Burgos the beautiful. or: How we lost two days without trying

From: Chilham, Kent, UK, October 31, 2016

About: Atapuerca to Burgos,  September 25-27, 2016.

Burgos was a big beautiful surprise.  A blessing.

The blessing begins with the decision to walk a labyrinth on the windblown high plain just above Atapuerca.  Ever since we entered the Atapuerca valley, we had been puzzling about the discovery of 1,000,000 years of human habitation in this location.   Plus, it is Sunday, and because we couldn’t stay at our hotel, we couldn’t go to mass at the little country church across from our hotel. Instead, we would make our way to Burgos, over the steep climb of El Alto del Cruz.

The climb is steep and rocky, with head-sized boulders tussled about.  Every step has to be managed.  We—and the two Italian mountain bikers who had to dismount and push their bikes---pick our way up, stone by stone, step by step, climbing the equivalent of 2000 rounded and uneven stairs.  The surroundings are beautiful, but it is hard, hard work.

On top, we can see in all directions.  A sign proclaims “This is the best view of the whole Camino.” It may well be. We can see Burgos in the distance, nestled in a lush river valley.  To the right, there’s a ridge of wind turbans. Behind us lie the long limestone ridges where humans have lived continuously for a million years.  To our left, tilting sharply away, a series of linked canyons, brown and gray on top but lined with trees below.

The bikers jump on their bikes and speed off, hoping, I’m sure, that the way down will not be as rugged as the way up.  There’s giant cross, decorated with peregrino prayers in the form of stones, prayer cards, ribbons and shoes.  We stop to mark the apex with a little prayer. 

Out of the corner of my eye, about 50 meters to the south of the standing cross, I spot what looks like a stone medicine wheel.  It’s not.  It’s a spiral labyrinth composed of 2 foot pathways passing through 8 or so turns to a circular center, in which stones form a Celtic cross.

“Let’s walk it!” I proclaim.  Wes doesn’t want to do it.  “Why add more steps?” he protests.  But I start. Soon he joins me.

I move through the spiral, sometimes facing a sharp wind, sometimes the blazing sun, sometimes looking at the shining city, sometimes at the ancient and nurturing caves. Round and round the spiral we go in faster and tighter circles, more and more aware of the infinite and infinitesimal turnings of life and the divine.

Creating, growing, sharing, ending. The maiden, the mother, the crone; the creator, the incarnate, the spirit; fire, earth, wind and water, always present, always changing, moving through the minute breaths of my life and within the circles and circles and circles of human presence in this spot, beyond this spot, beyond and within this time.  Through time, in time, within time, in the palpable presence of the creator, the creating, and the creation. Amen.

When I meet Wes in the center, we grab and hold each other, moved beyond words.

The way down passes a series of ridges, most of which are open range for grazing cattle.  We are still jubilant from our time in the spiral, and following a rocky two track. Ahead a couple of dozen placid cattle (big horns, humped and wattled like Brahma) munch on the thin and wispy grass.  There’s a few calves and few steers.  One young steer is standing in the track.  I figure I will shoo him off if need be.  A pair of young hikers, male and female, either Italian or Spanish, and urban by their clothes and haircuts, are walking up quickly behind us.  The steer is still on the road ahead of us.  I’m not concerned.  Nor is the young castrated bull.  But the young woman behind me is.  She cries out, almost in a panic, “Señora! Gardete!” 

At her screech, the steer bolts to the right, she and her partner dash off the path to the left, then rush away from the danger of loose cows.  Wes and I look at each other, “What was that about?”  Did she think we were about to be gored?  Couldn’t they tell a steer from a bull?  Who’s afraid of domestic cattle anyway?  Certainly not this daughter of a county agent.

We keep walking down and down into various steep canyons.  At one tiny isolated village, we stop for water, exchange a few words with some Italians resting their sore feet in a small stream and drink from a fuente that has been running since Roman times.  My feet are hurting as well. 

As we come to another big downhill, into a small town nestled in a steep valley, we see an ad for a new albergue.  We start the debate.  Should we stay or go?  Well, it is Sunday, and we try to take a day of rest on Sundays.  We have already come 10 miles.  It’s still 15 miles into Burgos.  This is the last chance to stay before town.  My feet hurt. It’s Sunday.  I don’t want to go into a city when everything is closed.  All right.  Let’s stay.

