Lafayette, We Are Here

I'm Walking to New Orleans   (The songs in this entry are all longer. I won't mind -- and won't know -- if anyone skips all or part of the music.)

As we were walking down Bourbon Street I asked dw: "Did you see that naked green woman?" And she replied: "I didn't notice her."
    I certainly noticed the naked green woman. She was pretty, young, petite with definite curves; wearing sandals, a very very tiny butt-floss bikini bottom, shamrock pasties and nothing else except a coat of shamrock-green body paint -- from her toes to the top of her hair-in-a-bun. She was the vanguard for the New Orleans St Patrick's Day Parade.
   "If she had been a green near-naked George Clooney with shamrock pasties, I bet you would have noticed." I thought, as we approached the Angry Baby.

We had driven from Wisconsin to Lafayette, Louisiana  and later New Orleans to watch and cheer on Steve -- dw's brother -- who was running his 50th state marathon. (not his 50th marathon, he -- and his SO Kay have run more than 50 -- including some 50K and 100K runs) But this run would complete his "marathon in every state" goal. (Kay made the same goal two years earlier)

The drive itself was mildly pretty in spots, but mostly uninteresting until we got to Louisiana itself where we had to detour west to avoid flooding. For miles the elevated freeway was isolated, with on and off ramps flooded -- flat land, no drainage and very heavy rain -- there were many roads closed but no one seemed to think it was a disaster -- just an inconvenience. Apparently when you live in hurricane country a bit of flooding is just a chance to use your piroque to go grocery shopping.

When we got to Lafayette we went to a tourist info office (5 minutes waiting in the car for a particularly heavy rain shower to pass), collected a city map and some brochures for things to do, checked in at our motel, and then connected with Steve, Kay, and the rest of his cheering section. Steve had arranged for housing and t-shirts for all of us -- one of the posse was a home brewer and had brought two excellent beers, others contributed assorted food stuff as well as other beers and wine -- moderation ruled as several (besides Steve and Kay) were running the marathon -- it was  a fun party.

dw and I enjoyed exploring Lafayette. The Martin Zydeco accordion factory was closed but we peeked through the windows of the non descript wooden building -- and couldn't see anything. We visited the fine University of Louisiana art museum which was featuring a collection of Haitian art -- which both dw and I really like, and a collection of haute couture dresses made with pages from romance novels -- amazingly detailed. And we visited the cathedral, which is nice, unusual, and which probably wasn't built with slave labor or enforced financial contributions, which makes it even better. From what we could see Lafayette doesn't have much in the way of interesting architecture or old buildings but it is an attractive city with an alive city center.
    The morning of the marathon (officially:  Zydeco Marathon & 1/2) we all collected and escorted the runners to the starting line. The temperature was pleasantly cool and awesomely humid (condensation was literally running off walls) -- but -- at least for someone who wasn't running -- it seemed like a good day for a run. (later Steve said the weather at the start was fine and later, as it got warmer, the humidity decreased so the whole run was at least tolerable) After a bit of breakfast, the cheering section met at the half-way point with beers, bells, and zydeco music. After the last runner passed we then collected at the finish line (because of the layout of the run and street closures it wasn't practical to cheer at another location).

    One of the more interesting runners was a woman pushing a runner's stroller (with toddler) -- as she passed and we cheered her on, she noticed John holding a stadium cup of beer. She asked: "Hey, have you got another one of those?" so he gave her his cup. She chugged it, belched, returned the cup, said "Thanks"  and ran on -- she got an extra vigorous cheer. A fun day for all of us.
     After crossing the finish line, Steve and Kay didn't seem tired, and in fact did a brief dance step or three. Amazing I think. Even more amazing, after a shower and a bit of food, several of the group -- including Steve, Kay, two other runners, and dw and I -- went to Whiskey River for some zydeco music and dancing.

Whiskey River, on the La Rose Bayou (Blue Bayou), is a dance hall/bar and on that afternoon featured "Geno Delafous and the French Rockin' Boogie" -- My Zydeco Shoes -- It was a hoppin' joint. The band had the accordion of course, plus a guitar, drummer, triangle, washboard and a five string electric bass player. The five-string bass is something I've never seen before so on one turn around the floor, I guided dw right up to the band stand to see if I was imagining something, but it was indeed a five string guitar. dw and I danced several dances. I remembered, well enough, how to waltz, and a standard Texas two-step fit the proper zydeco so we (I) managed not to be embarrassing. We didn't try the line dancing as that seemed to require knowing what you were doing.

    A fun evening. Whiskey River had one bartender who was noted for jumping over the bar to sort out miscreants, another (Alberta) who was noted for being awesomely slow, and an outside food cart (Whiskey River Ambassador) who was noted for telling customers that his food was inexpensive (it wasn't), and better than anything you could get in town (it really wasn't). I didn't notice anyone who got drunk enough to swallow his line (it was hard enough to swallow the food) but there was nothing  else available to eat.

