Anna’s Camino: Day 19 – Burgos to Hontanas

In October and November of 2015, I walked the Camino Francés, one of the traditional pilgrimage routes to the Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela. It was a deeply emotional journey, with far-reaching implications for my life, and I’m slowly but surely capturing the memories and musings here on my blog. Read the entire series at Anna’s Camino.

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There’s some surprisingly awesome graffiti all along the Camino Francés, but this simple piece was one of my favorites.

For awhile after I left Burgos, I didn’t pass a single person, not even a local out for a morning jog. It was early, but not so early that I shouldn’t have seen at least another pilgrim or two on the way out of town, so I worried that perhaps I was headed the wrong way. But the road markers told me I was going in the right direction. My optimistic side told me that maybe there was a reason I was leaving the city alone. If this was the start of Part 2 of my Camino, then perhaps it needed to mirror the start of Part 1. I resolved to enjoy my status as a once-again solitary peregrina.

In stark contrast with earlier days, I had no set goal in mind. As I started out, I resolved to walk as far as I wanted to, and stop when I was ready. I briefly checked over the map to see what was out there, and how much distance there would be between towns, but otherwise I kept my thoughts as light as I wished my backpack could be, and got a move on. The day was crisp and cool, a proper fall day, with just a few pretty clouds in the sky. Taking those two days off had done me good, and my body felt revved up and ready to go. I practically bounced down the trail.

 

As I walked, I enjoyed the little signs and symbols left behind by those who had walked before. There was one amazing work of rock art that reminded me my birthday would soon be here, and I felt flush with pleasure as I realized that I was alive and in a really great place to be enjoying that fact. I also saw another solitary poppy – my second of the trip – a reminder that St. Francis was there with me. Later, I looked back that that photo of that late-season poppy and realized that it was also a sign of a very special day. I couldn’t have known that when the flower first appeared, of course.

The first obstacle of the day was hitting a construction area that had destroyed the path markings and greatly confused the area. It looked like a crew was in the process of building a new road and overpasses, but the site was abandoned. Conflicting signs pointed two different directions for the Camino, and I wandered around for a few minutes, getting my bearings and looking out for notes and signs left behind by other pilgrims to mark the way. Some helpful soul had made a Camino arrow out of larger rocks, something that I’d seen before down the trail. This was the first time that it was amazingly helpful, instead of just one more thing to walk by.

After successfully navigating the construction zone, I put my headphones in, and sang along to The Edgar Winters Band at top volume, since I was pretty sure there wasn’t another soul around for miles. Then I rounded a curve and saw a trio of Spanish teenagers out for a walk, giggling. I froze for a second, then laughed along with them. It was pretty silly, after all. They wished me a Buen Camino as we passed.

It wasn’t long after they disappeared from view that I heard the gunshots. I quickly took off my headphones and froze there, listening.

I’ve lived in New Orleans since I was 17, and though I’ve been lucky to never witness gun violence, it certainly does happen here. I am always cautious of who might have a gun, who looks angry or is raising their voice, who might have a reason to make a bad decision and hurt those around them. To make things a little murkier, I also grew up in rural North Carolina, where everyone has a gun or two (or ten) in the house. Even though I was taught how to safely handle firearms as a child, and then taught to shoot as a teenager, I have never liked guns. I don’t like the look or feel of them. I hate the sound of them. I don’t like seeing them in a hand or on a wall, whether modern or antique. I understand that they’re useful in some cases, but that doesn’t make me dislike them any less. Even so, a lifetime of hearing them go off has given me a certain pragmatism, I guess. My initial fear at the sound of a lone gunshot eased off as I heard a few more. I could tell that whoever was shooting, it was a rifle. It was a gorgeous fall morning, on the weekend, and I could see there were woods just up the hill. I quickly decided that someone must be hunting. There were a few more gunshots, nothing, then a few more as I got closer to the patch of woods. I wasn’t worried about gun violence by that point, but I was worried that someone might mistakenly shoot out of the woods and hit the lone hiker. I was happy to be wearing a bright pink jacket, so at least I’d be visible if I went down.