In the albergue complex, the first thing we see are a group of Canadians drinking beer and soaking their feet in a small blue wading pool.  In the reception room, we are greeted by a frenetic and slightly off kilter young man, whose speech impediment and habit of repeating sentence fragments makes the exchange of keys, passports, and information quite difficult.  

At last we are in our room: hardly bigger than closet, and painted bright orange, the double bed barely fits.  There’s no closet, no other furniture—and yet it costs nearly as much as last night’s beautiful and elegant room.

We have time to kill.  We visit with the other walkers, and watch the interactions of the family who built this complex.  Jaime, the young man who waited on us, receives a tongue lashing from his father for helping us. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asks over and over.  I want to intervene and say it was fine, but don’t. A little while later, two teenage males come up from the village and begin teasing Jaime, calling his name over and over, then sending him her and there on bogus errands.  This is an old and sick sport with them.

Later that night, at the communal dinner, I find myself angry when one of the Canadians starts making fun of his interactions with Jaime.  Only the young Argentinian, who has attached himself to the Canadian trio, laughs at the mockery.  Thank goodness, it ends.  Jaime and his mother expertly serve the 20 people at the table.  Canadians, Americans, French, Korean, Austrian, Polish, Argentinian, and Germans soon devour the huge bowls of salad, roast chicken, and potatoes.

The next morning, most are up before dawn, wolf down a pre-packaged and cold breakfast, and are off with headlights to walk in the dark.  All the talk is who is going to stay an extra day in Burgos.  Not us, we insist.  We are already running a bit late.

As we set out, we are joined by a young American woman, walking in short shorts, tennis shoes, and knee brace. She tells us she has been walking 35 kilometers a day, but is having a lot of trouble with her feet and knees. She is thinking of taking a day in Burgos.  We ask why she is moving so fast and she doesn’t have an answer.  Why wouldn’t someone move as fast as they can?

We part ways at a junction. The way following the river is slightly longer.  The other continues down the side of a busy highway.  We watch her power off down the highway, walking fast, though slightly limping.

But  who am I to judge, given the rotten state of my feet.  I had my boots repaired a few days back in Santo Domingo de la Calzada. I have the unfortunate habit of walking on the outside of my feet and destroying shoes at a phenomenal rate.  My great old Salomon hiking boots had reached the tipping point and were putting dangerous and painful stress on my hips, knees, and feet. I got new heels and insoles put on these old boots, but it didn’t work.  Every step hurts.  No combination of socks helps. I try the old insoles, the new insoles, both insoles. Nothing works. 

  

We follow the alternate route alongside the River, which runs for about 6 kilometres before dropping us in the middle of the city.  At first, it is heavily wooded with tall trees and heavy undergrowth. As the trail progresses, it slowly becomes a paved path in a groomed park. 

About 10 miles into our walk into Burgos, I stop at the high tension light post, pull off my boots, stuff them into my pack, and walk the remaining miles in my sandals.

There are people of every age out walking.  Some are toting briefcases and taking their lunch breaks. Knots of women in dress skirts and sneakers pace by in earnest conversation.  We pass many seniors walking in couples or small same gender groupings, moms with strollers, and numerous dogwalkers and their fussy, small dogs.  Nearly all smile and wish us “Buen Camino.”

We are struck by the difference in our river walk into Burgos and the one into Pamplona.  Here, people are strolling and visiting.  There are few bicyclists and even fewer aggressive exercisers panting and sweating their way down the path.  Is it because it is a Monday?  Or is it a change in the culture?  

When we leave the river walk and cross into the modern city, we notice two things.  At the small café bar where we stop for a quick bite, the prices are ½ what we typically paid on the Camino… and the people are extraordinarily friendly to us.   In the Camino bubble, because of the never ending crush of foreign pilgrims and the seven day a week demands of the hiking season, café workers can be a bit….perfunctory.  They just don’t have the energy to engage with all the strangers who bellow commands in English at them.  Here, we are a novelty, and the short-haired, long-nosed, big-bellied host is tickled to bring us little bits of this-and-that (olives, noodles, mushrooms) to add to our beers and bocadillos.