The day after Whiskey River, several of the group moved on to cabins at Lake Fausse Pointe State Park (again arranged by Steve) where we spent a relaxed two days: Watched alligators -- little guys we could have rassled had we wanted; took some easy walks -- avoiding the extensive flooding and heeding the signs that warned of water moccasins; and noted a variety of birds, one deer and some small beasts (who also managed to avoid the water moccasins) and some butterweed flowers -- A very pleasant time with friends and family -- hanging out in a cabin built over the water.

After Lake Fausse, Steve, Kay, dw and I, toured Avery Island -- home of McIlhenny Tabasco Sauce. As we drove up, it was obvious that Avery Island isn't an island, rather it's a hill. A hill? In the Mississippi delta? That seems unreasonable. But it's actually the top of a large salt dome which was mined before and during the Civil War. We toured the Tabasco factory and the extensive grounds which were lovely with lakes, small bayous, live oaks with Spanish moss, a large snowy egret rookery, and assorted statuary. We got a small bite to eat at the bad cafeteria. Got some samples of Tabasco ice cream at the gift shop (way better than you would think) And in all enjoyed another relaxing day.

    This was the end of our marathon celebration: Steve and Kay moved on to a cruise ship (Galveston) and dw and I drove to Chauvin (SW of New Orleans) to see a sculpture garden -- and then to New Orleans with the naked green lady and the Angry Baby.

New Orleans was interesting and we wished we had spent more time there. The French Quarter was appropriately seedy and gearing up for a St. Patrick's Day Parade. (our lunchtime waiter: "Oh, yeah. St. Patrick's parade is our second biggest one. There's not an Irishman within five hundred miles but we use any excuse for a parade and drink.") At Napoleon House we had an excellent gumbo for lunch. (Napoleon House was offered as a refuge for Napoleon during his exile -- he didn't make it, but the name stuck) We could have tried gator, but decided against that: (at the tourist office) "Get fresh gumbo, it's really good almost everywhere. If you have to try gator, get it grilled not fried. Fried is awful."

    We walked the Warehouse Arts District and enjoyed some really good galleries. And of course we walked the French Quarter. I thought of getting some beads by threatening to show my hairy old moobs but decided against it. I enjoyed the green woman, and we both noted the angry baby -- who was a guy in shoes, a diaper, and a large pumpkin sized baby head. When you took his picture he would assume an aggressive stance and double flip you off.
    We were too early for much live music. Naturally the bars were playing music but the live bands wouldn't start for an hour or more after we needed to leave. There were a few street bands but they were really terrible -- I've heard better here in Portland (I think we just had bad luck with the street bands) -- they were bad and were playing against each other so what you heard was dissonant cacophony -- so unpleasant we weren't even slightly tempted to stay and listen.

     And finally, on the way back to Wisconsin, we stopped at Carthage, Illinois and visited our grandson, Shane.
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Louisiana sent a 122 pound sweet potato as one exhibit to the 1901 Buffalo, NY Worlds Fair
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RUNNING TO PARADISE   W.B. Yeats

As I came over Windy Gap
They threw a halfpenny into my cap,
For I am running to Paradise.
And all that I need do is to wish,
And somebody puts his hand in the dish
To throw me a bit of salted fish,
And there the king is but as the beggar.

My brother Mourteen is worn out
With skelping his big brawling lout
While I am running to Paradise.
A poor life, do what he can,
And though he keep a dog and a gun,
A serving maid and a serving man,
And there the king is but as the beggar.

Poor man have grown to be rich men,
And rich men grown to be poor again,
While I am running to Paradise.
And many a darling wit's grown dull
That tossed a bare heel when at school;
Now it has filled an old sock full
And there the king is but as the beggar.
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Tigers have striped skin. They need it, so when they go punk and shave off all of their hair, they'll still have stripes.
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Pyramidion: The capstone of a pyramid.
Jirble: To spill a liquid by shaking or unsteady movement. i.e. -- At dinner this evening, I nearly jirbled my wine.
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So a horse walked into a bar and ordered a drink. The bartender said: "You know, you come in here pretty often, are you an alcoholic?"
   The horse answered: "I think not." and disappeared.
This, of course, is a joke concerning the philosopher Descartes and his famous dictum: "I think, therefore I am."
   I could have explained that first, but that would have been putting Descartes before de horse.

What do you call an alligator wearing a vest? -- An investigator.
________________________________
And so it goes. DJA



  

 

Extra! Extra! Read All About It!

I believe many people are interested in what actors earn: I did a quick calculation, and as an extra on "Portlandia" -- ignoring carried over earned interest, debentures, and the P/E ratio -- and assuming I can get a similar role every week, I'll be a millionaire in 300 years.
  
The appropriate theme song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_BObK59njSg

I saw a brief news article which mentioned that extras were being hired for "Portlandia". I have watched and enjoyed the show a few times, even though we don't have cable -- and I thought I had a good idea of what being an extra would entail -- and I was sort of correct: but it was more boring than I anticipated.
     I went online, filled out the form with the requested head shot and a full length shot, and to my surprise was notified within a week that a slot was available if I wanted it. After another three days, the agent told me of the time and place and said I should wear business casual. And paying close attention to that was a mistake, I would have been better off if I had gone for a bit of a scruffy look, and worn my beret -- which I considered but decided against.