All at once, a big, shaggy labrador retriever bounded out of the woods, then another, both wet and muddy up to their underbellies. The dogs were soon followed by a group of rugged, handsome men with their rifles broken and dead ducks slung over shoulders and carried on strings. A few more dogs trotted along. One big, golden dog had a duck clamped firmly in his jaws, and practically danced along next to his owner, his eyes so full of joy that I couldn’t help but want to congratulate him for being a good dog. The whole thing looked like a scene out of an Eddie Bauer catalog. I was simultaneously saddened by the carnage and oddly attracted to the conquering heroes. There was a certain pastoral romance to the scene. The men walked down the trail ahead of me for awhile, until they reached their parking lot. I walked on, trying to wrap my head around it all. After all, duck is one of my favorite dishes.

Later in the day, I ran into Terry again (of course). We walked together for maybe an hour, talking about her time in Africa in the Peace Corps. It turned out we both really like Afrobeat music, so she told me about a couple of concerts that she’d been to in years past. Along the way, we picked up a third hiker, Annie (not her actual name) a young woman in her 20’s who had been struggling to keep up with two other pilgrims. The other couple kept up their speed and were out of sight before long. Annie walked on with Terry and me, and when Terry got to Hornillos, her intended destination, Annie and I kept walking together for a nice part of the afternoon. I wish I could remember her real name, because we had a great talk. I really liked her. She was in the process of moving to another country for a job, and was walking the Camino, then going home to pack up the rest of her stuff and make the final trip to her new life. I loved how practical and driven she was, and remember wishing that I had a little touch of that in my scattered life.

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Before long, we got to the little hamlet where Annie’s two friends had told her they’d bed down for the night, so I walked with her to the albergue where they were waiting. They invited me to stay with them, but it didn’t feel quite right. I had the energy to keep going, and I thought of how nice it would be to meet back up with Natalie, if I could only work a little harder at it. So I grabbed an Aquarius and sat with them for awhile, enjoying their albergue’s little garden seating area, and took a look at my maps. There was a town not too much farther down the road: Hontanas. Something about it sounded right to me as I rolled the name over my tongue – Hontanas, like Bananas, like Anna Banana, like me. It was just right. It’s weird thinking about it now, since I certainly didn’t understand it then, but I had a very strong gut feeling about Hontanas. I needed to be there. Mind made up, I traded out my sneakers for Tevas to revive my tired feet, strapped my pack back on, gave my trio of new friends hugs goodbye, and kept on keeping on.

By the time I reached Hontanas, I was absolutely battered. Every step was a monumental effort. Even with sunblock on, all of my exposed skin was a couple of shades darker. It was taking everything I had just to not drop my pack and sleep right where I was. It would be sunset in an hour or so, so I fervently hoped that this was where my gut had been insisting I go. Luckily, the sign that I was supposed to be here was loud and clear. Right there at the edge of town is a Tau, the pilgrim’s cross, the symbol of St. Francis. As soon as I saw it, I knew I’d find whatever it was that I was looking for just down the street.

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The hermitage of St. Bridget, Hontanas.

I don’t remember if I went looking for Albergue El Puntido, or if I found it by accident, but if it was the latter, it was the luckiest of accidents to have. The albergue has a restaurant and bar, ample outdoor seating, and even a little general store for basic needs. I went in and bought a bed from one of the hospitaleras who was manning the bar, and went about getting tidied up from the day. I showered, got my bed set up as quietly as possible, since there was already a guy sleeping on the bottom bunk, and pulled everything out of my bag that I wanted to have laundered. It was a little late in the day, but the hospitalera was still willing to wash things for me.

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Talk about a pilgrim tan!

All of the major things taken care of, it was now time for the best part of my afternoon – a beer. Taking a cue from English Mark, I asked for the largest mug they offered, then took my ice cold treat out to the front of the bar, where a gaggle of pilgrims was already congregating, drinking and talking. As soon as I came out of the front door, I realized that Nestor, whom I’d met in Pamplona, was sitting alone at a little table opposite the door, writing in his journal. We’d only barely met, but there was something so familiar about him that seeing his face made my heart leap. I softly called out hello, not wanting to disturb him too much, then headed over to the larger group of pilgrims. Out of the din of conversation, one thread rang above the rest – a woman, speaking English with a southern accent, her voice dancing with friendly, playful notes. Well, whatdaya know, an American! I took a plunge that is completely out of character with my personality, and just pulled up a chair at her table without asking if I could join. It was a “What the hell, let’s try it!” moment that paid off in a few ways.

