'How do I know what I think until I hear what I say?' E. M. Forster
The albergue municipal that we spent the night in cost $7.00. Interestingly enough, there remained no staff in the building past 11:00. Only Teo, Maria, Julia, and myself. I wrote and read from about ten until about midnight, spending the first half of that time on the cold, stone stairs in front of the main entrance, looking at and listening to the water coming out of the fuente, fountain, in the courtyard.
Awaking in the morning, I lumbered out of the bed that I had snuck into at the far end of the hall in order to not awaken my son or the two ladies with my snoring, still waking, the albergue's main lights still dark. Bustling about, readying herself to hit the trail, was Julia. 'Good morning,' I largely whispered, and she replied in kind as I walked around the long tables in the large hall where she was putting the final touches on her outer wear and pack. 'I hope that you have a great day walking,' I told her as she grabbed her last bits, 'and if I don't see you again, it was a pleasure to have been able to talk with you.' She agreed, told me her destination for the day, Grañon, to which I said, 'Well, maybe we'll stop there too and if so, I would love the opportunity to talk with you more.' 'I'd like that very much,' with a smile, holding eye contact. She left, I made my coffee, showered, went outside, back to my spot on the stairs, to write, edit, post.
The quote that I used to begin today's writing is a personal favorite. The writing of these blog entries allows me that opportunity-to process and to develop. While it is in no way important for there to exist anyone who actually reads my pieces, it flatters me to no end that you are currently doing so. Thank you.
Tired of feeling tired. Of being some older guy, invisible to women. Over the hill. Ram Dass, a teacher for me in this life, has stated that when we wear a certain lens through which we view the world, at certain times of night, in certain parts of cities, for example, the lens that we wear places everyone that we see into one of three categories: a potential, a competitor, or irrelevant. Growing up I suppose I figured that I was usually in one of the two former categories. Over the past five years, however, as my most recent marriage has headed South for the long, nuclear Winter, I have felt more and more a member of the latter. Substance abuse, over eating, as negative means of coping with the stress of an increasingly unbearable set of messed up circumstances within my relationship, has just heaped more and more ugliness into my self image, snow balling out of control down hill.
To see any light in the eyes of an attractive woman as I talk with her has an effect that directly countermands the message that I have bred into my ego self over the last six or seven years. Like, wow, you mean I'm worth something? Worth more than an emotionally safe place for a woman to put her head down at the end of the day, to shop, cook, and clean, and listen, and hold, and reassure? Actually attractive to the eyes of another? Like a seed sown in the fall, the bulb, say, of a multi-colored tulip, deep seated under the crusted snow, ice of the wind blown Winter, thawed, warmed, one day breaking through the surface of the soil, poking my head up and out, growing towards the light, the warmth of the sun. And soon the flower bud forms, erupting at last in radiant and rich colors, standing straight, standing tall, erect, even proud.
The name of this small town of 300 people, Azofra, sounds decidedly non-Spanish precisely because it is, well, non-Spanish language in origin. It is a Moorish word meaning the "'vassal's obligation to work the master's land for a small amount of capital.' In 1168 a pilgrim's hospital, un hospidaje de perigrinos, was founded here by Lady Isabel and its church was dedicated to St. Peter. A cemetery was established here for perigrinos that died along the route.
The mornings are colder now, the temperatures reaching forty degrees Fahrenheit or below at night, the sun not warming the earth upon which we tread until roughly nine am. We jam our hands into our coat pockets, Teo actually usually into the pockets of his pants, until we get fifteen minutes or so of walking, until our systems begin to process the fuels inside of us enough to raise our temperatures sufficiently. We watch the sky each morning, looking carefully at the low banks of darker clouds which hug the horizon in the Western sky, our direction of travel, seeking signs indicating rain. For two days running now we get a bit of a female rain during the last hour of our five to six hour march. We get our rain gear on much more rapidly now, needing no communication between us, both dropping our packs, putting on our coats, our rain flies, and only donning rain pants if we have more than forty-five minutes to an hour of walking remaining.
Had an eerie experience today. About sixty percent of the way through our walk, maybe twelve to thirteen klicks in, we approached the town of Cirueña, appearing on the map no different from any other. Sighting the buildings from a couple of klicks away, we could see, as sometimes happens on the edges of the inhabited areas, newer housing, two to four story, laterally spread, squarish apartment buildings with blockish windows, a style not particularly aesthetic in nature. Usually we pass these by, look at the people there, see a bit of how they live, say an 'Ola' or a 'Buenas Tardes' or two, and walk on into the older center of the community. Not this time. I do not think that the word 'community' could be used to describe this place.