The episode I was in will air sometime between January and March -- it is possibly episode number three in the new season -- the particular skit concerns a 90's vegan restaurant (we were requested not to reveal any particulars)

I arrived at the extra assembly point at 1PM but being on time wouldn't have mattered much, as I didn't get called to the actual shooting location until about 6PM (but being on time is always good) First we filled out normal new employee paperwork (SS#, tax stuff) which surprised me as I assumed the extras would be considered contract people, responsible for their own taxes and withholding, and not as regular employees (much easier for the production company). I assume the difference is because of some union contract (as a good union guy, I'm not complaining) After that we were photographed by an assistant using a smart phone, and I'm sure the photos were sent to a woman ten feet away sitting in front of a laptop (probably the extra casting director).  After laptop mixing and matching and some modest costume changes (there were 16 extras) we were divided into three groups and again photographed.

The assembly area took up the parking spaces on two sides of the street: four 8X8 canopies (one with the laptop woman) a rented box van, five 3X8 folding tables with chairs, three motor homes (one with a bump out thing), each with a generator, and two port-a-pottys  -- for crew only -- except we extras ignored that sign -- the "crew only" bit was the only questionable thing I saw. Some of the extras (me, for one) were sitting there for 5 hours and we weren't supposed to pee?

At two PM we were told we could break for lunch (which was provided) at a nearby pizza place. We had to wait until the regular crew got their food (buffet style) which didn't bother me as they  probably had a limited amount of time. The food: good fresh salad stuff, a cashew tofu thing or a cashew chicken thing (both adequate), rice, fish, mixed fruit, and some cookie type things for dessert. It was all right.
    Then back to the waiting area with the four canopies (the woman was finished clicking away) and the box van with a bunch of unidentified stuff (sound? lights? scaffolding?) stacked in the box and two people sort of tucked in a corner, typing away doing who knows what. One of the motor homes was for costumes, the other two -- who knows -- the generators kept running, but no one came or went.
    Occasionally a pedestrian would walk by, generally ignoring us. Occasionally a pedestrian with a scruffy dog would walk by, also ignoring us except one of the scruffy dogs tried to pee on a chair (the dog was pulled away but still provided the highlight for that hour) --- excitement knew no bounds.
    (I expected the waiting, but I thought we would be able to watch the taping -- no such luck. But it did make sense: No one at the active location wanted a bunch of extras yakking in the background, or wandering around tripping over cables.)
   
The first group was called into action. Those of us left behind (me) felt dismayed and abandoned. Then the next group was called and the final four (me) really felt abandoned, ignored, and denied entry into the light. As a sop, we were told we could access the snack van (it looked much like one of those half size school buses) which was full of all of the snack stuff you would ever find in a 7-11, and more besides (for example: fifteen two quart size jars of candy: mints, taffy, chewy-gooey, chocolate bits etc.) I scored a Blue Bunny neapolitan ice cream sandwich, and a bottle of water, and returned a second time for a can of sparkling water. --- living large ---

Every ten or fifteen minutes a crew member would walk by, wearing a tool belt, ear buds, a small walky-talky radio, perhaps a roll of blue painters tape hanging on a hook.  We who were still waiting (me) would look up longingly, a haunted look in our (my) eyes. I considered organizing "Hey, gang! Let's put on a show!" but my lethargy was overwhelming. At last all our (my) hopes were gone, a crew guy walks by and no one looks up.  We (I) felt destined to forever be unused: cast into the dust bin of discarded extras -- sitting there --  mocked by two costume racks and the passing crew members.

The actual restaurant!

    And then we were called! There were four of us: A couple who were going to be parents of a college kid, the college kid, and me, who was going to be an old guy who dumps his young paramour. Alas, after I was seated in place, chatting with the quite attractive young woman, I was unceremoniously bumped -- moved over to a table where I was just some guy sitting talking with a different young woman. The first young woman was pretty and pleasant, but I could have dumped her standing on my head -- back when I was an actor I played a fair number of rats and cads. Oh well. Later in the scene I and a few other extras wandered back and forth in the background --- ideally, looking like we belonged there and ideally, looking non-goofy.