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Didn’t take a single photo of El Puntido or my new friends, but I did take this snapshot of the recycling pile out behind the albergue. With the way our night went, I’d say this was about a week’s worth of bottles, lol.

Dena was a charming, vivacious Tennessee native, currently in the process of leading the table of pilgrims in a game of 20 questions. I joined in, and began to make guesses towards the common goal – what did Dena do for a living? Another woman from Nashville, Cherrie, sat to my left. She stayed out of the game, since she and Dena were friends. Between my failed attempts to figure out Dena’s profession, Cherrie and I shared stories about our pets and all of the animals we had met so far on the Camino. The other two people at the table were both guys – Josh (not his real name) an American from California who’d hurt his leg, taxied ahead for a rest day, and was waiting for his parents and uncle to join up the next morning, and Jakob, a German law student. Eventually, we were joined by Alison, a serious, athletic young woman from Colorado, and Nestor, who had packed up his writing and come over to join the fun. We drank beers and talked and laughed until the sun went down. I finally had the courage to ask Nestor why he’d had a black eye when I met him, and it turned out that he’d been mugged for his watch in Barcelona before even starting his pilgrimage. When the group expressed dismay, he lightened up the mood by sharing another disastrous vacation story, about how he’d gone out hiking on a mountain without the proper clothing, and had almost frozen to death after misjudging the terrain. It was evident that Nestor’s special talent was finding the humor in almost any situation, and he kept the table laughing with his cheery retellings of vacation mishaps.

We sat around, soaking in the fellowship (and the beer) until someone mentioned that we should probably let the hospitaleras know if we were going to order dinner or not. I remember feeling total panic – of course I wanted food! What would I do if no one gave me a pilgrim meal? Ack! Chairs were quickly pushed from the table, and one by one we sought out the hospitaleras to obtain sustenance. Jakob and I were the last two at the table with Dena when she finally broke her silence and cleared up the mystery of her job. It had been at least an hour and a half, and way more than 20 questions, but no one had figured it out. I remember finding something so charming and genuine about her laughter as she informed us that she was a real estate agent. To this day I still have no clue how none of us figured that out.

While I had many wonderful meals with fellow peregrinos over the course of my walk through Spain, I can say with absolute certainty that nothing came close to beating dinner in Hontanas. Something brand new began to blossom in me at that table. There were layers to the magic, of course. We were all tired. We’d all been broken down a little by now, and I know that I was in a space where I felt more comfortable and unafraid of being my genuine self. Most of us were solo, except for Dena and Cherrie, who were walking together. Some of the other pilgrims had walked in with others, but no one else was part of a dedicated pair. We were all a little buzzed from afternoon beers, and feeling comfortable after hours of pleasant conversation. By the time we were seated at the albergue’s long farm table, plates of warm, delicious food in front of us, wine flowing, we were all old friends. Alison and I started talking about Game of Thrones, Nestor and Jakob jumped in, and we were off! Dena and I talked about pack weight, and what was and wasn’t necessary in our bags (she couldn’t live without her skincare routine, and I couldn’t live without my PJ pants). We emptied all of the wine, requested another bottle, then eventually Nestor bought us another one. Dinner was long done, the rest of the dining room empty and clean, by the time the last hospitalera on duty came over to suggest that we all go to bed soon. It was after 10pm, about two hours after my typical Camino bedtime. Oops 🙂

On the way up to bed, I realized I’d forgotten about my laundry. I discovered it in a basket at the bottom of the stairs to the dorm rooms, freshly washed, but still wet. I hadn’t realized that there wasn’t a dryer when I’d handed the things over to be laundered. Feeling like a total idiot, I went out to the back patio and draped my clothes across one of the available clothes racks. There was no way it would dry by morning, and I glumly reconciled myself to walking in cold, wet pants the next morning.

