergues are generally nicer, but they're also more expensive: 10€ instead of 5€! ($12 vs $7 a night) So the youngsters tend to avoid them.

So we spent last night in Portomarin, in a private albergue, overooking the river. Mary decided to plonk herself on the deck for the afternoon and drink some beers. Who could blame her? When we finally came down the mountain to the town, once again we were greeted with a climb hundreds of feet up from the river into the town. (please see blog title)

When we arrived, the locals were indulging in octopus. There were two plazas set up with picnic tables, and giant vats of boiling water bubbling over with tentacles and suckers.

Delightful. They grab these things with tongs, slap them on wooden cutting boards, and with big old steel scissors they start a-dicing. The chunks are then slathered in olive oil and garlic. Its kinda like calamari. But it is the only thing on the menu. So however delightful and culturally enriching the scene looks, unless you want to eat these babies, you ain´t sittin´ down. Don't misunderstand me; I did try the "pulpo" the night before in Sarria. It was very tasty (c'mon its drenched in olive oil and garlic!) but the texture of the suckers themselves was, shall we say, "difficult"? Reminiscent of runny eggs (which I've had a distinct aversion to since the age of 3) But unlike runny eggs, the gelatinous bits don't disappear as quickly during masceration. Nope, they tend to bounce around a bit in one's mouth as one chews the firmer flesh of the tentacle. Its all sounding terribly appealing isn't it?! Suffice to say, I wasn't doublin' down on the pulpo today.

Instead we walked up into the rest of the market, bought some incredible fresh fruit (for the morning) and explored the rest of the town. It took 15 minutes. The most interesting part of this town is the church.It was Romanesque, but because it was founded by the Knights of Santiago, it had a fortress look, almost like a Norman keep but with a rose window in the middle. It had actually been disassembled in 1962, block by block, and reasembled higher up on the hill when the government decided to create a reservoir down by the river. They then sunk the rest of the town.

Having seen the church, we headed back down to find Mary in vacation mode. We joined her for an early dinner and a little silliness. It seems that Marilyn, in an attempt

to kill some time in the Madrid airport, had purchased some eyeliner. Makeup?! I hadn't seen any of that since the first week of June! From the pictures above you can see that we were having difficulties applying it properly. ;) It was a wonderfully giddy evening.

chatted and laughed and watched the sun disappear behind the buildings, when we finally cooled off. The weather has been decidedly un-Galician. It has been overcast and misty in the morning, yes, but it has burned off in the afternoon to glorious azure skies framing green, rolling fields. We have had one rainstorm since mid-June. We really are lucky. Or maybe just blessed?!

Up and out early today, in the mist with the hoards of sleep-deprived teens. We took a shortcut and walked the road in order to avoid them for a bit. We lost them on the hills. We had another incredible day: dry air and sunny after noon. What did we do right?!

Can´t believe we only have two more nights and three more days of walking! Tomorrow is the World Cup final and we´re hoping to watch it with our Spanish family

Cecelia has been gearing up for it. Guillermo (14 yrs) Andrea, his cousin (24 yrs) and Guillermo´s dad Manu. They have been a welcome addition to our trails, especially since Manu has done the Camino 2 times before. He has been spot on for all his opinions and recommendations for the Way. We are all rooting for Spain and would love to watch them win with these three.

Off to dinner. Maybe some Galician soup this time or some green peppers. Who knows? There will be wine though! Its good for sleeping, so I´ve been told!

Where oh where did we wander today?

That's what it's like. You sit at the end of the day and you try to remember where the heck you started it. Oh!! Triacastela!! Three Castles in Spanish, none of which exist today. Hey, it mattered not to the townsfolk who packed the local bar for the world cup semi-final, Spain v. Germany. What a match!! Germany totally dominated the first half. Faces were grim. The second half was an entirely different story; Germany never showed up. Spain was brilliant. Puyol's header into the back of the net set off pandemonium. Spain is nothing if not wild about their football. The two German pilgrims sat quietly, turning their beer mugs. This was painful for them. Oh well, we're not in Germany are we?! And what's good for the Spanish is certainly good for me!!

We were up late (for a pilgrim) making our way to bed by 10:45p. The alarm went off at 5:30am. We didn't even hear our French friends Sylvan and Sabine get up and go at 5:00. They were going to walk 32K in order to stay in a small, quaint, cozy albergue. They needed to beat the heat. We did too but we were only walking 23K.

We walked out into the night (it's still dark here til 6:45 am) and into a thunderstorm. Haven't seen rain since June 18th. Where was that dang poncho?!!! The storm was short-lived and we walked under the clouds that we viewed from the top of O'Cebreiro the morning before.