A few details: When I arrived, two guys were cutting to size and writing cue cards. I didn't see the cards again, but I suppose they were used before my group was called to action.
   The café had an appropriate 90's cigarette smokey look -- provided by some kind of smoke generator. I don't know what it was, but it didn't smell.
   Carrie Brownstein (also of Sleater-Kinney https://youtube.com/watch?v=itxAqoADuxM) looked great in a plum/purple pencil-skirt suit. (before I was bumped, she came up said: "Hi, how's it goin'?" and offered her hand. I shook it of course and said: "Very well, thank you.") 
   And lest anyone think I'm objectifying women with my comments about their appearances: Fred Armisen looked dashing in a plaid shirt, wig and soul patch. (Fred Armisen wasn't in my little scene. He was just hanging around in the background, off camera, his work done for the day) -- I think Armisen is still the musical director for "Late Night With Seth Meyers" I have no idea how he does both "Portlandia" and "Late Night". 
   The taping was done with two cameras, with a third seemingly unused. There was a monitor that showed the action live, and Brownstein used it to direct the parents and college kid as they were being taped. (I assume the sound is adjusted later) The director watches both the live action and the monitor, and with digital cameras, re-takes and small adjustments can be done immediately. For example, those of us wandering around for background color were wandering around too quickly so during another take we were told to wander more slowly. (showbiz!)
   I was surprised at how few lights were used -- digital requires less light than film, but they only used a few lights and a few reflectors.
   It was hot. It was a hot day and the crew put up fans but it was still hot.
   I think I would do it again. Boring though it was, there was enough interest for a repeat or two. 

 A POEM FOR TODAY:

For acting
 we are here,
 and it is true.
We have so many
 roles to play
 that are at times
 unimaginable.
And yet we are
 playing and
 we are acting
 to our best capacity.
We are the actor
We are the player
For a short time here.
     Gajanan Mishra

BOOKS: Paper (Mark Kurlansky) ---This is the fourth book by Kurlansky I've read. (I've also read: Salt, A World History; Cod - A Biography of the Fish That Changed the World; Birdseye: The Adventures Of A Curious Man) I've enjoyed them all, but Paper was my least favorite. It's a history of paper and printing and how they changed the world, and were changed by the world. There wasn't a lot was new to me, and that's probably why it's my least favorite of the four.
     A couple of tidbits: About 1490 Aldus Manutius starting printing and opened a book shop in Venice (among other things, he developed the italic type style as well as the modern semicolon and comma) A sign on the front of his shop read: "State your business briefly, and then immediately go away." --- Impractical, but I bet most shop keepers would sympathize.
     And: In 1477 William Claxton printed the first book printed in England. It was a book of sayings of philosophers that Anthony Woodville had translated from French -- Translated while he was walking the Camino de Santiago. When dw and I walked the Camino we just enjoyed the scenery and bitched about our feet. 

In Montramartre -- Picasso, Matisse and the Birth of Modernist Art (Sue Roe) Another interesting book about the artists, agents, collectors, and hangers-on, and how they interacted. Any young person who wants to be an artist should read this book. All those guys (and a few women) really worked at their art. There are few revelations but the book is well done and well organized. Roe does a very good job of balancing the stories of the different artists and their problems.

A WORD: Acnestis -- the part of the back which an animal cannot reach to scratch. In Denali National Park, some signs are heavily studded with nails -- the point sticking out. The Rangers did that because the grizzlies kept ruining the signs by leaning on them to scratch their backs. It wouldn't be natural, of course, but would it have killed the Park Service to put in a few heavy steel posts for the bears to use. I'll bet not a single bear has a "made in China" bamboo back scratcher. 

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part IX -- Olio

"When you travel, you experience, in a very practical way, the act of rebirth. You confront completely new situations, the day passes more slowly, and on most journeys you don't even understand the language the people speak. So you are like a child just out of the womb. You begin to attach much more importance to the things around you because your survival depends upon them. You begin to be more accessible to others because they may be able to help you in difficult situations. And you accept any small favor from the gods with great delight, as if it were an episode you would remember for the rest of your life.

   "At the same time, since all things are new, you see only the beauty in them, and you feel happy to be alive."   (Paulo Coelho)

"What a joy walking is. All the cares of life, all the hopeless, inept fuckwits that God has strewn along the (dandd) Highway of Life, suddenly seem far away and harmless, and the world becomes tranquil and welcoming and good."  (Bill Bryson)

I'm dyspeptic enough that I lean toward Bryson, but take your pick -- they are saying the same thing. 

ANIMALS: While we saw more wild animals than we did in Spain, we were again surprised at how few we saw. We saw a couple of deer, a ton of squirrels, a dead badger and a dead wild pig, and one giant snake (not a python giant, but far too giant and too alive for dw -- perhaps a yard long). We saw a group of five wild pigs that ran across the road and several orange slugs. In the region of miles of corn, we didn't so much see as hear mourning doves. They sounded like flocks of owls with laryngitis except they didn't do anything to thin out the squirrels (rodents in a nice suit) -- so we got annoyed by the doves hoo-hoo-hooing all the time. The area restaurants and gites need to feature squab on their menus.

   Five miles past Miramont we saw a giant frog sitting in the road. I pushed it with one of my sticks but it wouldn't move so I used both to lift and roll it off the road lest it become a frog pate'. I asked dw if she wanted to kiss it to see what would happen. No words, but I got a grim glare in response. (dw loathes frogs). But after all, why would she kiss a frog when she already has a prince charming (I modestly admit).

   The first day, only a few miles from Le Puy, we passed a field with a herd of Charolais cows. The bull with great bulging muscles, looking like he really hit the steroids, but after that the cows were the normal brown cows or black and white cows. Mild and docile looking, except all cows are land sharks in cow clothing -- each year cows slay 20 times more people than do sharks. And those black and white cows? Orcas! When you're walking the Camino you need to be careful around the predator cows.