When we cross a Romanesque bridge, the modern city disappears and we are in the midst of a prosperous 16^th century city.  We are lucky to find a room on the fourth floor of lovely old hotel, overlooking one of the many busy cobblestone plazas.

We immediately set out to explore the old city, passing back and forth from the river walk to various squares, stopping for coffee or wine under enormous, but newly shaved sycamore trees. All along the marble esplanade of the river walk, there are stands of carefully manicured topiary.  At one café, just beside the 10 foot tall statue of El Cid on his horse, and just around the corner from the marble arches leading to the cathedral square, we drink red wine and feel like we are in a small, romantic, sophisticated…and friendly corner of Paris.  A lone accordion player sits beneath the arches.  We laugh when the first song he plays is “Hello Dolly!”  Of course, we sing along, “You’re looking swell, Dolly! I call tell Dolly, you’re still growing, you’re still going, you’re still gro..wing strong.”

(English language music---especially American pop music—has been omnipresent in Spain.   The bus driver in Logroño played Curtis Mayfield and Sam Cook, the bars pump out Beyoncé and Adele, old men a tiny Spanish village played an unrecognizable loteria card game while listening to “Move like Mick Jagger.”   And how could we forget the night we were serenaded by the world’s worst cover band with their endless catalog of massacred American pop-music?)

The Golden Cathedral of Burgos

We couldn’t visit either of our desired destinations, the Burgos Cathedral and the Museum of Human Evolution. We weren’t willing to pay the tourist price for admission to the cathedral. If we presented our pilgrim credentials, which were back in our room, the price would be halved.  And the museum was closed on Monday.  Darn.

This city has a tremendous pride of place. It is clean and well-kept.  We walk the narrow cobblestone streets, peering at the tiny specialized shops and wondering how a shop that only sells socks can survive. The scale is small, the service personal, and the specialization intense.

So we wander the streets, and tend to several restocking chores, replacing some foot and pain medicine, buying socks, toothpaste, and support hose.  Between their rotten English and my awful Spanish, we communicate just enough to make the transactions.

Wes has great fun taking pictures of all the statues in this city of sculptures. 

Near the Museum of Human Evolution

Every few hundred yards, there’s another lifesize bronze statue of someone at work or play.  Wes gets picture taken with a statue of peregrino.

Well... after our long, beautiful river walk, followed by the delightful walk around the many plazas, shopping calles, and sculpture-strewn streets, we are more than a little intrigued.  When the alarm rings at 7 AM on Tuesday, Wes says to me still in bed, still half asleep. “I think we should stay here another day.” I roll over, barely awake, and say, “Me too.”

On that extra day, we take an audio tour of the exquisite cathedral, during which it is presented as a giant piece of art.  It is a complex structure with at least 20 side chapels; but only two remain in use for prayer and worship.  During the tour, I experience equal parts of frustration at the egregious commercialization, awed contemplation of human achievement, and the sudden surprise of recognizing architecture as Christian pedagogy for non-literate congregants.

The Museum of Human Evolution deepens and extends those thoughts. In 1979, when the railroad was excavating a cut for a new track, they accidently uncovered a cave containing human and animal remains. Careful analysis showed it was adjacent to a sinkhole into which animals regularly fell and died, and which provided these ancient humans ( homo antecessor, a new species) a  perfect habitat: food, shelter, clothing with little effort. Homo neanderthal, habilis, and sapiens stayed in this valley, leaving a record of tools and technology, learning and transformation from the Stone Age to the present,  unmatched anywhere outside the Great Rift Valley of Africa. 

The museum examines evolution from multiple viewpoints.  At the end of many hours, we have contemplated changes in culture, in DNA, in tool building, and in agriculture.  We are overstimulated and exhausted…and happy.

Leaving Burgos the next day is difficult. As we wander our way out of town, Wes is still taking pictures of the sculptures, and my feet are still hurting.  Just as we reach the edge of town, Wes stops to take a another sculpture photo, this time of a woman in a wheelchair.  I sit at a bench, pull off my beloved but now ruined boots and leave them there, the new insoles poking out the top like sorry little flags.

