Made it to León. Once again I am going to compress a couple of days into one piece, from Calzadilla de Los Hermanillos the 25 kilometers to Mansilla de Las Mulas and yesterday's 21 kms to León. T and I are staying in a small, clean hotel in the heart of the old city, and what a truly charming, utterly beautiful area it is. Guzmán el Bueno is the name of the hotel and it is costing us forty euros, twenty apiece, per night. We have had great times getting here, and great times already in the short time we've been here, but, frankly, I see our mission here in this historic city as getting Tdog a new pair of shoes, right, ones made for WALKING!
Let's drag the timeline bar back towards the left a bit, say to three nights ago. There we go, are we all on the same page now? What you should see on your screen is Teo, Menno, and I walking into a little pueblo about one hour before dark, walking up an almost entirely deserted Calle Mayor, the Main Street, searching for an albergue with quizzical expression on our faces. If this is in fact what you see, then you are in the right place and we can all go ahead and press the play button. Everybody set? Okay, let's go.
Our three stalwart protagonists pass one closed albergue, the private one, the sun low in the sky, the temperture dropping, the houses and streets uneasily empty. As they move another block towards the center of the four to five block long community, a German Sheppard, alone in his yard, behind the low fence of a home that hasn't any lights on, begins barking animatedly, continuously, ominously. The three make nervous jokes about the scene, continue on, looking for the municipal albergue listed in the guide book, the one that is open all year round. The youngest of them spots it first, up ahead, he tells the others, on the left.
The door is closed, there is no response to repeated knocking, nor is there any illumination inside any of the windows. The door is not locked, the intrepid explorers enter, it is cold and it is completely uninhabited, the guest list devoid of entries for some three days now. Puzzled, the guide book is consulted and, praise be spoken, a Casa Rural, the only other accommodation listed, exists at the far edge of town. Pushing on, zipping up their outerwear against the chill of the coming darkness, the dog again barking, the streets empty in all directions.
There it is, the tall edifice at the far corner of the last road, and they move for it. A tall, wrought iron gate pushes open and back, the three walk through, nerves a bit frayed now, a sense of urgency dropping down around them like the bars of a cage. They knock, expecting, by this point, for no one to answer. To their surprise, a dark haired woman of maybe thirty-seven, answers, beckons them inside. She is pleasant, yet somehow a bit preoccupied, uneasy. Are there rooms available, they query her. She nods, a smile pasted on her countenance. The cost? Cuarenta euros, forty, she tells them. It is too much, they agree. Is there any place open for dinner, the hungry, tired men ask. She nods, we serve a pilgrim's menu for ten euros, but, she says, looking them one by one in the eye, it is not the usual pilgrim's menu.
Right then a man of about forty-five, dressed in a chef's coat, humming and singing to himself, strolls past, a gay air about him, and behind a standing screen, into the kitchen he moves. After a brief huddle, the travelers decide to sleep in the abandoned municipal albergue, and, having no other prospects for food, inform the woman that they will be back for the meal.
Braving the increasing cold and wind, the men make it back to the deserted municipal building, go inside, find beds, change from walking clothes to evening wear, and decide to walk quickly through the only other blocks of the town not yet explored in order to ascertain if the words of the woman at the Casa Rural were indeed correct, that there was nothing to eat aside from another pilgrim's meal, the results of such often being far less than satisfactory. After a brief jaunt, the camineros resign themselves to heading back to the abode at the far end of town, itself also bereft of any other travelers. She had said it was unusual and that it was really good, the blonde man reminds the others. Sure she did, said the oldest of the three, but then what would she say if it were not true, that here at our establishment the food is not particularly good or uncommon?
The proprietress seats the three at one table in the otherwise empty dining area. At least it is plenty warm, they remark one to another. The strange, seemingly mirth filled man in the white coat practically skips by occasionally as they are brought a savory appetizer of various setas, mushrooms, sautéed in olive oil, onions, garlic, and hierbas. A denser than normal, chewy, hearty basket of bread is served along with the dish. Eyebrows raise. This is the first pilgrim's meal to include this course. The three order their primero y segundo plates, pasta bolognese for the first, chicken as the second for the older gentleman, squid for the other two. The former had warned the latter two that squid is too often rubbery, over cooking being the cause of the ruin of most seafood.
The pasta comes. It is very, very good. It is freshly boiled, the sauce gorgeous, braised hamburger in a rich gravy, aromatic, and served with a bowl of freshly shredded Parmesan cheese. This would be the first pasta dish served in any pilgrim's meal over the past month that has not been quite obviously microwaved, the sauce a thin, red liquid from a jar or a can. It is a lot of food, and the three all agree that they have already even a more than filing, wondrous meal when la señora removes the plates and brings us our entrées. These are more than surprisingly good. The three men groan and do another toast to 'la vida buena.' The squid is the consistency of well cooked, tender, thin slices of chicken. Something never before experience by any of the three.
The city of León was first established as an encampment for the Roman VI Victrix Legion two thousand years ago, in 29 B.C. The name of the city, in fact, is a modernized bastardization of the word 'legion.' Over the centuries it became the capital city of the kingdom of Asturias and the kingdom of León. Conquered by the Muslim armies during the Umayyad Conquest in 715, having moved west from the area of La Rioja, León was returned to Christian control in 856 by the armies under Ordoño I.