Alison and Jakob were staying in my dorm room, and we all finished up our nighttime routines as quietly as possible, while still shooting each other knowing looks and stifling giggles. It was like being part of some secret in-crowd. I went to bed feeling satisfied, and woke up feeling thirsty and slightly hungover. As expected, my pants were cold and clammy off of the clothesline. Still, I felt pretty good. As we were standing around, packing up and getting ready to head out, no one wanted to say goodbye. Josh waited out front of the albergue for his other family members to arrive, and he and I started to talk about funny t-shirts we’d seen. I told him about my favorite t-shirt from back home, and showed him a professional photo I’d had taken in the shirt. He was blown away – it turned out that one of his best friends owned the t-shirt company, Buy Me Brunch, that I’d gotten the shirt from. It was a smaller company, so it was a fun realization for both of us. I shared the photo with him to send to his friend, and soon after, walked on for the day on my own, for my second day as a solo peregrina.

Anna’s Camino: Day 11 – Reshuffling, World Class Tapas, and Navarrete

In October and November of 2015, I walked the Camino Francés, one of the traditional pilgrimage routes to the Spanish city of Santiago de Compostela. It was a deeply emotional journey, with far-reaching implications for my life, and I’m slowly but surely capturing the memories and musings here on my blog. Read the entire series at Anna’s Camino.

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Logroño had some amazing street art.

It’s weird going back through this Camino by way of photographs. I remember the walk to Navarrete pretty well, but if I skip forward and look at where I was walking the next day, I remember things ahead of time, giving me a weird sense of foresight, even though it’s actually in hindsight. For instance, I know that I was feeling sick for a while (mildly, anyway) since a day or two after leaving Pamplona. And I remember walking to Navarrete, and feeling OK. Not great, but not terrible. However, by Day 12, I know that I was in really bad shape; I ended up taking a taxi after the first hour of walking, because I just didn’t think I could make it to Santo Domingo de la Calzada in one piece.

So how was I feeling great on Day 11, and near death on Day 12? Maybe I was feeling terrible for a while, but was able to keep powering through it for a while before my body got through to my brain that now was a good time to take a break. I’m really not sure. I do know, from reading others accounts in blogs, books, and even in FB posts, that every now and then you’ll just get to a breaking point, but a good day’s rest will cure most of what ails you. That’s a very important lesson to keep in mind whether or not you plan on walking the Camino – when you feel like you can’t possibly go on, don’t lose hope – just take a break and reassess the situation before you start making drastic decisions. It really does help, I promise.

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Other graffiti on the way into Logroño.

I can’t remember if Natalie and I left Viana before or after Claire, but I do have a memory of watching Claire walk away from the front door of the albergue, off to hunt for the bus that she would take to get a few days ahead of us. It’s strange to think of distance and time in this manner. We were still all in Spain, but a short bus ride would literally fast-forward Claire to an entirely new group of pilgrims, a new stage of the road, new adventures. Meanwhile, though we were left behind, we would be on the road for longer. Did this mean that we had more opportunities, or just different ones? Did Claire miss out from busing ahead, or did we miss out more for not having her with us? I think that the answer, in not being that clearcut, is very obvious.

I’ve spent enough time on various pilgrim message boards and advice sites to realize that some of the old school peregrinos stick to this silly rule that taking any form of transportation other than your own two feet (and possibly a bicycle, or a horse) is somehow “cheating.” But who’s to say that? What if the lesson you need to learn on the Camino is to not be so rigid in your concept of right and wrong? Who’s to say that the one person you really needed to meet on your pilgrimage wasn’t the bus driver, a pilgrim who’s currently up ahead, or even just a local who’s riding the train? The lesson here is that you can be sad that your friend left you behind, or you can be disappointed in your own lack of fitness, or even annoyed that your job didn’t give you enough vacation days to walk the entire thing, but you should never, EVER judge anyone (including yourself) for the way the road is to be traveled. We all need different things, we all have different weaknesses (and strengths), and we all get something different out of our life’s caminos. Celebrate the variety, and celebrate that your friend makes it onto the right bus. Then keep walking your walk.

One of the weirder things that happened on this day was passing a literal “Game of Goose” game board, laid out in marble alongside the Camino in Logroño. For most of the Camino, I kept hearing references to this mysterious game, said to have Templar ties. It was mentioned a few times in my guidebook, and now and then I’d see a version for sale in shop windows. Every time I mentioned it to other pilgrims, though, they’d either heard of it once or twice in passing, or had never heard of it and kind of laughed it off that I was so keen on finding out more. About two weeks from this day, I met another Anna who explained the game a bit more to me, but I’ll leave that memory for later. The bottom line for Logroño is that the artwork was lovely, and I was still no closer to finding out what it was all about, other than that it had a weird name and seemed to feature all of the landmarks of the Camino.