I walk into the hot, dry, flat meseta in sandals and hope for the best.  

The Camino Bubble

About: Navarrete -Najera-Santo Domingo de la Calzada-Castildelgado-Villafranca de Montes Oca, Atapuerca, miles 144-200

From: Villafranca de la Bierza, mile 407

A note about process: Keeping the blog on the hike has proved a much bigger challenge than it was on the bike. We hike from 9am to 3pm most days. After securing our place, washing our selves and our one set of hiking clothes, and getting our dinner, there's little time (and often energy) to make notes about the day. Those notes are hand written into stories, which are then tediously entered into a document on my phone, which then has to be edited, then transferred to the blogsite.  That seems like it should be straightforward, but it's not.  There's another edit, and pictures to edit and add…then the whole process of posting on Facebook, Twitter, Google#, and emailing it…all on a tiny phone by screen with often sketchy WiFi.  Yikes.

I will keep posting, even as we are now within 120 miles of Santiago. I assume I will be writing about the hike even as we make our way back to Germany, then onto England. Let's hope I have all this writing done before we return  home mid November….
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After our surreal visit to Logroño, there are days and days where we are completely encapsulated by the Camino bubble.  We are traveling in the hilly reaches of Rioja, day after day and mile and mile  passing through vineyards in one of the world’s wine producing regions. The vines are so heavy withfruit, the farmers pull off the excess, and

throw the grapes into the alleys between the rows. This, of course, attracts bees, flies, and birds. There is always a low hum around us.

The little towns  are defined by big grape warehouses, and little café/bars serving the Camino. The people in each sector don't interact. In Navarrate, we briefly step out of the bubble to be one of a few guests at in the enormous 19th century hotel, but mostly caters special events and weddings. It is just far enough out of town that most pilgrims don’t stop and too close to Logroño to draw the car crowd. The desk clerk laments, “ The tourists just drive on instead of stopping like they used to.” The bar and restaurant are closed , so we make our way to cafre recommended by Mei-Jing for it’s amazing tapas.

It is staffed by a vibrant young woman from the south of Nigeria, who Wes offends when he compliments on her English. She says. “You know, don’t you that Nigeria is an English speaking country?” On the way out to the table in the courtyard. I have an attack of clumsiness, drop the tray and splatter food and drinks everywhere.  One of the cooks taking a smoke break, rushes over to the mess, saying “No te preocupes!” (Don't worry!) over and over, patting me on the shoulder, refusing my attempts to help clean the mess, and rapidly moving to replace the food and drink...at no additional cost.

Across the courtyard, we spot a well-known Camino fixture, a large, blonde, bearded, burly self-styled holy man.  He has a little shrine outside Logroño and is in animated conversation with a woman in a long skirt and head wrap. The cook and the Nigerian counter clerk both know him and occasionally bring him bits of food or drink.

We spend the next day walking through vineyards, before going to Najera, where we spend the night in a lovely, but overpriced hotel, eat dinner on a courtyard by the river, where the Italian waiter has a bit of a racket going with his almost exclusively English-speaking clientele.  He sells food and wine from an unpriced menu for what he thinks the market will bear. We paid 2€ more for the same wine that young German couple, but 2€ less than the older British men at the next table.  I’m tempted to complain, but don’t want the scene or the hassle.  I am sure the waiter depends on that unwillingness.

The tourists pretty much stay on the north side of the river.  Occasionally locals and their children venture by the café on their evening walk, but they don't stop.  After dinner, we wander the streets, attracted by the doors and caves in the prominent sandstone cliffs.  These cliffs have housed saints and the penurious, this year's harvest, and today's outlandish party.  Just three caves down from the hermitage of a medieval nun, we pass one in which a young woman in impossibly tight jeans and high heels joins a throng of people dancing to pulsing lights and beat-heavy music.

The next day is beautiful and painful.  My wonderful, but 10 year old Salomon hiking boots are giving up the ghost. I ruin shoes at a phenomenal rate because I walk on the outside of my feet. Rare-oh-rare is the shoe that makes it a year under that kind of pressure.  But there comes a point when the mechanics of the shoes are destroyed, and they begin to painfully stress my hips and knees. 

