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.
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| Outside Los Arcos |
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.
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