Logroño is a big, busy town. It’s the capital city of the autonomous region of La Rioja, and as such, is just as much of a bustling metropolis as you’d expect. Both Natalie and I were a little put off by it, me probably more, since she’d already walked through the city on her last pilgrimage. It’s not that I didn’t like the place, or want to explore further, it’s just that we hadn’t been somewhere with tall buildings and that many traffic lights and people since Pamplona, and I’d gotten used to things being a little quieter. It didn’t help that, as we were walking through one of the many small town squares (more like a neighborhood green), we walked right through a loud public dispute. This enraged, seemingly inebriated guy was screaming at the top of his lungs outside of an apartment building. We lost sight of him for a minute, then the next thing we knew, he was racing after a car, banging on the side of it, then throwing things at it as it got away, yelling the entire time. We looked at each other and picked up the pace a little, as there weren’t many people about, and it didn’t seem like a good time to get noticed by this dude, no matter what he was angry about. Nothing happened, and we both brushed it off as we made our way to a nearby café to grab coffees and something to snack on before walking out of town.

The café we picked had a different feel than most of the ones I encountered along the Camino Frances. It was close to city center, and had the feel of a chain restaurant – not as corporate as Starbucks, but definitely not a mom and pop place. We grabbed a tortilla to share, and some cafés con leche, and I seem to remember a chocolate croissant, as well. She read over her guidebook and checked out the map, and I did some people watching. One of the things I noticed was that I spotted a gay couple enjoying breakfast together; I remember this specifically because it warmed my heart, and also helped me realize that I was finally getting a read on Spanish body language a little better. Outside, I watched a father walk by, wheeling his toddler daughter (decked out in a pink, impossibly sparkly and ruffled outfit) in a stroller. An elderly lady, hunch backed, in compression hose and head scarf, hobbled by, leading a little terrier on a leash. Several teenage boys in grass-stained football uniforms walked by, clearly exhausted. It was a busy morning.

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A pond we passed on the way out of town. I stood here to watch the swans, and to watch a little girl and her mother throw little veggie scraps (not bread – yay!) to the birds.

The walk out of Logroño seemed to take FOREVER. It was another one of those days where you have a map that shows you where you’re going, you know the mileage, you think you have all of the information you need to get to your destination, yet for some reason no matter how long or how far you walk, you’re still no closer to the stopping point. It’s a very particular feeling for those who are walking long distances, and maybe it’s a very particular feeling for those who are coming down with a cold, I’m not sure. Either way, it felt like Logroño would never end. Even once we got to the beautiful Grajera Reservoir, with its surrounding park land, and knew that we were only a little over 5k away from our destination, it still felt like forever and a day to Navarrete.

The greenway that leads from Logroño to the park surrounding the Grajera Reservoir is very popular with locals, and we passed several kids’ birthday parties on our way through. We also got to walk over some nature trails that had wooden bridges. One bridge made me stop and stare for a while – there were HUGE carp in the water, at least as big as some of the ducks that swam above them. I tried to get some photos, but nothing great turned out.

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One of the less traveled paths in the park (this is from after the reservoir, on the way out).

At times it was a little scary to be a pilgrim on this park trail shared with enthusiastic weekend bikers. Wherever possible, we got off of the paved trail and walked on the natural ones, but there were bikes everywhere, and from time to time I was unnerved to hear them approaching from around the bend at breakneck speeds. We managed not to get run over or cause any accidents, and once we got to the reservoir, we decided to have a short lunch and take a rest. While we sat there, several people went by on horseback, and I was a little wistful, both because it would have been heavenly to get off my feet, and because I genuinely love horses, and because I was thinking I’d love to have the option to go horseback riding on the weekends in my normal life back in the states. Lunch was bread, cheese, sausages, and little tomatoes. While we ate, I wondered where Claire had eaten her lunch today.

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A sign on the way to Navarrete: “Without pain there is no satisfaction.”