I have felt the problem growing for several days.  I don't know what to do. The bed and fit of these boots is flawless and so rare for square feet like mine.  Can I get them repaired? Can I find something that will fit?  Do I want to break in new boots on a long distance hike? Ugh.  As we walk through valleys and canyons, up steep hills and down sharp drops,  each step makes my feet, knees, and hips ache.

We arrive in Santo Domingo de la Calzada, named after the “engineer of the Camino,” (whose statue bears an uncanny resemblance to Wes’ brother Jay). He was largely responsible for improving conditions on the medieval Camino.

We end up staying at the Hospideria de la Camino, which was originally established in the 15th century.  The sprawling complex in which we are staying was built in the 19th century and must have housed hundreds of nuns and pilgrims. That night, at dinner, we are served by 3 sweet faced African nuns in modern habits, who both prepare and serve the food.  The dining room is mostly empty, save a big group of Austrians, a few frail retirees, one French speaking couple, and us.  Despite the attention and kindness of the nuns, there is an air of mournfulness.

We had spotted a zapateria just outside the complex grounds. I ask for my boots to be repaired.  The shoe repair man speaks no English, but with gestures, drawing, and a few words, I think we have an agreement.  He tells me to come back the next day around noon.  That's well after our regular our regular departure time, but if it means walking without pain, fine.  

The next morning, after picking up my partially re-heeled boots, and getting new insoles, we run into the same Google staffer on holiday we had seen a few days ago.  His name is Kevin; he is ethnically Korean, lives in Los Angeles and speaks fluent Spanish. He has been using this skill to help the many clueless Americans, Brits, and Aussies on the trail. 

We had first met him in a small café off the main trail, where he, a fit red-haired German named Tomas, and we had a conversation about the glories of green Spanish olives. As we each told the story about why we are taking this walk, Tomas told about having to leave the company he founded after it was sold to ADP. The new owners told them they were moving operations to Poland to save money. He couldn't  stand by while more than 1/3 of the employees he had worked with and developed were let go.  So now he is walking the Camino. Kevin, on the other hand, told his bosses he was taking six weeks to walk the Camino.  He could come back to work or not. They said fine.

These curious syncretic encounters are part of the Camino bubble. We never know, when we have these intense personal conversations, whether or not wewill see these people again.  Because we are all following the same trail, but moving at different speeds and taking different stops, reconnecting with people days or hours apart is not uncommon, yet always surprising and delightful.

After a quick stop at the cathedral, which houses a live rooster and hen in the walls in tribute to a medieval miracle, (don’t ask) we are on our way through a landscape more given to corn and wheat than grape vines. We have a restless night at a truck stop that advertises itself as an artisanal chocolate maker.  Its town is mostly falling in on itself and the artisanal chocolate is actually chocolate covered doughnuts, but it will do.

The next morning, a few kilometers away,  we find an exquisite and expensive restaurant/hostel such as we had imagined our previous lodging to be, where they make and sell meats and cheeses for 21€ a pound.  While we are enjoying our coffee, a German couple next to us argues about where they should spend the next night. 

All of a sudden, an older American woman comes in, spots the Germans as someone she knows from the Camino, then rushes over to them and begins sobbing.  She has just received news that a dear friend had died back in the US.  The slender, red-haired German woman, so recently fussing with her husband, immediately begins comforting the distraught American.  Just as we get ready to leave, the American gets an email.  Her daughter just had a baby.   More tears.  A little while later, the two women pass us, still deep in conversation and counsel.

My repaired boots are not working.  I try new insoles, old insoles, both insoles, changes of socks to Wes’ increasing irritation and impatience.  Nothing is working. 

We are beginning our trek into the Montes de Oca, a band of small sandstone mountains cut by rushing streams and littered with hermitages carved into the cliffs.  We are looking forward to a stay in the San Anton Abad Hotel, a renovated 12th century pilgrim hospital.  When we get there, footsore and beat, we discover that we actually don't have a room and they are sold out.  When I show the host our confirmation, she thrusts my phone back at me with an emphatic, “Diez no nueve,”

Another booking error! This time I booked for October instead September.  Most peregrinos just walk until they are done walking, then find a place.  That's beginning to look like a better idea. 