   Donkeys and more donkeys. Just before Conques, the minute we got near one donkey it started braying as loud as ever he could. It was amazing how loud he was. He quieted down when we talked to him. True story -- the donkey just wanted to be acknowledged. I grabbed a handful of lush grass to give to him. He didn't want the grass, he just wanted conversation.  After that, I would carry an apple or two to give to the donkeys. They (and there were a lot of them) would almost always walk up to their fence for a short, friendly chat. Once I gave one a handful of peanuts -- it ate one and shied away (What the hell is that?) --- So I tossed them on the ground as I didn't want to eat donkey slobber peanuts. It then decided they were actually good, so it searched out every nut. We also passed a few ponies, but they were definitely outnumbered by the donkeys.
   The cow dogs were usually border collies, but there weren't nearly as many cow dogs as we saw in Spain. As we neared the mountains more Great Pyrenees dogs showed up, but we didn't get to meet Django.

MONUMENTS: On a sad note, each village and town has a monument to casualties of war, originally for WWI with added plaques for WWII, Indo-China and Algeria. It is difficult to imagine the devastation WWI, in particular, caused. One village, Sauliac, was representative: The village had about 25 houses and looked like it was a similar size in 1914. The monument had a list of 14 names for WWI, including three sets of brothers. Never forget -- engraved in bronze and stone. Sad beyond words.

CULTURAL, GREAT AND SMALL: Air kisses. We didn't understand the protocol. It goes Left, or Left/Right, or occasionally Left/Right/Left. Who determines what? If you go for the LRL, and the other just goes for LR, you're liable to clash glasses or noses.  The couple of times we got involved, we each  went for the LR, and pulled away, hoping we didn't offend.
    Holes in the sidewalk: They aren't as frequent as they are in Spain, but we think the descending stairs that start in the middle of the sidewalk, with no warning marks or railings are odd indeed. Perhaps they are Darwinian, designed to thin out people who walk around staring at their iphones.

    Nearly every gite would greet new arrivals with a glass or two of verveina (verbena) -- the syrup mixed with cool water. Refreshing every time and a civilized way to end a day of walking, whether the walk was easy or difficult.

SOME ART: The religious works were expected, the other works we saw, such as the cats around La Romieu, or the modern nudes at Lazerte we didn't expect. Before during and after the town, Saugues,  a large collection of chain-saw sculptures were displayed along the road. With not a single Smokey The Bear, or Bigfoot among them.
    Before Lazerte the trail passed a field (1/4 acre) with a series of junk sculptures. We couldn't tell if they were a trenchant comment on modern art, or an example of outsider art -- we opted for outsider art, but it was a close call. (the field also had a clearly neglected, derelict Italian plum tree with perfectly ripe fruit -- we indulged) -- (we picked fruit or berries only if we were completely confident the owners wouldn't care)
    There were many other examples, great and small scattered along the route. And, of course, architecture: buildings major and minor with details worth seeking out. (photo: Lectoure)

MUSIC: A minor part of the walk. I've mentioned the organ recital in Conques, but otherwise there wasn't much. Even Barcelona was lacking. We walked up and down La Rambla but there were very few buskers and the ones there weren't very good. One guy in Parc Guell was killing it with a dobro -- easily good enough to mask his so-so singing.  youtube.com/watch?v=tB5_XbNA6QI

Finally, for anyone accessing this blog from Portland Chapter (APOC), or Way of St James-Via Podiensis-Chemin du Puy-en-Velay, I will no longer post a notice of new entries. I'm thankful for those of you who have read this, but unless or until dw and I walk another Camino, and I write about it, I feel it would be inappropriate to post my subsequent blogs on a Camino Facebook. I will continue to post on my Facebook and Twitter sites. Thanks again.

A POEM: This Is Just To Say (William Carlos Williams)

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

TODAY'S BOOK: Lives Of The Artists, Volume I (Giorgio Vasari)  It's dull in spots, but over all a very good read. Popular for 500 years, the book concerns the artists Giotto through Raphael -- the big names in Renaissance art (Vasari coined the word "Renaissance") -- and is the primary source for those artists. Vasari's entire Lives Of The Artists covers 150 different artists, most of whom I've never heard of and will never read about. 

TODAY'S WORDS: In honor of our braying friends: Dapple, Sancho Panza's donkey (Don Quixote, Cervantes) and Modestine, Robert Louis Stevenson's donkey in (Travels With A Donkey) (His walk through part of SE France.)

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part VIII, Finisterra

The bus ride from St Jean Pied-de-Port to Bayonne was only a couple of hours, which meant waiting in Bayonne for the train: a wait long enough to breed impatience, but not long enough to explore the town. Interestingly, the station had one unisex toilet where someone had died and fell against the door. The "occupied" sign was lit and the door locked for the two plus hours we were there. Fortunately there was a toilet a block away that, between each visit, was "cleaned and sanitized" with some sort of spray arrangement: it was clean and sanitized, but also dripping wet -- a fair exchange we thought.
    While sitting in the station we were entertained for a time by a pigeon. It flew in, crash landed, sort of squatted, hunkered down and wobbled around. I called it stumpy, dw called it low-rider. We decided it had gnawed off both feet in hopes of getting sympathy handouts.

