Camino de Santiago, part I

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Maybe not the worst of times. Although we were in France no one was likely to be beheaded, but I was tired the moment we stepped off the bus, and dw was going strong and got stronger as the day progressed. In any case at one o'clock we started walking from St. Jean Pied de Port, France,  on August 20th, my birthday.

The flight from Portland to Madrid was normal: Yin and Yang: bad to New York, and fine to Madrid (on the Madrid leg, we had a Van Johnson clone for a cabin steward). We got to Madrid early enough to do a little sight seeing, have a light breakfast and coffee, and buy a pre-paid cell phone. After wandering around a bit, we went to the Atocha train station, admired the enclosed tropical garden, found our gate, sat and had a moment of contentment until we thought we should get out our passports. (After the bombing of a few years ago, Atocha, and many other transport hubs and museums in Spain have airport like security). PANIC. dw didn't have her passport.

But we knew where it was: she used it at the phone store when we bought the cell phone. They took it, photocopied it, and forgot to give it back. Nothing underhanded and they had tried to call us -- twice. We heard the phone ring, it was on, but we thought it was just an ad (Buy More Time, Only E3.95). No one we wanted to talk with even knew we had a phone and certainly wouldn't be calling so of course we ignored the ring.

We only had 30 minutes before the train would leave. dw said she didn't really remember where the store was. I remembered and said I would go. dw pointed out (rightly) that she could run faster than I, so she would go, and off she went. Just outside the station, she saw a taxi and being clever hopped in: Indicating please hurry.
     When she got there, she asked him to wait (All in Spanish): "Wait, is that what you mean? Why do you want me to wait? Are you Sure?"
      "Yes, Yes, don't move, stop. Have a beer, coffee, churro,  whatever -- just don't leave!"
     She ran in, got the passport, thanked them for trying to call, and ran back to the taxi, waving the passport. And then the taxi driver understood the urgency so the ride back was exciting: through alleys, over sidewalks, banging aside garbage cans, scaring pedestrians, pushing other cars to get them to move, mowing down bushes and errant newsstands (in other words, normal Madrid driving)  -- he got his fee and a very nice tip. And she got back to the station with 10 minutes to spare.

And it was a good thing. The "big scary moment" of the trip was already over and done.

Next stop Pamplona where we spent the night. Again we wandered around a bit: walked part of the street where the bulls run -- a scary thought: it's narrow and slick -- (curiously, there's a burger place half-way along the run -- perhaps to further inspire the bulls -- "You might eat me later, but I'm going to get at least one of you suckers right now!") In the morning we took a bus from Pamplona to St. Jean, looked around St Jean a bit, bought some food (bread, cheese, cookies and peanuts) and started walking the Napoleon start.

      For the rest of the day, dw pranced along: mooed at cows, sang with the birds, talked with dogs, flirted with cats, smelled the flowers, and enjoyed the scenery; I slogged. I sweated profusely. I counted steps. I decided it wasn't my fault, my body was psychologically rebelling at being 71. I frequently stopped to take pictures. In short I suffered mightily, but bravely, and after a whole 7.5 miles we came to our first stop -- Orisson.

Our first albergue: Orisson, and it was a wonderful experience. First, there were no beds available, but there were four tents pitched in the back: Would one of them do? And yes, it would do because the alternatives were to backtrack three miles, or continue on to Roncevalles -- an additional 11 miles. The tent was very good: three man size, thick mattress covering the floor -- with sheets, blankets, and pillows provided.
     At dinner, the wine flowed like water.
     A continuing birthday party was going on (and had been for most of the day). After the birthday-boy was serenaded with "Happy Birthday" dw told our table that it was also my birthday, and I also got serenaded: "Happy Birthday" sung in English, German, Italian, Spanish, French, Basque and Polish -- it was a kick.
     At dinner we met, and mostly talked with, two Germans (40 or 50) -- Bernt and Ulrich -- we continued to run into each other for the next two weeks, and at the end in Santiago. And we talked a lot with two young Italian girls (15 or so), both named Sophia -- they were very nice  young people -- Walking with their families and just doing the first part of the walk. (We met them again in Los Arcos -- which was the end of their walk) --

It was an exceptional birthday day for me. No cake, but the second biggest celebration, and doubtless the most memorable birthday I ever expect to have.

BOOKS:  Living to Tell the Tale -- Gabriel Garcia Marquez. The first volume of his autobiography. If you're a fan of Marquez, this is required reading. Particularly interesting to me is how much of his fiction and fantasy was firmly based on people and locations in his (real) life. This volume stops when he proposed to his wife, and before he became internationally famous. Also -- Strange Pilgrims -- a collection of some of Marquez's short works.

NATURAL HISTORY: Giant desert tortoises can run as fast as one mph.

JOKE: A guy walks into a dentist's office and says: "You gotta help me doc, I think I'm a moth."
And the dentist says: "I can't help you I'm a dentist,  you need to see a psychiatrist."
The guy said: "I know, I already am."
"So what are doing here?" asked the dentist.
"Well," the guy said, "your light was on."      and so it goes.