Alphonso III and Garcia I made León the capital of the kingdom of León. In 1188, King Alphonso IX brought together personages from the kingdoms of León, Castile, and Leonese Extremadura to León to participate in the first Parliament in the history of Europe. The building that this transpired in is a half block from where we stay and less from where we enjoy game four of our Bloodbowl tournament, over a beer and a glass of Jameson's and a plate of sheep milk cheese, queso de oveja, with nuts, nueces. It is caled the Palacio de Guzmán, like the name of our hotel.
Although now a part of the Autonomous Community of Castile y León, it is easy to see that people who live in the Province of León do not consider themselves a part of anything other than León. In a small shop getting some comestibles, Tdog pointed out to me a label from some food product that had been pasted up on the wall; there was printed across the bottom of the label the place of origin--it stated 'producto de Castille y León,' except that it had been altered by the shopkeeper, who had placed a bit of masking tape over the two words 'Castille y.' This type of provincial pride is evidenced often as we have tramped through this center of European history and culture.
After the main course, we are wondering what will happen for the postre, the dessert. So far, out of a solid ten to twelve pilgrim's meals, there has not been one solidly good dessert. Mostly it is ice cream, which, disappointedly enough, means a 7-11 type of prepackaged, plastic cup filled with swirly, colored bullshit, air whipped something. Brian, the guy you may remember from a couple of weeks past, looked at it, laughed, said, "This isn't ice cream," and never touched it. Half way through this meal I said aloud, "it will be interesting, a real test, if you will, to see what passes for postres here."
Then she appeared. "Lemon mousse, arroz con leche de Cabra, or ice cream." We knew the ice cream trick already, chose the otros. Two lemon mousses, one arroz con leche. The mousse, perhaps more of a light pudding, tart, sweet, a delicate sprinkle of sweet, crushed, toasted almond on top; the rice with sheep's milk cold, rich beyond description, the texture of the rice not soggy, still chewy, sprinkle of cinnamon
Throughout the meal, punctuating our evening with concise, rapid fire questions, comments, is the cook, the husband, sort of the jester--you know, the clown who carries the real insight, the funny counsel behind the King. Bald on top, very short dark hair in a tonsure like crown, big, expressive, surprisingly pale blue/grey eyes, light skinned. Turns out he is Cuban, came to Spain twenty two years ago. He is loud more in body language than voice, a young colt socially, awkward almost, but dignified still. He loves to cook, it flows out in how he describes the dishes. "Tu eres un artiste, señor!" I tell him, he looks like a shy boy, eyes almost closed with laughter, shakes his head as if to say, "No, no."
At the end of the meal he talks with us. After we praise him, tell him that his pilgrim's meal is a different category--there are all the others over here, showing with my hand a lower grouping, and then there is your meal, up here. He is so pleased. Tells us that it costs most people three to four euros to make their meals, he only has to spend four or five, barely more, to make his Ritz Carlton meals. Somehow or another we get to talking about Americans, and I, quick to distance myself from the mainstream American, express that we are not 'that type of American, we are the other kind.' He does this absurd, hyperbolic mime of one kind of American, the soldier, and the 'other kind,' peace sign, slit eyed, putting a flower in the barrel of the soldier's rifle. Laughing, he points at me, Menno also points at me, nodding, 'yes, he is that kind.' Teo smiling, less comfortable publicly with this, sort of is like, 'yup, that's my dad.'
He leaves, we finish spooning the ambrosia in our bowls into our mouths, prepare to pay and leave. From the back of the Casa Rural el Señor returns, walks next to where I sit, sidling up to my left side, crouching to be not much taller than me, lays his bare below the rolled up sleeve of the chef coat right forearm against mine, which is on the table. Now both of our arms, from the elbow down, are adjacent, can feel the heat of his skin on mine, he points to the wedding ring on his left hand, puts his finger over his mouth, shhh, then to the back room--at which point, remembering the hotel owner grabbing my breasts, get a strange flash through my head. It is precisely at this point that he begins to slide his right arm, still touching mine from elbow to wrist, along my arm in the direction of our bodies, his palm cupped, downward facing. My eyes fix on this scene, slow motion, something funny happens with the lights, like magic, a shimmying, his arm moving still slowly, his hand coming down past my wrist now, revealing some illusion behind. My eyes take what was probably two seconds, felt like four or five, to focus on the trimmed, emerald green, irregular shape of a marijuana bud on the table before me.
"Oh, wow! Señor." Amazement. Look up at him, he is cracking up, still looking a bit shy. Menno, slapping his hands together, cracking up, 'Yes, he's that type of guy!' Teo laughing, somewhat embarrassed of this whole thing, I suppose, of me. I thank him, am more stunned than anything else. I get the 'shhh' now, not to tell his wife that he gave us some. The whole thing went down like a magic trick, his arm next to mine, sleeve rolled up, nothing up his sleeve, points at the other hand, the slow reveal, the inability of my eyes to understand what they perceived.
There must be a lesson embedded within this story of wary travelers finding what they do not expect to find. There must be some wisdom sprinkled through this tale. Like you, I search for it. What I can find, I certainly will share with you, dear reader, and you, please, with me. Perhaps it is this: our daily lives instruct us often enough in how to prejudge our world just enough to not choose it. Thus we spend too many of our years afraid, wrapped in our cloak of clever certainty; rather safe, as they say, than sorry. Yet in the end, in the final analysis, it is precisely our sorryness, our sorrow, our regret, that we carry too much of with us as we stumble towards our last sunset.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Location:Calle Ancha,Leon,Spain
No comments:
Post a Comment