We had a layover in Irun, Spain, that was long enough to explore the town. Irun was established in Roman times, but it really doesn't have an old section. It does have a totally spectacular church which was so nondescript on the outside we almost didn't go in. Inside, the retablo was 60 feet high and 40 feet wide, gilded, with life sized statues and extensive carvings and inset paintings. A wide, ornately carved stone canopy over the baptismal font, and a large very good easel painting. (I couldn't read the signature -- probably no one famous -- but it was very good, and a treat compared to the usual painted dreck) And finally, a statue of a plaintive begging altar-boy --- almost sappy enough to discourage  our usual contribution toward building up-keep.

Overnight on the train was unpleasant but when we got to Santiago, we bought a few groceries, collected a stamp on our credentials, and started walking without a thought of staying the night. We were ready to move on.

The walk to Fisterra (Fisterra in Galicia, Finisterra everywhere else) is through a mountainous area with rock outcroppings, farms, forests, meadows and streams big and little --- it's a consistently attractive trail.

    Leading to one of the early villages, Ponte Maceira, we crossed a bridge downstream of a weir, and attached to the weir were three grist mills, each mill nearly intact. The canals for the mills were flowing -- one mill had 5 grist stones, another 4, and the third had 3. With drive posts and waterwheels, the mills could be used again. The mills were the most complete of any we saw both in France and Spain -- a view of a process unchanged for more than a thousand years.

    Around Maronas, according to the guide book, we passed a site of pre-historic dolmans. All well and good, but there were no directional signs for them and the guide book didn't say where they actually were, other than to note that they were on private land, so reclose gates, don't litter, be courteous, etc. After more than a month of walking up and down hills we were certainly fit enough, but we also were certainly getting a snoot full of hills so we didn't feel like climbing another steep hill only to wander around looking for some rocks, which probably just looked like rocks. So we didn't see the dolmans.
    However, at the same place we preceded one herd of cattle, and then followed another herd of cattle --- both being moved to new pastures --- it wasn't as historic as the dolmans, but it certainly was more aromatic. 

At one point we met Meg from Seattle (only the second American we met on the trail -- We met many other nationalities, and quite a few Canadians, but only two Americans) We walked at nearly the same pace so we met several times along the trail; met in Fisterra, and finally, in Santiago where we shared a bottle of wine and a long conversation. Remarkably for me, Meg was familiar with Orick, a small logging town in Northern California where I had lived for three years over fifty years ago. When my family lived there, Orick had a population of 600, had ten taverns, and the only entertainment was the Friday/Saturday night tavern fights. The loggers would go to the taverns to fight, and everyone else would go to watch. Good Times. (In truth, I was a timorous grade-schooler; I wasn't actually involved with the entertainment) On a drive down the California coast two years ago, we stopped in Orick and spent five minutes seeing the sights.  It seems to be unchanged, except fewer people and fewer taverns --- still little known and less remembered. 

In the evening at the albergue Casa Riamonte, we met two young Lithuanians. One was limping along with a very sore leg, as just before they started the walk he had several screws removed from his lower leg and ankle (a previous injury) Being made of steel, as many young people are, he thought it was a good idea to start regardless of his recent surgery. They had little money as an earlier ATM hadn't worked but when we caught up with them in the morning, they refused our offer to buy them breakfast (they did accept coffee) Very pleasant guys, and we greatly enjoyed talking with them.  (we saw them later in a larger town -- they did find a working ATM)

The previous year, we had walked from St. Jean Pied-de-Port to Santiago, but because of time constraints we didn't continue on to Fisterra. This year we finished the additional 60 miles and we were very happy we did: About 50 miles of walking beyond Santiago you catch a brief glimpse of the Atlantic (dw spotted it first), and then two hundred yards farther on, the bay that Fisterra faces is revealed, and beyond that the Atlantic --- it truly is a thrill. We felt it was a thrill almost equal to entering Santiago itself. After doing the walk, dealing with sore legs and feet, tiredness and the general travails of walking over 500 miles, seeing the ocean gives a sense of total completion. We were very glad we walked to:  The End of The World.  youtube.com/watch?v=WM7FoFej478

Only 7K from Fisterra we passed a hotel/restaurant: Hotel Estorde. dw was exhausted and didn't want to continue so I suggested we ask about a room even though the place looked to be way over our budget. We got very lucky. It was empty, or nearly so, and they gave us a room for only  40E --- over our budget, but manageable and a spectacular deal. A three-star hotel with ocean view, a room that merited the three stars, and a short walk along the beach for a source of Blue Bunny ice cream bars and a beer or two. It was so nice we didn't worry about the weather forecast that predicted a severe storm for the next day. 