We stopped for a quiet cafe con leche in Samos, the site of one of the oldest monasteries in the western world. It was eerily quiet. We were to learn later that the thunderstorm that we walked out into that morning was the tail end of a parade of heavy downpours. The monastery, and the pilgrims' quarters were flooded that night. Apparently there was a great commotion and rush for backpacks and shoes to save them from the rushing waters. No casualties, TG. :) Still, I can't even imagine having the entire contents of my pack soaking wet.

It was not such a bad walk at all. Lovely in fact. The sun finally broke through the clouds around 12:30p. A blessing for peregrinos. We were to meet Marilyn Mase (Mia's mum) in Sarria around 1:00pm. She had spent the night in Santiago with Margie, who was making her way home to Boston. We walked through farmlands and forests; old milltowns and barnyards. We saw few people besides other pilgrims once in awhile, and heard mainly mooing, crowing and babbling (cows, rooster and streams.)

Soon, we were in the homestretch. An almost gentle downhill into Sarria. "Almost" because, like seemingly most larger towns in Spain, Sarria is situated on a hill. picture this: you've walked between 15 and 30 miles. It's been very hot. You're quite dirty, so dirty, in fact that you don't know if that's a darker tan line or just lots more dirt around your ankles. You're dripping with sweat as you take your last steps towards what you're praying is a decent shower, and you look..... UP! You've got to climb dozens, maybe hundreds, of steps to get to your albergue in the old quarter of town. Every step is christened with Americanisms. Again the blog is appropriately named.

La Faba to O'Cebreiro

O'Cebreiro

What a day. Seemed like 3 packed into one. We awoke at 5:30 in an
attempt to get out by 6:15am. Hah, as usual. After a bit of breakie
(baby yogurt) we set out at 6:31am. It was dark, but we didn't need
our headlamps. We started climbing. We had 5K to get to the top and it was steep. Wicked steep. Breathing heavy and sweating steep, as we slowly inched our way up over centuries old stones and seconds old manure. It was more of a cart path than a road. The fields on either side were so steep that all I could think of was the poor creature that had to clear it with a scythe 40 years ago. There were very few yellow arrows to be found, even if you could see them. The

road was so worn and there were so many boot prints from the day before, that there was little doubt that we were on the right path. As the skies slowly brightened we could make out a few figures ahead of us up on the hillside. We were going there?!!!

Dawn broke like a Spielberg movie. Grandiose and awe-inspiring. With
each pause and turn came a pant and sigh. It was almost too beautiful to believe. This misty, rainy province of Spain woke to crystal clear
skies, a moon and magnificent valleys as far as one could see. The
view was only disturbed by the occasional cowbells. If that can be
called disturbing.We made it to the top, 1350 meters, to be greeted by an expanse of cloud
filled fjords of the valleys to the north. After suitable gasps, we
headed for the bar for our cafe con leche and were then treated to a live broadcast from Pamplona of the running of the bulls! As
Americans we may see a wire photo in the newspaper or a quick clip on
the evening news, but to see the full 4 minutes live from multiple
cameras was something else. To run it (Scott Paton) simply insane!!
I'm now completely convinced that it is Spain's version of stock car
racing; everyone's just waiting for the disaster. Except with the
bulls- it comes a lot faster!

Our descent was supposed to start immediately but Nancy read the map
wrong. We had a small down and two more "ups" to go. By 11:30am we are climbing along an unshaded, narrow and rocky path. The last "up". I am a little ahead of Mary, but several hundred meters high above her as the path is now resembling something of a ladder! I look down at her and see, coming up behind her, a posse of riders on horseback. Oh great. The last thing I want is to be on this tightrope of trail with 8 horses trying to squeeze by me. I look up. Through the drops of sweat now cascading down from my brow and into my eyes, I see at the top the blurry, but unmistakable red canvas of a cafe umbrella. The Umbrella of Hope, as it came to be known afterwards. I now scramble up to it, trying to keep ahead of the horses.

