I was actually in two minds to go to Zubiri or to Larrasoana, a further 5.3km. A wet pack, a pressing blog and a sense of trying to understand time-management around this trek (my intentions to read fiction, learn Python, correspond with Ayaz have not proven plausible) made me take the shorter of the two. So, I’m sitting here at a very basic cafe surrounded by the Bosch on the left and Spanish on the right. It’s rather nice. No smells other than fragrant, inexpensive food and the sounds of heavy road traffic over my right shoulder.
This morning started with rain which turned into drizzle but not before it had permeated my pack (don’t believe that a pack cover works; in my case it did not).
The morning also started with American inanity. Everyone gets up, does their ablutions, goes downstairs, checks the weather, quietly gears up and goes. Quietly. Not Thelma and Sherm. I don’t know what it is, and I am HUGE a fan of the ‘Land of the Free, Home of the Brave’, but Americans JUST HAVE TO TALK. It doesn’t need to be to anyone in particular. There’s just a need, at a primal, cellular level, to bump their gums. Superiority complex? Be the center of attention? Inferiority complex? Practicing dormant social skills? Unable to deal with quiet? Unclear. These two were projecting their own, redundant, internal monologue, husband in particular…
“Hey hun, it’s raining so we’re gonna get wet, so we need to dress to keep dry”
“Yuh gotta tie them boots tight enough to keep the rain out, but not to cut off circulation”
“And these packs, yuh gonna have to put the rain cover on, real tight. Like this….”
“And, yuh know, we’re gonna have to cinch the stuff ties real tight. Real tight.…”
“Really” is the adverb. “Really tight”. Twat. Not “real”. Ugh.
Everyone is looking at them – sideways in that indirect, judgmental fashion that Europeans are great at. Please, please, STFU. It’s 0615 and we don’t need to hear it. Even James Naughtie, preaching and railing on Radio Four is preferable at that time of day. Almost. His pristine articulation and sentence construction at least buys him some forbearance.
Captain and Mrs Oblivious got their hands on a matching, last-season odd lot from REI: matching beige caps, matching Ex Officio slate blue shirts, matching Ex Officio beige shorts and matching Salomon shoes. So pretty. So stereotyped. That was the last I saw of them until I sat down here and they cruised by our eclectic European gathering of mid-afternoon diners. The man, still clearly dumber of the two saying:
“Gee hun, I’m worried. I dunno where we can eat now….”
“How about this cafe here; it’s open”
“Aw yeah. So it is.”
They walked by as if the observation was lost on both. Ships passing.
Thankfully they didn’t sit down.
The informality of the Camino is wonderful. You can amble up to someone, have a conversation, not exchange names/email/phone/star-sign etc, drop back or move up, see them later, smile and re-engage. Or not. No pressure. People want and get their space, but equally they can engage. It’s akin to anonymous speed-dating with no intent. It feels like most people want their space but don’t want to be unpleasant. Unwritten rules? Don’t know. Too early.
Today I, met a Scottish language teacher living in Donostia (young lady going home soon). I mean to say, she was Scottish, I assume she was teaching a language other than “Scottish”. I met a German industrial designer (unemployed male who designed machines to extract coal but the Chinese do it more cheaply – so he’s unemployed), a female German student transferring from medical biology to medicine and studying in Holland (she doesn’t like The Fatherland), a Danish mother and daughter duo doing the Camino for a week (no back story but wish there was – both blond and slim), a mature Japanese student who’s studying religion in Paris (that man takes a photo every 30 seconds and was wearing a Chelsea football top – go figure), and of course, indirectly, Thelma and Sherm, an American couple who’d find a conversation about gravel to be enthralling. There were a couple of other passing platitudes but for the most part, I kept myself to myself as it was as much as I could do to communicate with my legs let alone with other humans. Other than the Septics, I don’t know any names. And so it goes…
I left about 0630 and the journey was about 7 hours which seemed longer than it should but I am probably still acclimatising. I checked into the local Albergue for €8, not because it’s dirt cheap (really, honestly), but because it’s part of the experience. It is a shit hole. A clean one, but a shit hole nonetheless. See photos. I got a lower bunk, so did a cigarette-puffing, noisy, cheerful, crusty Italian to my right. We’ll see what the night brings – I’m off to the pharmacist for air freshener. Fortune favors the prepared. So I hope……
Legs are tired though I think they will recover relatively quickly. Calves tight, hip flexors tight – need to work on that. My back is complaining (moderately) about the pack, as are my hips (more so) where the thick waist strap applies downward pressure (because that, more than the shoulder straps, supports the weight). My hips are very sensitive to the touch with small welts developing, caused by a large mass relentlessly and insensitively pushing down on a small area. I know how Melania Trump must feel.
I bumped in to Maurice in the hiking store in Zubiri. He was energised though his visceral reaction was the same as mine. WTF have I done and WTF will I be normal. His jet-lag did some of that to him. He was up at 0345, raring to go, so he went. OMG!
Tomorrow, it’s about 22km to Pamplona. Weather looks broadly cooperative after 10am with early showers beforehand. I plan an early departure so I can spend some time exploring the first large city we come across.
I don’t know where the day goes (pun). I’d kill for a Thai massage (fat chance).
Lastly, a non-sequitur. Today is the 49th anniversary of the first moon landing. Nobody gives a shit anymore, which is sad. SnapChat stock price is more important than celebrating human endeavour. Pop quiz (no wiki-cheating, please): we all know Armstrong and Alrdin, but who was the third crew member of Apollo 11?