    As forecast, the weather turned and the night was very stormy. In the morning we started late (9 or so), since there wasn't much of a hurry. The storm had largely abated by then: rain and wind, but it wasn't too bad, except when we crested one ridge and walked along the summit. The storm came back with a bang: very heavy rain and wind so strong it was very difficult to walk. dw used me as a wind break -- fair enough as the wind might have knocked me down but nothing less than a hurricane would actually blow me away.  After 45 minutes it again abated, and when we finally walked the last kilometer into town the storm was over.

Fisterra (Finisterra), The End Of The World in Roman times -- is a pleasant fishing town. We indulged in a couple of good meals, looked at the sights, unsuccessfully shopped for souvenirs, and walked to The Lighthouse At The End Of The World.
   

We were lucky with our walk to the lighthouse, as we got a day and a half without rain. It was a pleasant walk along a cliff side road with light traffic. The wide shoulder was comfortable walking and had great views across the bay lined with several villages, and back towards Fisterra. The lighthouse itself is a large square building with a short round tower barely higher than the building, rather than a traditional tall tower. It sits on a point of a steep two hundred foot cliff that falls to the ocean without even a narrow beach.  In the building was a restaurant/hotel that seemed to be permanently closed and two hundred yards back of the lighthouse is a gift/snack shop, not as tacky as many. In short, it's unremarkable but pleasant and sitting at the edge of the cliff you do have the sense that there's only ocean beyond, that you are at the end of the earth.

    Tradition has it, that when you get to the point, you burn your old clothes and any extra stuff --- start anew with your life. We didn't have anything to burn. We were going to write some things on a piece of paper and burn that, but we didn't bother --- largely because we forgot to bring matches. We thought there would be a special designated burn spot, but people just light things wherever they want. It wasn't awful with half-burned debris so there must be some sort of burned trash patrol.

The next day the rain had returned and we took a bus back to Santiago. We looked for souvenirs but had no luck. We can deal with over-priced, or cheap, or tacky, or ugly, but not all at once. We visited some of the sites we had seen before, including the good Modern Art Museum (where we staged our own small performance art piece).

We had to leave a day before we intended, as we got the last two train seats -- the last seats for nearly a week -- back to Barcelona. And Barcelona is a wonderful city. The architecture is like nothing found anywhere else:  It extends from bits of ancient Roman to Medieval, Gothic, Renaissance, Neo-Gothic, Deco, Beaux-Arts, Art-Nouveau, Moderne, and Modern. And most notably: Gaudi and his few disciples. It's a rare treat to just wander around and look at the buildings. And a fitting end for our journey. (Barcelona is more noted for the older styles, but it has a share of modern: A giant pickle, a multi-story museum with a radical overhang, and a giant flea market -- the underside of the roof is a giant mirror)

(I'll write one more entry about the Via Podiensis)

BOOK OF THE DAY: The Satyricon (Petronius) and The Apocolocyntosis (Seneca) I read these when I was young, but there's a lot more buggery going on in this edition (Penguin, J.P. Sullivan translation) than I remembered. I'm sure what I read many years ago was a Bowdlerized version. This translation has a modern flavor (none of that "thee" and "thou" and "forsooth" stuff) and is pretty amusing. Certainly not a must read, but it is entertaining.

POEM FOR THE DAY:

It comes out every summer,
     but doesn't tell anyone it's there.
Every time I catch one I treat it with care.
It's a beautiful butterfly, flying so high --
It's just wonderful to see, and that's no lie.
All you see is yellow and red
   just flying over your head;
It makes the world a beautiful place;
   makes you feel safe.
The way butterflies fly over your head
     makes you feel you're as beautiful as a butterfly.
             --- Aphinity Jumping Bull (age 13) ---

But Petronius has a comment about poets:
   "Some of the people walking about in the colonnades interrupted Eumolpus' (poetic) recitation with a shower of stones. Being familiar with this sort of appreciation of his genius, he covered his head and fled from the sanctuary. I was nervous myself in case they should call me a poet too. So I followed his fleeing figure, (and stopped only when) we were out of range."

And so it goes. DJA

Via Podiensis, Part VII

For two days we walked through endless fields of corn. A large area has been turned into industrial farming, corn planted field edge to field edge, trees removed, family farms torn down -- probably very efficient, but certainly the most boring part of the entire walk. We're not nearly as high as an elephants eye so we could see ---- corn, more corn, and corn again ---- on the other hand, it was surely convenient when we needed to take a whiz. ---- three steps off the path and privacy.

On occasion we entertained ourselves by memorizing poems. dw learned "Stopping By A Wood On A Snowy Evening" and "The Road Not Taken" -- both by Robert Frost. I also did those, which was easy for me as I largely remembered them from many years ago. My big one was memorizing "The Shooting Of Dan McGrew" by Robert Service. It's much longer, and I was pleased that I could learn it. Back in my theater days memorizing was usually easy, but I didn't know if I could still do it. Every few days we would recite to each other --- a lot of reciting went on during the acres of corn. 