I make it. Huffing, puffing, and dripping, I climb up onto level land, just before the first horse reaches me. The guide is riding this horse, but behind him are seven more riders, all apparently family members judging by the looks of them. Their faces are all familial, but their bodies are too: they are all obese. Moobs and bellies and double chins. I am feeling overwhelming pity for the horses now. That climb was hard enough for me, but I wasn't carrying Two Ton Tomas on my back.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a "Hello Nancy!" Behind me, finishing up a bite to eat and readying themselves to get back on the trail are Steve, Lynn and Kath. Lynn grew up with Kath in Australia, but now lives in New Zealand with her husband, Steve. They're in their 60's I guess. They are wonderfully friendly, have a great sense of humour and always a sunny disposition -despite the heat and the terrain. Its always cheering to see their smiles on the Camino. We barely have time to chat when Mary creeps up and over the lip of the trail. She is weak and says so. The Australians suggested she needed salt. I reached into my pack and gave her some peanuts. But it doesn't occur to me to stop for lunch. We continue on with the Aussie/Kiwis. 100 yards later, she says she needs to stop a bit; I gave her a pediatric electrolyte strip. 100 more yards she stops in the "shade" of a hedgerow and says she feels dizzy. Suddenly it occurs to Nazi Nancy that maybe she needs.... food?!!! She's climbed 8 miles on a baby yogurt and half a croissant! I start to lose it laughing. Mary has already stated that she's convinced I'm using her as a market research study for a future fat farm that I secretly want to start: Camp Gordita. A simple concept really, I'll be dragging clients over the Camino, denying them food and promising kilos of weight loss. She asks why I didn't sign up all those horseback riders as clients. Mary is so weak that she, laughing, starts to lose control of her bladder! We are doubled over on the side of the path drooling, sweating and praying that we won't be washing two sets of pants tonight. Or two sets of panties. We stop at the next village. We get her some food. She is happy, very happy. And funny enough, no longer dizzy.

Up, up and away...

From the heat. Or so we thought. It was so hot yesterday afternoon (100F degrees) that we decided we just couldnt take it any more and we resorted to extreme measures: The alarm was set for 5:07AM. those of you who know the reigning Queen of Blanket Street (moi) may not know her successor, Cecelia. And as Belinda the Good Witch would say "she's worse than the first one," Cecelia is only up that early when she decides to watch her 6 part Audrey Hepburn collection and never gets into bed to begin with.

We were in a lovely town at the foot of the mountains, Villafranca del Bierza. Yes, as in the wines. There are so many wine regions in such a small country, it is astonishing. As are the wines. Today's option was to walk 30K (18.64 miles) with the last 6.5 miles all up hill (2300 ft ascent) or walk 25K saving the hardest for tomorrow morning: 5K up and over the top and an "easy" finish. So here we lie listening to cowbells and roosters in a most quaint little village called La Faba. Mary and I arrived around 12:45pm, to be greeted by Sabine and Sylvan, two French peregrinos who started walking 64 days ago from Le Puy. Only the French could even conceive of taking off so much time from work. Oh wait, thats right, the ´French don´t really work do they?!
At 6pm the German hospitalero announces that they are going to have "a celebration" in the church- a prayer for peace. It was lovely. She passed around a candle for each peregrino to hold and pray and pass to the next one. Then we gathered around the altar to say the Pilgrims Prayer in each of our languages. Finally we joined hands and said the "Lords Prayer" in unison, yet each of us speaking in our own language- French, German, Swedish, Spanish, Italian and one American. Very Kumbayah, m´Lord, if I do say so myself. (All it was missing was some jeans and a pookah necklace.) But it was lovely. A bit of spirituality in the middle of a religious pilgimage- imagine that!

On that note, I have to add that I´ve been somewhat disappointed in the spiritual aspect of the Camino. Or the lack thereof. Others will rightly say that it comes from within, but it is a bit sad that 90% of the churches on the Camino have been closed. In the middle of a walk, its lovely to sit in a church to reflect and to refresh oneself. I walked with Buddhists who had the same lament. They were all closed. I spoke to some Spaniards who explained that if they kept the churches open, they would be vandalized and graffiti-adorned beyond recogition. Sad.

At any rate, It was a lovely night, and the right thing to do. We awoke at 5:40am and were out the door for the final 5K up to the top. Beautiful, despite the flies and the sweat! No sounds except those flies and sweat drops dropping! An occasionally bird would chirpk, and one could hear the echos of dogs yelping somewhere in the valley below. The sun took awhile to find us. We were up around 5000 feet afterall. But when it did - WOW! A gift.

At the top we got another gift! More incredible views and the chance to watch the running of the bulls live on the television at the top.

Oh me, oh my....

A great Spain win the other night. Too bad we couldn´t celebrate. The Albergue stayed open late to accomodate the sports fans but it still meant we had to be back inside by 10:45p. It's really fine as our goal was to be out by 6.45am. Hah. It was more like 7:30, thanks to the youngins, and boy did we pay for it. The morning was beautiful and clear as we started up into the mountains. We passed one semi-abandoned village. It was only occupied by pilgrim accomodations. We then passed the village of Manjarin. With a population of 1. Occupied by Tomás the Templar. A hippy hermit type who has taken over an abandoned shack (of stones) and converted it into an oasis in a desolate mountain landscape. He´s not as spiritual as he is capitalistic. He sells everything imaginable. Except indulgences- thats what the Camino is for afterall.