Thankfully, the host connects us to a nearby pension.  We arrive just at the same moment two biking peregrinos arrive.  Later, at dinner, we find out they are Pieter (the father) and Peter (the son). Dad is big and burly, with a shock of still blonde hair falling across his broad forehead. Son is also tall, but narrow in face and body, and nearly bald though he is in his thirties.  They have ridden modified mountain bikes from the northern Netherlands. Dad has been diagnosed with cancer, and they are doing this big grand trip together while they still can. 

The next morning, we make our way over the top of the Montes, where the first battle of the Spanish Civil War was fought. At the peak, the dozens of hikers who passed us on the way up are taking a break. I stop to decipher the monument and realize it is the first and only positive view of the Republicans we have seen on this trip. 

At our lunch stop, we are shocked to encounter Lauren and Isabella, with whom we walked to the hilltop town of Chiraugui (of late night cover band fame).  Lauren is a tri-athlete from Crested Butte, Colorado, her mother, a game sixty something from Chicago.  Isabella had some leg problems that stopped them for a few days.  Although she didn't say it, the implication was that pace set by Lauren was just too much.

We are excited to get to our next stop.  Not only does it mean we are very close to the halfway point of Burgos, but we are anxious to know more about the archeological discoveries in Atapuerca. We hope to stay a day to visit the sites where they have found human fossils dating back 1 million years, and evidence of constant human inhabitation since that time.  This 1979 discovery and excavations have  completely re-written the early history of Europe.

We were lucky enough to walk up and get a hotel in Atapuerca, where the preponderance of guests were American or Canadian. Unfortunately, one big group of Americans is the kind that makes me cringe.  Not only were they extraordinarily loud, without a good thing to say about anyone or anything, I can hear their derisive laughter in our room, four doors down.  They mock the service, décor, and food in English, assuming they are not being understood--even though they ordered everything in English and expected to be served in English. The 17 century doors are tricky, and at one point, I heard an abrasive American voice demanding her money back because the doors were hard to open. Wes tried to engage them a conversation about the amazing archaeological area. No interest.

Later,  I heard them calling the backpack transport service demanding service that morning they were supposed reserve the previous night. When the phone disconnects, one woman said to the other,  “See, I told you they hate Americans who speak English!”

Well, we can't tell why they are on the Camino, but I do know one thing. Life in the Camino bubble is unlike any experience we have ever had.  All the concentrated  blessings and curses of being human are making their way with us, inch by inch, step by step, paso a paso.

The Best Laid Plans...

From: El Burgo Ranero, October 5, 2016
About: Estella to Logroño, September 14-18

We are in a tiny bungalow on the banks of the Ebro in the northern Spain town of Logroño, after a comedy of errors. We have had 2 long days of hiking and are now more than 100 miles into our journey. I thought I was such a smarty pants, booking our place to stay 2 nights in advance….but…

We are depending on an online app to provide inf about distances and lodging. It requires flipping back and forth between various screens and keeping the distance on the maps clear in my head. Once Again, I have misread/ misunderstood/misused the maps.

After our lovely 2- day stay in an apartment in Estella, where I was proud to have negotiated the purchase of new boots, socks, and underwear for Wes, as well as the makings of our dinner—in Spanish.  It was fun stepping out of the Camino bubble and moving through the city like residents. I  It was nice to experience simple, homely things like cooking and setting the table after being on the move for nearly a month.

Outside Los Arcos

We had again booked an apartment in Los Arcos. It was more expensive, but OK, we liked our last apartment the day before.  The walk is fine: high, dry fields in which we walked in the company of older Brits on holiday, traveling without packs.   The high point of the day, however, is watching 30 griffin buzzards, with their 4 feet wingspread, fly in from all directions and squabble over a dead something (probably sheep) at the base of the sandstone cliffs across the valley.

When we finally get to Los Arcos, we can’t get in. The landlady has to come 20 miles to work the glitchy electronic entry system.

As we are finally getting in the door, who do we see but the Asian women with whom we had been traveling. It was really exciting to see them. The apartment, however, is not so exciting. It was about one third the size of the previous apartment and cost more.  What the hell?