It was abandoned. Twilight Zone-ishly empty. Not one or two of the buildins, but all of them. The newly paved and painted streets without moving or parked cars. The balconies and neatly clipped, green lawns devoid of any objects or living creatures. The windows all shuttered with the ubiquitous metal, roll down shades that one sees on about all modern housing. I mean empty. Like neutron bomb empty. Signs reading, 'SE VENDE' (for sale)were posted on every building. And a gorgeous, newly constructed Campo de Golf, a golf course, complete with clubhouse, driving range, all well groomed, professionally tended, empty.
We sort of shook our heads, looked at each other a lot, commented continually on the unreality of it all as we strode through this ghost city of some twenty or more buildings, numerous streets, all empty. To be fair, we did spy a few of the units on one or two of the buildings that appeared lived in, though not a soul to see. Towards the end of this bizarre experience, maybe ten minutes of walking through it, one silver car did drive across the end of one of the avenues. A gorgeous, azure swimming pool, a good sized one, playgrounds, small parks, new streetlights, not only empty but looking never used at all. Too weird. It seems that this entire 'city' was created around this Campo de Golf, some form of resort community, most likely just prior to the collapse of the Spanish economy, El Crisis, as it is simply referred to here.
T and I stopped at the far end of Cirueña, sat at a picnic table next to a newly constructed, chain link fenced in sports court, the surface tennis court looking, though maybe twice the area of a tennis court, with smallish futbol goals at each end, goals that also had basketball hoops built into the top of the crossbar. We had our lunch here, pan, or baguette, bought this morning, salmon patè, onions, tomato, lettuce, butter, blueberry preserves, mustard, cheese, thinly sliced Jamon Serano (mountain ham), think prosciutto. We tend to lay out what we got, smorgasbord style, then slice up bread and eat whatever bits of the above stuff we are feeling at e time. I drank a can of San Miguel cerveza, we put on our outer coats and hats because, despite a nice sun, the cold wind, even at one o'clock, evaporates the sweat impregnating our quick dry shirts, chilling us right away. The wind on our trip has always come from the south or southwest, our left front quarter usually.
By the end of a day of walking both of us tend to have sore feet; we strode into Grañon, sat in the square, trying to decide if we wanted to stay at the municipal albergue, housed, the guidebook stated, next to the church, or in a privado. Wifi existed in the plaza next to the church, and we were resting our feet, me puffing a cigarette, blowing a fag, as I like to say! when Julia walked by, coming from behind the church on her way to the local bar. Some guy making her feel uncomfortable had laid his thin mattress, one of those that are provided for the perigrinos in the albergue, next to hers, despite there being an entirely empty floor in the loft space up in the top of the albergue, in the part of the church called perhaps the rectory, what would be the living quarters of persons living there. Apparently he went on and on about being a reincarnated Templar Knight, showing his Templar Cross tattoos, etc., and she hoped we'd join her to help ward him off.
T and I checked into the donativo, meaning you pay only what you want/can, in the Iglesia de San Juan de Bautista, St. John the Baptist. The stay includes a collectively prepared dinner, a place to sleep, and breakfast. Five Euros is what we each put into the small, old, wooden box. There was, and this is unique in our experience as perigrinos, no stamp to put into our Credenciales ; later, after the voluntary meditation, we would be told that here in Grañon the experience is 'different,' that the stamp is put 'onto your heart.'
I got to tell you that this place was really something, like exploring a medieval castle, well, it was in fact very, very much that way, as it was built in medieval times and was a church as well as a fortress. Walking in the ground floor entrance from the backside of the church, one enters a stone doorway and sees a spiral stone stairway going up and around, up what is the very bottom of the bell tower of the church. Other doorways occasionally appear, pitch black inside them, leading who knows where. It was a trip!
Teo and I look at each other, nod, grinning, fist bump, as we ascend, reaching a large window opening with about a three and a half foot platform, the sill, if you will, the platform being the width of the exterior wall, where we were expected to leave our walking shoes (most perigrinos have flip flops or some such to wear inside albergues, leaving the dirt and grime of their shoes outside of the living/sleeping quarters).
Then smallish doors labeled as duches (showers) and baños appeared as we took a right into the main living area, a magnificent surprise as it opened up, after about a fifteen to twenty foot hallway, into a twenty something foot tall angled ceiling, being the underside, obviously, of the sloped roof of the church. Exposed, hand hewn, dark brown beams, irregular in shape, filled in between with a form of whitewashed, hand troweled concrete, framed the room, top and sides, the floor being maple syrup brown planks, shiny as though waxed. A large corner fireplace to the left, long dining table off to the right, like the main hall of a lodge, not, however, as I am used to, a stunning replica of a comfortable, long lived in, medieval space, but the actual place itself.