Leaving the park, we passed through a section of the park that reminded me of some state parks back home, complete with little cabins for campers less inclined to tent living. It reminded me strongly of my days as a girl scout, and I spent most of the rest of the afternoon in some kind of nostalgic reverie, paying close attention to all of the birds and plants that we passed. Sometimes it felt like I needed to take in every detail, like I’d be getting quizzed on it after my trip. I’m glad that’s not the case, because I have no memories of walking into Navarrete, until we were firmly in the little town, walking around in search of the albergue.

It was afternoon, around 3pm, by the time we reached Navarrete, and I was beat. My feet were throbbing, and I was in desperate need of water. We walked into town by a high street; I think we were in search of a particular address, but I can’t remember, exactly. What I do remember is feeling lost and exhausted, and that the entire town seemed to be taking siesta. It was SO quiet, and there was an air of abandonment. I was running out of hope and energy, and just plodding along after Natalie, feeling incapable of independent thought. She saw a little public fountain under a couple of trees, with a bench nearby, and we headed that way. Just as I’d taken a seat and resolved to sleep there for the rest of my life, a lady leaned out of a nearby second story window to flap out a dusty throw rug, and spotted us by the fountain. She smiled, leaned over the window ledge, and yelled down directions to the municipal albergue, which was only a block or two away. Saved again by the kindness of strangers. This was to become a trend of my Camino.

The municipal albergue was being staffed by a very nice elderly gentleman who showed us where to put our boots and walking sticks, and led us to our bunks. We showered, washed our clothes, and hung everything out to dry on the little rotating circular metal clothes lines that were anchored outside of our bedroom window. I really wish I had one of those for my apartment; it’s an excellent idea – except for when you forget to put clothespins on your clothes, and they fall into the street, as my towel did that evening. Luckily, another pilgrim saw my towel and brought it inside to the hospitalero, so I got it back with little trouble.

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Pacharán

Just next door to the albergue, we’d spotted a little bar, so we headed over there to catch some wi-fi and grab a drink. It was there that I experienced my first glass of pacharán, a lovely Spanish liquor that I’ve really been missing since coming back to the states. It was Natalie’s drink of choice, and though I didn’t drink it always, a sip was always welcome. My drink of choice in Spain, when not sipping red wine, was Ballantine’s Finest, a sweet and inviting Scotch whiskey. I went looking for a glass of Jameson’s, my go-to, when I got to Roncesvalles on Day 2, but the closest they had to Irish whiskey was Scotch, and I stuck with it for the rest of my trip, when I wasn’t drinking red wine, pacharán, or on one occasion, hierbas. The other major beverage of my time in Spain was a major favorite of the peregrino crowd: Aquarius, which is a (non-alcoholic) canned sports drink that’s a little like Gatorade, except it actually tastes good.

Anyway, we sat down to have a drink, and that turned into an afternoon at the café, just hanging out and recovering from the day’s walk. It turned out that I was starving, so I ordered both a tortilla and a bocadillo (sandwich, in this case ham and cheese), plus I had a pacharán and a couple of glasses of scotch over the course of the afternoon. Soon after we sat down, Tom poked his head in the bar. He’d just arrived in town, and stopped to say hi before dropping his things off at the albergue. Eventually he wandered back in and ordered a glass of wine. We talked for a while, and he said that he’d left Mark behind much earlier in the day, and we probably wouldn’t be seeing him in Navarrete tonight, at the pace he was currently walking (his feet were really banged up). Maybe 45 minutes to an hour later, we were all surprised (and overjoyed, as we were all a couple of drinks in by this point) to see Mark poke his head in the bar, too! The gang was all here! He went to get cleaned up, then came back and ordered his trademark “large” beer, cheerfully demanding the biggest mug in the house.

We all sat around for another hour or so, until it started to get close to time for dinner. The guys went back to the albergue, and Natalie and I decided to start checking out our dining options for the evening. When I asked the bartender for my check to settle up, I was blown away by the fact that I only owed 12 euros for everything – three or four drinks, a slice of tortilla, and a sandwich. When I reacted with shock, the bartender thought I was freaking out because it was too expensive, and Natalie had to translate that it was just the opposite. I asked the bartender to check again, because I really didn’t want them to lose out on me if she’d forgotten to include anything, but she double checked, and it was correct.

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Just me and a couple of my new pilgrim friends!