After our trip to the alimentacion to get supplies for a simple dinner, we are just settling in, when we hear a knock at the door.  It is Jian, Mei-jiang, and Fan-yi, come for a visit.  They bring a photo of me coming up the Hill of Forgiveness, which they had made in Estella.  As it turns out, they had been  in the same apartment complex we were in Estella. We never saw them! 

We make plans have dinner together, and begin sharing travel arrangements.  There are surprised we planned to get to Logroño the next day.  Upon further inspection,  we discover I have once again made a mistake with the confusing route maps.  Viana, where our friends will be going tomorrow, is a manageable 11 miles, but Logroño is 8 miles beyond.  Rats!

We have already booked a bungalow on the river in Logrono for tomorrow.  Now what? 

Even though the news upsets me, I don’t want to interrupt our conversation with these charming women.  Mei-Jing is clearly the leader of this trio.  She tells how Jian came to be traveling with them.  Mei-Jing, Fan-yi and her uncle (Waun-ju?) are all from Taiwan, and had been planning their Camino for some years.  They had booked an albergue in Pamplona, the first time they had stayed in a dormitory. 

Jian, a tiny, sweet faced Korean, with pale silken skin and wide smiling eyes that look perpetually surprised, was traveling alone.  She had the bad luck to be sleeping on the top bunk above a freaky male pelegrino who not only masturbated in the dorm, but also stood over Jian’s bunk and made sexual gestures and approaches.

From the adjoining bunk, Mei-Jing jumped into action, putting herself between Jian and the freak, shouting in his face, “No Touch!  No Touching Her!”

From that point forward Jian began traveling with the Taiwanese.  They communicate in English, as best as they could.  They are good hearted and funny.  When we are with them, we laugh a lot.  I am touched that they made a photo of me with hopes of seeing me again.

We make plans to have dinner together.  Not in Viana.  Not in Logroño, but we should all be in Najera in a couple of days.  Great!  We exchange numbers and look forward to sharing a home cooked meal together.

The next morning, we send our bags to Logroño and set out to walk to Viana, 11 miles away.  We will need to figure out how to catch a local bus to Logroño, then get to our little cabin.

We walk nearly alone on the chilly damp pathway, most of yesterday’s group of bluff Brits driven onto mass transit by the discouraging conditions.
However, we like the walk a lot; the vistas are opening up and we enjoy the rolling environment with views of the mountains all around us.  We are also grateful that we not walking through these fields of  grapes, olives, figs, and almonds in the beating sun.

When we get to Viana, Wes is surging ahead of me—for the first time of the trip.  His new boots are working well and he is no longer hobbling along, every step a pain.  In Viana, we need to find the bus station and my phone is dead.  Wes walks up to various strangers and says “Autobus?” A French worker from one of the albergues comes out and tells us in almost comprehensible Spanglish, “Go left, then right by the big wall, it’s there.” (or something like that.)

We go left, then right, and there are two big walls. Wes asks another man, who answers in rapid Basque/Spanish. I don’t understand anything but his gestures.

We get to a corner which seeks like it should/could be a bus stop, but there’s no sign.  I say go down to the main highway.  Wes says, “Go up to the main town.” We try the highway, but still don’t see any bus stop.  We are now getting nervous because the bus comes at 4pm and the last time my phone worked, it was 3:25pm.

We are making our way to what may be a stop, when a young man (double earrings, drooping skinny pants, and short hair) comes tearing along, being dragged by a 100lb Rottweiler.  Wes hollers, “Autobus?” and the young man, unable to stop the dog, points us up the many stairs of the escalera, to the street leading to the town center.  We thank him and off he goes, running after the massive black dog.

Up about 50 steps, then a climb to the center of the town leads us to a group of people with luggage sitting on a concrete bench.  No sign, of course, so Wes asks, “Autobus to Logroño?” and gets a  “Si!” and a bevy of words and a sign to “Sit, sit!” Before long, the modern bus arrives and we pay just 1.30€ for our ride to Logroño.

As soon as we get off the bus, we can tell there is something going on.  We hear lots of noise and there are all sorts of people on the street.  Oh, well, what do we know?  Maybe it’s market day.