After we supped together, twelve of is, we all aided in the cleaning and putting away of the remaining food and the dishes. Then after a break of perhaps fifteen minutes, we were asked to join in a meditation. Thinking it would be in the same room that we ate in, assuming that it would be a bit, and boy, in retrospect do I feel like an asshole about this, cheesy, I kind of wanted to duck the whole thing, go outside, have a canned beer, a smoke, work on the day's blog entry. Outside, having a smoke, the gentle woman who ran the place also smoking, asked if I was coming, 'ten minutes only.' Yeah, I'm thinking, right, but what could I do? Figured I'd suffer through it, call it a cultural 'experience.'
As the experience is, of this writing, not but ten minutes done, having written this portion of my blog immediately afterwards to capture what I could, as purely as I could, I hardly yet have given time for the manifestation of the proper manner in which to express what just happened. One of those things that happen in life that mere words do not in any fashion allow one to convey to another. Sure, you're thinking, right, hyperbole, exaggeration. Folks, this one jumped straight into the top ten experiences I can remember ever having been fortunate enough to participate in. The birth of my children being the top two. Perhaps with that gravitas added to the description, front loading it as it were, you can more properly prepare yourself for what I am going to do my feeble best to explain.
I'll try better to set the stage, introduce tonight's players, perhaps. There's the Innkeeper, a sixty year old woman with frizzy, reddish-brown hair pulled together in back, an engaging smile, eyes usually smiling, internally content; an Italian thirty year old woman, gregarious, smily; Richard and his wife, oriental looking but good English speakers who reside in Montreal, he in IT; two Spanish brothers from Cataluña, Diego, sort of a loud mouth, funny guy who Julia asked me to save her from as he set up his mat on the floor that sleeps about twenty, immediately next to hers before anyone else arrived; and Davíd, a goofy guy, who generously introduced himself to me as T and I were sitting out in front of the church using wifi a bit before we began to prepare, collectively, for our dinner; they arrived with their friend, whose name escapes me, from Rio de Janeiro; another gentleman whose name also I do not know, perhaps fifty-seven, who played great Pink Floyd, Neil Young, Stairway to Heaven, before dinner with Davíd, who is a mean mo' fo' on the guitar as well; a fifty-ish year old female German national who seemed to be helping the Innkeeper, perhaps living here. Teo, myself, and Julia rounded out the group.
After prepping dinner, Teo and Julia and I cutting veggies for salad and for a rice dish that Diego was to make, we all attended mass in the church below us. I asked Julia upstairs in the loft where we all sleep, 'It would be rude for me not to go, yeah?' She replies, 'I'm gonna go because it seems like a great experience to have." Sound advice. So I went.
Walking in I about dropped my jaw to my breastbone. The gilded backdrop for the altar is about twenty five feet high, maybe twenty wide; I counted seventy five carved figures in the various scenes portrayed upon it. Angels. Jesus in various stages of his ministry, being carried to the cross, etc., the lighting on it Hollywood good. The figures about sixty-five percent scale. Roman soldiers, apostles, the whole New Testament deal. And the vaulted arches so high overhead, the ten or so rows of old pews, oiled to a smoky, dark perfection by the oils from the hands of God only knows (right?) church attendees over the centuries.
As we walk in Julia turns to me, says, unexpectedly, 'So when are you going to come visit me in Germany?' My response was something not really memorable, taken aback as I was, but a vague, will talk about that sort of thing. We two sat towards the front, off to the right side, sort of giggling, yet in awe of the scene laid out before us. Apart from the perigrinos, perhaps six women in their sixties, dressed conservatively, oler lady hair and all, sat between and around us.
When the Padre, a silver haired man with glasses, dressed in a white with a green and gold cloth draped across his shoulders, in his sixties, took his place behind the altar, when he began to proceed with the mass, it was on. A wonderful mass, ending with all of us Camineros forming a half circle before him, receiving his blessings directly, then we were dismissed. Although my personal beliefs do not stand with monotheists in general, it was a very beautiful, serene, important experience.
Dinner happened next. A semi raucous event, as the three Latin gentlemen provided a bit of a show, remarking, laughing, teasing, perhaps to a level that, at times bordered on the inappropriate. I have no doubt but that they had redeeming qualities, it was just a bit difficult for me to discern what they might be. Honestly, at that point I sort of wanted not much more than to come outside and write. We had salad, little pizza type breasd items, wine, the mushroom, pepper, and rice dish, bread. The meditation was explained here at this time, and it felt kind of like, okay, so when do I get some time to either talk with Julia, or to write-when do I get time to do what I want? Ironically, and certainly there is a big lesson here, what transpired during the meditation that followed the clean up from our meal was so, so much more what I wanted, but hadn't a clue that I wanted, than possibly I could ever have imagined.