When we finally stop, at a village with water and food, we stay too long. It is 1:15pm before we head down into Molinaseca. (Thats spanish for Dry Ovaries, cause that´s what you have when you finally reach the bottom.) From the mountain we descend into an arid, Arizona-esque landscape. No water, no fuentes, just a few goats, scrub and mesquite, the smell of which wafts up occasionally and makes one think "if you want me rare, flip me now." We are really dragging. We text Cecelia and Mia to tell them to be sure to grab water before the finally descent or they might not make it. Seriously. I then add that they might think of a taxi or to hitch. Mary tells them not to get into a van with two or more men. She´s so very helpful that Mary.

The three of us stumble into Dry Ovaries. There´s a beautiful old Roman bridge forging the river. There are weekenders from Ponferrada swimming in the river (which is very shallow) There are bars and cafes at the edge of the river. We are revived. Until the albergue.

When we arrive at the albergue about ten minutes later, our spirits are high. Why there´s a bar right there at the check-in desk. (Quite a luxury for these pilgrim accomodations.) I dash to the counter and soon we are savoring a cerveza grande. All seems right. We leave Margie with the beers while Mary and I go uipstairs with our packs to grab a bed. We turn right into a lovely, clean and airy room of bunks. We both head to a bottom bunk, the one witht he electrical outlet next to it. Suddenly I catch a whiff of insecticide. Subtle yet unmistakeable. I lift the mattress. I see the black dots. The signs of bedbugs. Then with a fingernail I flick. Yup, a live one. Mary quickly steps on it. I wish we had saved it, because when the hospitalero comes up, he doesn´t believe that we have seen a "cincha" let alone killed one. He is a jerk. He starts to yell at us that there are cinchas all over the Camino and that we could have our money back and stay in a hotel if thats what we wanted. Yes, thats what we wanted. He is right; there are bedbugs all over Europe, esp on the Camino in France and Spain. But I don´t want to spend a night in a room, let alone a bed, in which I know there are bedbugs!

We leave. We walk down the street to our next option: the municipal albergue. I guess the requirement for the job of hospitalero in Molinaseca was a minimum of 3 teeth and abundant facial hair. That is what seemed to be this particular hospitalero´s career strengths, as it wasn´t personal cleanliness or housekeeping skills. The place was dirty, dirty, dirty. But there were no bedbugs. We said to ourselves that we´d just pretend that we were camping, but inside with bunkbeds. Though there was the option to sleep outside in bunkbeds. Rejected: different bugs to deal with outside. We sleep, unmolested, but determined to get up and out early again. Another hot day to deal with.

astorga 2

Today was an easy day of only 18K. Thank God because we were all virtual trainwrecks. We are in Astorga now, an ancient Roman mining town. It's lovely. We couldve walked a little further, but there are big World Cup games on tonight and we didnt want to risk a non-HD connection ;)

The morning arrived with blue skies once again. Mary, Margie and myself set the pace, with Mia and Cecelia lagging behind as usual. This was only the second day, but a pattern had emerged! We're not long outside of the town when Mary steps up the pace, significantly. Soon she is 100 yards ahead of Margie and me. Soon thereafter she is 400 yards ahead of us. We don't know what's gotten into her. Margie and I don't much care. We are stopping for cafe con leche at the first village and if she wants to beat us there, its fine with us. Soon Mary is out of sight. Is she trying to prove, after yesterday, that she is a capable pilgrim? Is she trying to create space for meditative walking? Is she sick of me or Margie? Turns out, she just has to use the bathroom. And the only bathroom (or any other sign of civilization) around is 5K ahead of us. We all meet up, even Mia and Cecelia, within 20 minutes of each other. Cafe and croissants are ordered, bathrooms are used and we are back on the road.

We are now walking through lovely farmlands with gently rolling hills. Soon we pass a very unusual pilgrim monument. Its a grey figure, dressed in a grey shirt, holding a pilgrim's staff. Cecelia and I leave a message for Stefania, who is about two days behind us now. Ours is one of a dozen messages written, scratched or left under a rock on or near the figure. So many people searching for old friends and new. Will she ever see it, I wonder.