We follow our map to the center of town, where a big gathering is just ending—perhaps a concert in the park.  There’s a big group of people dressed in red and white following a brass band.  There’s all sorts of energy in the air and all of the restaurants and cafes are jammed.  My plan for a long awaited lunch in Logroño is thwarted.

We start making our way to the park where we will cross the river and get to our little bungalow.  As we move that way, the streets become more and more crowded—and more and more rowdy.  All sorts of young people are drenched in red wine and the drunkenness in the crowd is frightening.  

We have to move through the packed, agitated, inebriated group with our backpacks and walking sticks and not lose each other.  Most of crowd are very young and very drunken.  Many look like teenagers.

In the distance, we can see a bridge blessedly free of the drunken mob.  Just as we clear the crowd, I ask a drunken fellow, “What is this?”  He shouts over a young man bellowing into a bullhorn,  “La Fiesta San Mateo!”

We finally get to the park where we can cross the bridge.  It is now raining in earnest. There’s a knot of drinkers lurking under the pediments.  We give them a wide berth.  Next, we see a young man trying to get sexual with a young woman who clearly doesn’t want it.  She pushes his hands away, and tries to move him back towards the crowds.

Near our crossing, we spot a desolate restaurant just about to close for the day.  It’s only customer is an exhausted, dark-skinned vender still dragging his stack of hats and helium balloons.  We get a couple of cafe con leches and two tired sandwiches.

Across the bridge, we don’t know how to get to the bungalows, so I drag out my emergency power and call the office.  We are close….but….

Our reservation is for tomorrow.  What? 
I check my confirmation and sure as hell, the reservation is for Sunday!

It is now 6pm on the biggest day of the biggest harvest festival in the capital of Spain’s most famous and celebrated wine region. We scan Booking.com, TripAdvisor, all of the listings in the guidebooks. Of course, there is nothing available.  The woman at the desk apologizes and suddenly…  We are in Screwville.

The manager tells us she will check on one thing. Call her back in a few minutes.

Now what?  Our choices are less than limited.  Plus, we don’t even know if she has our sent-ahead backpacks. 

A few minutes later, I call her back and she tells me the only she has is a big dorm room with 12 beds, which she can let us have for 100€-more than twice as much as we had planned on spending.   And she tells us that our Sunday booking is non-refundable.  I tell her we will call her back.

A quick analysis of the situation tells us that something is better than nothing, and that we should take the next night in Logroño, as well.  So it's two nights in Logroño, the first night in wooden bunk beds in a big cold and empty dorm. And our dinner plans with our new friends are ruined, too.

We crawl into bed early and fall fast asleep…until I am awakened in the middle of the night with digestive upset from the tired sandwich.  The next morning, we are up early, with a Sunday ahead of us. We walk the riverfront, spot a stork on a nest at the top of tall brick chimney, and make our way to a perfunctory mass with no music, no deacons, no altar servers in a huge double spire cathedral with a sculpture by Michelangelo and yet another Baroque altar. 

By the end of the mass, we can hear a brass band playing. When we step outside, we are right back in the middle of the festival. A big group of revelers, dressed in traditional maroon and white outfits, circle a small combo playing some kind of improvisational jazz, held together by a walking bass line played by a profusely sweating sousaphone player.

We wander a bit, until we come across the big town square. Yesterday, it was the site of a concert; today, it is covered with small white tents. Hundreds of people are going from tent to tent, getting tapas and wine in glass goblets and small white plates. Wes tries to get some, but is rebuffed. An older  man explains in slow Spanish that we have to buy our glass and plate, then we can get as much wine and food as we like.

Just at that moment, we get a call from the park manager, telling us our bungalow is free. We have to come right now to vacate the dorm and move into the dorm.  It is noon. As we make our way back across the river, we hear the sounds of the crowd increasing.  By the time we cross the river, the sound has become a roar.

Remembering our frightening traverse through the bacchanal yesterday, we decide to spend the afternoon sleeping, reading, and writing in the tiny bungalow.  We ask each other, “Do you want to back over there?” Not so much.  But we do think we will have a glass of wine.