At the bottom of a hill as we neared Arthez-de-Bearn sat a small barn with an arched double doorway; the second we saw it we both said: "There's a horse's ass in that barn!" which was all we could see of the horse. Great minds think alike, and in truth, the rest of the horse may, or may not, have been in the barn. Like Schrodinger's Cat -- neither alive nor dead. It would have been remarkable mounted on a living room wall. 

A (nameless) gite we stayed in was very nice and featured another pig (not a truffle pig) which had it's own inside bed and blanket. The gite had other good features, including a dog whose headless stuffed bear was his throw toy (he had no interest in the head). But it finally left a bad taste in our mouths because of a financial mix-up which didn't seem to be a misunderstanding. (One lemon out of a thousand miles across France and Spain is a very good average) Also at the gite were an Aussie couple, Nick and Helen; the only American we met on the trail, Alan; and a German, Herman. Alan at one point was a TV person (announcer? personality?) here in Portland -- I might have vaguely remembered him. The four had met on the trail, joined up, and had been walking together for some weeks. A pleasant group we met repeatedly for the last few days.

For several days and in mile long sections along the path, a government (local? national?) had planted six to eight foot tall fruit trees, the varieties sampled from an "ancient muse" , in an effort to save the antique varieties, and perhaps return some of them to favor. It was an extensive effort and much to be applauded. dw asked me: "How many of these kinds did you grow up with?"

Both of us, as we neared St. Jean Pied-de-Port were accumulating various aches and pains. As in Spain, dw's feet were bothering her -- only an occasional minor blister, but definite pains in her least toes (dw: "I repeat: I have little toes, not least toes"). And definite knee pain on the down hills. I was having occasional foot pain (probably gout related) and as in Spain my hernia was acting up (brought on, again, by an errant sneeze). It was mostly a problem on up-hills or when I sneezed or coughed. The sneeze and cough I could handle with a little dance step (knee sharply up and crossed over) or --- when hill climbing --- shoving my hand in my pants so it looked like I was fondling myself. --- Discretion recommended.

At St. Jean de Vieux, a few days from St. Jean Pied-de-Port we stayed in the same gite as Robert (unplanned). We had a pleasant farewell dinner together. As usual he walked faster than we did, and we planned to stop short of St. Jean so we could arrive in the morning (easier to find lodging). We also wanted to spend time exploring the town, as we didn't take time to explore on our first visit.

The night before St Jean Pied-de-Port, I jumped the gun and ordered "dos cervazas, but it worked and we were sitting outside a bar having a Basque beer ("Akerbeltz" -- except the "A" has a pair of horns on top) -- a tasty amber ale,  when my heart skipped a beat: A restored Triumph TR3 pulled in -- just like the one I used to own. (OK, it was in a lot better shape than mine. And unlike mine it hadn't ended up as a Yule Log) I really liked that car.  -- The walk was a partial reprise of my automobile life: two weeks earlier we were passed by a '64 VW van, just like one I owned -- even the same color. It was odd seeing them, as both were (even new) a poor excuse for a car -- but wildly fun in vastly different ways.  

St. Jean is small (1400 people -- but doubtless more in the surrounding area) but it's a very busy village: crowded with tourists, both French and pelerins (walkers). In addition to street parking, there are parking lots with room for 1000 cars and in one spot I counted 5 tour buses. And, it's a farming community: during our stay I counted (doubtless missing many) 20 giant tractors pulling giant wagons full of newly chopped silage. It's a medieval town, with a nice old section, a largely intact bastille, and mostly intact town walls. It's easy to see why it's a popular French tourist destination.

     We spent a day exploring and being experienced old hands on the Camino. When we were at the pilgrims office, and at the more general tourist information office we were asked and gave advice and reassurances to new pilgrims, and as we were leaving we gave directions to two lost pilgrims -- directing them to the start of the Napoleon route. We were duly modest with advice and directions, but it was a very nice ego boost. 

Because of dw's feet (and time) we decided against again crossing the Pyrenees, instead we traveled (via bus and train) to Santiago de Compostela for the last of this trek: Santiago to Finisterra.

Since school was in session, and it wasn't the vacation season, the walkers and tourists definitely skewed toward older. In the bus station I counted 11 guys (including me) and all of us had gray hair -- and 6 of us had a goatee of some sort. The old guy uniform, and I think the goatee is to hide our jowls. 

 YOU THOUGHT YOU WERE DYSPEPTIC:  "The heart of a man is hollow and full of ordure." Pascal -- "Pensees"

BOOK OF THE WEEK:  SPQR -- A History of Ancient Rome (Mary Beard) -- I don't suppose anyone outside of college really needs to read another history of Rome, but this book is excellent. Very well written, with unexpected details (500 BCE they had a "law" on how to deal with a tree overhanging a neighbor's property -- trim it back -- )  With it's length (580 pages) and subject I was reminded of the Duke of Gloucester to Edward Gibbon, regarding the publication of Vol. I, The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire: "Another damn'd thick, square book! Always scribble, scribble, scribble -- Eh, Mr. Gibbon."

WORD OF THE DAY:  Snath -- the wooden handle of a scythe.

And so it goes.  DJA