We keep walking, as always. Suddenly, up over a small rise of a hill we see a lone building. It is an abandoned farm building of some sort, but it has been commandeered by "David from Barcelona". A Camino Angel if ever there was one. He has set up a whimsical green pushcart, trimmed with red hearts and loaded up with goodies, all for "donativo". Pay what you like, or not. He has strung up a hammock between two wretched trees and he is cutting into a big fresh watermelon and handing out pieces. The kicker is that he is also quite a treat himself. We immediately nicknamed him "Fabio", due to his luxurious locks. He loses his allure however when our eyes stumble over the giant cold sore crusting up his lower lip! We imagine all the sweet, young peregrinas he has wooed from this Love Shack. It was simply too good to be true. A candy man with treats for tummy and eyes?! It was not to be; I guess no picture is truly perfect!

Soon after leaving David, we arrive at the Cruceiro de Santo Toribio on the hillside looking down over the city of Astorga. Margie lags behind chatting with some Spaniards. Mary and I descend and then (as usual) ascend up into the town the find the albergue, San Javier, at the far end of it. We've arrived at the early hour of 12:30pm. We will have a short walk out of town from here. We get a text from Margie saying that she is down at the rotary (right before entering the town) waiting for Mia and Cecelia. We tell her where to go. The albergue is a very old but renovated building next to the Hotel Gaudi and right around the corner from the Episcopal Palace (museum) designed by Gaudi. The albergue has a funky feel to it. Walking through the front door we are hit with the cool air that the old building keeps to itself. To the right is a sunken common area. There is a woman getting a massage on a table in the middle of it. A sign on the wall says "Masajes 30 minutos- 10 euro" Hmmmm....this is my kind of place. We queue up to register. We're given a coupon "to dine" at the Hotel Gaudi- pilgrims meal for 11.50euros. I ask about a massage. Yes, Japanese massage for 10 euros. Whats a Japanese massage? I have no idea, but for 10 euros, I don't care. I book one for later that afternoon. We walk up the old steps to the second floor and down to the back of the building. There's a room with 8 bunks in it. Perfect. Soon Mia and Cecelia show up, but no Margie. How could that be? She was right behind us, and Cecelia and Mia were well behind her. We save her a bunk. I shower and wash my essentials. There's a lovely courtyard to accomodate that. I hang my things up in a sunny patch of light- it will shift soon, but no matter; without rain in sight, everything should be dry by the evening. I then go to have my Japanese massage. It turns out that a Japanese massage is a massage given by a Japanese woman. I think thats it. She had very little English, so I wasn't privy to more information. I lay down on the same table, in the middle of the common area, visible to all who enter the albergue. I am fully clothed, which is a bit of a disappointment, but maybe only for me! I'm sure the rest of the pilgrims were happily spared. Before I know it, I am in a dreamlike state. Even I cannot believe the level of relaxation I am reaching. I am right on the edge of consciousness. Wow. I never get this relaxed; I am usually in so much pain when I'm having a massage. And its not as if I'm not sore anyway; I've been walking 18+ miles a day for three weeks now. How this is happening I don't know, and again I don't care. The closest I've been to this state is when they woke me up from my drug-induced nirvana after my colonscopy. It was glorious. And drug free.

After hearing about my "trip" Mary decides to sign up for a massage as well.The only available one, however, is at 9:45p or so. No matter; we will be back from the match and dinner by then. We all head into the main square. We are joined by Tino and Lynn, a delightful couple from Florida. She's a professor at UCF and Tino works for the United Way, I think. They're hip, cool, intelligent conversationalists with good senses of humor. Y'know- like us. ;) They'd fit effortlessly into Jamaica Plain. Except for the fact that they're practicing Catholics! (There aren't many of us left in JP!) The square is absolutely lovely. Buttressed at one end of the Plaza Mayor is the town hall. High at the top center of the facade are two automated figures, Maragatos named Zancuda and Colasa, striking time. Astorga is the center of what remains of Spain's Maragato culture, a tribe of people descended most likely from the Visigoths, who were trapped up in this mountainous region by the Arab invasion from the south.. Also helping to frame the plaza are cafes and business under the surrounding porticos. This is where we watched the match. It was a perfect evening; cold beer, some nibbles, a great World Cup match and super company.

Mary leaves us a bit early to get back to her scheduled massage. Apparently it was as memorable as mine, though for distinctly different reasons! Firstly, the Japanese masseuse had left. In her stead was a Spanish masseur. As in male. He of course, not only tells Mary to disrobe, but helps her with some of her clothing. This, mind you, all in the middle of the common area and in full view of the lingering pilgrims, many of whom have just finished up a meal in the adjacent kitchen. According to Mary, they were treated to a delightful beaver shot as massaged and manipulated her legs. Our only regret is that we weren't there to witness any of it! Needless to say, she returned to the room rather flushed!

Tomorrow we start to climb. Soon we'll be in Galicia. Hope to post photos soon