The last town that Teo and I passed through, some 5.9 klicks passed the ghost city ofCirueña, was Santo Domingo de la Calzada, St. Dominic of the road, owes its title to the man credited with improving the physical route of the pilgrims, by building many of the roads and bridges that form the Camino. He lived in the 11th century, so that, of course, much more work has been done since his passing. Born in 1019 in a town we would not pass for another day, Villamayor del Río, he was alleged to have been turned away from the monastery in San Millán due to his illiteracy.
So I went in and followed the group into a balcony type room overlooking the floor of the church below. Located above the door to the church, the altar and the backdrop of the altar well lit at the far end of the church, candles aflame and placed on the little armrest type of shelves that separated each wooden seat that lined the three walls of the room, all part of a wooden bench created for this one purpose, old and identical in color and age, to the pews below. It was a magical scene, us perigrinos took our seats, all next to one another,with Davíd and his guitar, the Innkeeper, and the German lady seated in front of us on a low bench situated directly next to the railings overlooking the apse of the church below.
Davíd began to play the guitar in a simple, melodic manner as the German woman explained what would happen in English and then the Innkeeper in Spanish. We would pass a candle around the room, and each person would say, if they wanted to, why they were doing the Camino, then hand the flame to the person to their left. The sound created by Davíd's talented fingers resonated inside the smaller space of our balcony room, a space maybe twenty by twelve feet, and the larger space of the maybe forty foot high vaulted ceiling of the church below as well.
We each took turns speaking in a language of our choosing. Italian, Spanish, English, German. As many reasons as perigrinos. When it got to me, last in line, I spoke in Spanish. 'I came on the Camino because I needed to process many big changes in my life. I also came to spend time with my son that I may not get another chance to do." A silence followed. Then the Innkeeper walked slowly, quietly to me, removed the candle from my hand, took it with her to her seat between the German lady and Davíd. At this point the guitar playing rose in volume, filling the space, filling us with a sound that was maybe more spiritual power, or, and here is where it becomes difficult to both interpret for myself and to describe to you, something else that I have not yet experienced and can neither quantify or qualify in any language other than 'la lengua de las alma's,' the language of the soul. Harmonious, a sound like the rushing of a bathtub warm creek over and through me, the strings of his instrument flowing, caressing, altering my consciousness in a, dare I say it, divine manner.
He began to sing, a soft and then louder, then softer again Spanish mewing, an intensely emotional, vibrant, honey like fluid that came and went, high pitched at one moment, richer and lower at others. For maybe five minutes, though my ability to understand or measure time at this point becomes useless and inaccurate. Davíd came on this trip largely because of the passing of his father, the date of his father's passing being tattooed into a cross laid inside of a circle on the inside of his right forearm. His heart poured through his vocal chords, his mouth, his fingers, the vibrating strings of the guitar which he will carry with him to Santiago de Compostela. His passion and truth and emotion transmogrified into a song played for us amidst the glowing light of about twenty candles, amongst the souls of the twelve of us disciples arranged like some biblical tale around him.
After he finished, there was not a sound, nobody had any intention of attempting to change the immaculate energy of that perfect, sublimely spiritual happening. Soon the Innkeeper softly spoke, inviting us to stand up and to leave. Yet who could do so? Who could change this? Who could remove themselves from this time, this place, this moment? As though we had all just finished making love with our creator, not wanting to get up, lingering in the afterglow of what we all knew to be a most singular, never to be repeated event.
We were then encouraged to hug each other, so we did. In that candle glow, in that mostly dark space, we walked around, greeting, shaking our heads in disbelief at that which we experienced. Big, lasting hugs, smiles, connection. Diego, when I went to hug him, redeemed himself in my view, expressed that we should hug right arm over one another's shoulders, not the opposite, as I had begun, so that it would be, 'corazòn a corazòn.' When the embracing ended, over the course of a minute, two, three, who can say, we all shuffled, intoxicated with the strong elixir of the experience, to the railing, to stare at the gilded works at the far end of the apse, some seventy or eighty feet away, to allow it all to soak in, to marinate in it. And then he did it again. Davíd struck up another song, not a hymn per se, but another creation, a sculpture of sound, an homage to honor the place within all of us that hadn't been before and could never be again.
Staring at the space below, at the lace like stone work of the balustrade on the stone stairs running from the left side of the balcony to the floor. Elbow to elbow, adjacent, we stared that thousand yard stare, at one another, at the gilded works created centuries before to honor the Catholic God, at Davíd, as he took his heart from within his breast, passed it around to each of us, some crying now, and then, in closing, carefully, tenderly placed it back inside, like the rest of us, changed forever.
I had explained earlier to the Italian woman and to the a Innkeeper, whilst we three smoked together in the courtyard between dinner and the meditaciòn, that I write of my daily experiences, mixing them with history, my emotional state, what I see. As I moved trance like to the door leading out of the meditation room, back and up to where we ate, the Innkeeper said to me, 'Now you have something to write about?"
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