We did a turn about town, walking down a couple of streets, checking out the church, looking at menus on every restaurant we spotted, but one restaurant really caught our attention. Bar Deportivo (also known as Casa de Comidas de Begoña y Antonio) is tiny, and doesn’t look like much from the outside. Inside is simply decorated, while managing to still feel warm and inviting. The family that run the place are warm and attentive, and though they speak limited English (not their fault – mine for not knowing the language), they did their best to make us feel like we were at home. The little restaurant has full seating in the back, but we were peckish, so instead of ordering off-menu, we chose to grab a seat at the bar and eat a selection of tapas. Mark came to join us a little later, and he was pleased with the size of the beers, lol.

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Bar Deportivo has ruined me in regards to tapas. Here in the states, I’ve yet to come across any places that do tapas like Spain, where they’re available to see at the bar, and in great quantities. Here, you normally order your tapas like you would any appetizer, sight unseen, off the menu, one at a time. It’s not done in the same sense of community, and really takes away from the intended experience, in my opinion. There, all through Spain, you see all sorts of options right there at the bar when you get your drink, and you can just point out a selection of the tastes you’d like, and the barkeep will put them on a plate and hand them to you then and there. In many places, you get a free tapa when you order your drink. It might be the bar’s choice, but it’s still free food, and typically delicious. Anyway, this place had some of the most beautiful little tapas I saw over the course of my entire Camino. They were delicious, too. Add to that the wife/owner, Begoña, took a shine to Natalie, and gave us free food just because, and we were in heaven. I’m sad that I only got to experience one meal there, actually. If I lived in the area, it would be my favorite spot.

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The owner, Begoña, gave us this amazing goat cheese stuffed pepper in a squid ink sauce.

After dinner, it was time to hit the hay. We got back to the albergue well before the doors were locked for the night, and I was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow. We woke before dawn the next morning, and it was still dark out when we left the albergue. It was misting heavily enough that I needed my pack cover and raincoat, and though we’d intended to wait until the next town to grab breakfast, we stopped just after the church to grab a coffee at a tiny hole-in-the-wall café. I remember this place because it was either the first or second time that I ordered a freshly squeezed orange juice (zumo de naranja), and I felt guilty when I saw that she was doing it all by hand with the tiniest of juicers. I also got a delicious chocolate bar there, and never saw that exact brand again. Ah, mornings on the Camino, when you can eat a chocolate bar without shame. I distinctly remember that my face felt clogged up and on fire, and even the chocolate bar didn’t really cheer me up. I got a second café con leche before we left, but it didn’t do much to improve my mood. It was going to be a long morning.

Click here to read about Day 12.

Clean Days

So yesterday was the beginning of 30 days without alcohol, coffee/Diet Coke, meat, bread/pasta/processed foods, or dairy. I’m sticking to whole foods. Lots of veggies and fruits, water and green tea, and I’m sure a lot of lethargic mid-afternoons until I learn how to live without stimulants again. Not to mention really boring evenings as I trade in my wine for herbal tea, or whatever it is that people typically drink at the end of a long day when they’re trying to avoid chugging liquid sugar for a month.

Yesterday was Labor Day, and I went to a house party. To avoid drinking wine or beer with the rest of the guests, I brought a 12-pack of coconut club soda. That worked pretty well. I stayed hydrated and still had a drink to hold the entire time. I polished off all but two last night, and made short work of those remaining cans today at lunch. No coffee yesterday or this morning, either, which probably explains why my eyes are feeling so heavy right now. I could really use a nap.

Since I was at a party, and didn’t feel like hating my life completely, I went ahead and ate whatever I wanted yesterday (bison burgers, sausages, chips and fruit w/yogurt dip). Figured for Day 1, it was a big enough accomplishment to be avoiding liquor and coffee. Today, however, I haven’t had anything that’s on my “no” list. So far, I’ve had steel cut oatmeal & fruit for breakfast, and a big bowl of miso soup with tarrow root and tofu for lunch. My head is swimming right now, though. I’m feeling majorly worn out, which is probably a combination of not enough food, and my body detoxing from coffee. Sigh.

OK, time to figure out what I’ve got to do to keep myself alert and productive for the rest of the afternoon. So much work to do, and definitely not enough time for napping or indulging in brain fog.