Foncebadón to Molinaseca

Today´s Camino lesson: All the various ways that sending your pack ahead can come back to bite you in the ass.

So after I got off the computer last night, we had a pretty decent dinner...and this guy wandered in and sat at the table next to ours. His name was Ryan, he was American and had been living in Madrid for about five years. We chatted a bit...he wanted to talk a lot about the war and wanted up-to-date-from-home information about the presidential campaign and all my opinions on Bush and his war. Wrong person to ask on all counts, I tried to tell him, but he persisted. In an attempt to throw him off the track, I threw in some questions about his Camino. He´s just started the other day. I mentioned that we´d sent our packs that day and planned to do the same thing tomorrow. His ears perked up...he was in about day 3, when the pain begins. He was in. Even better, he´d make the call. Thank GOD, because his Spanish was sure to be better than mine.

It took till morning, but we got the call through and expected the taxi at 8 to take the bags to Ponferrada, 29k down the mountain. Ryan came and went at 7:30 and left the €7.50 it would cost each of us to close the deal. Off he went. We waited. 8:00 came and went. So did 8:15. As did 8:30. At 8:40, I attempted, in my butchered Spanish, to have a conversation with the bartender who had given Ryan the number. (Please note that my recounting of this conversation is based upon what I believe I said and what I believe he said back. It is entirely possible, however, that at some point, I asked him how many green ostriches live in his bathtub.)

Me: We called a taxi to take our bags. It isn´t here yet. What´s up?
Him: What time was he supposed to be here?
Me: 8 o´clock.
Him: That´s unusual; they´re usually very punctual.
Me: Can you call them? Or help us somehow?
Him: ...
(this may be the ostrich part)
Him: Where did you get the number?
Me: From your book.

So he slings me the number, and it says at the bottom, ¨Se habla Frances.¨ FRENCH. They speak French. I do not speak French. At this point, I start looking around the ragtag group of peregrinos who have straggled in for breakfast. I give up and just call out, ¨Anyone here speak English and Spanish? Or FRENCH??¨ German gal pipes up that there are French people here, and this glorious French angel rises from the table and comes to rescue me. I dash outside for Christa´s phone and we make the call and afterwards, St. Frances assures me that the taxi is on its way. We decide to wait till 9am and take off.

The problem is...we can´t just abandon ship and take the bags because that guy Ryan left his with ours, confident that things would be taken care of. Despite the devil on my left that whispered that you gotta look out for yours and he should´ve waited with us, I knew St. James wouldn´t like it if we left him high and dry. So we were stuck. My other problem was having walked 34k into Astorga and 29k out of it, and that Ponferrada was another 29k away and another big city.... Ick. I wanted to stop in Molinaseca. But I didn´t speak up, so....

9am. I asked the bartender (after scouring Skip´s Spanish-English dictionary for some random verbs I hadn´t studied in 1992) if we could leave the bags and the €30 and go. He said a lot of words in a very reassuring tone of voice with his hand on my arm, and I took that as a yes, and we booked it.

Now. It is quite a feeling to watch some dude whose language you don´t speak drive off in a van containing all your worldly possessions on an entire continent, taking them from a city in which you´ve spent 10 hours, to a town you´ve never been to, with a population of FIVE people. It is an even MORE interesting (read: nauseous) feeling to leave them sitting in a bar ATOP A MOUNTAIN waiting for a taxi that may or may not ever come.

But off we went. It wasn´t long before we were assuaged by the incredibly powerful views of the mountains and the country beyond stretching behind us. Herds of cows, stone walls and facades of long-abandoned houses, a GOAT in the top of the village...it was beautiful. Also, we were to hit the Iron Cross in 45 minutes, so we were excited about that, too. We could see it from far off, on an adjacent mountaintop, its tall wooden post shining in the sunlight against the purple backdrop of some very ominous looking stormclouds behind it. Without our packs, we were practically skipping towards it. The incredible green of the ferns and the little purple bell flowers continued. It was a beautiful walk.

The Iron Cross was as impressive as we expected it to be. It is a foot-high cross at the top of a wooden pole that is probably 20 feet tall, mounted in a huge pile of stones and rocks...and shells, and shoes, and hats, and walking sticks, and all kinds of things that people leave behind there. You´re supposed to bring a rock from home and leave it there, and either infuse it with all your sorrows and broken hearts, or make a wish as you put it down. (Christa planned to make a wish with hers, but in the end, decided to fill it with sorrows and spiked it as hard as she could. lol) The pole itself is covered with photographs, bracelets, watches, messages, flags, everything you could think of.

What should I leave?

Ahem. There is now a photograph of my four-year-old nephew on the pillar of an iron cross on a windswept mountaintop in northern Spain.

On the back it says, ¨Eric Michael Engelen, The love of my life, Born 14 May 2004, Love, Aunt Teenie.¨ =) I got pictures of it there, and one of me pointing to it from the bottom of the rockpile. COOL, huh? =)

There was also a giant sundial there at the site. In the center of the sundial are boxes containing the names of the months. You´re supposed to stand in the box of the month it is and then go through some mathematical manipulations based upon the season, and your shadow serves as the sundial. It was really cool. The math was beyond me, but I guessed it was probably pretty accurate, and we moved on.

Onward. Lots of up-downs and then a killer downhill that seemed to go on forever, but gave us another stunning panorama, this time of what lay ahead rather than what lay behind, which is a different feeling altogether. (Ponferrada was FAR, far in the distance....) It was gorgeous, though, and very windy. (If you go on the Camino, bring a hat that either stays on your head or can be stuffed into a bag...if you don´t it will drive you absolutely out of your mind to try to hang onto it.) As we passed, the mountains beside us seemed to turn their long, solemn faces to watch us go by...they never seemed to move. It was a partly cloudy day, so the different greens on their faces were beautiful, and sometimes we could see a tiny road or a tiny village.

Finally, El Acebo appeared, almost directly below us at an impossible tilt. It was all gray roofs along a tiny little narrow street...very charming. About a million pilgrims were there, especially in this one little restaurant that had done some advertising along the path up on the mountain. They advertised grandes bocadillos...huge sandwiches. They weren´t lying. I got one with hot bacon and cheese and tomatoes again (when I learn how to order something new, I´m stuck with it till I learn another food word) and it was SOOOOO good. They also had a cider that had me not wanting to get up off my barstool. Learning to savor and appreciate food is DEFINITELY one of my Camino lessons...usually, I couldn´t care less what I eat. But here, everything is like manna from heaven.

On the way out of El Acebo, we passed a walnut tree, and Christa ran to pull one down. She started to write on the sidewalk with it and told us that she used to do this all the time as a child because the writing would stay on the sidewalk for weeks. Unfortunately, so do the greenish-brown stains on your fingers, so when she was in school as a little girl, she was branded guilty as soon as the headmaster saw her fingers. Ha ha. So I wrote, on the way out of El Acebo, ¨HI FELIX -CME¨ on the sidewalk!! The boys are a day behind us, and I hope he sees it. =)

We walked on. More downhills, and each time I looked up, either at mountains or valley below, I wanted to take another picture. (I have a million of Skip´s and Christa´s backs.) I headed off in the lead for a while, which is a much different feeling than following behind, and we all drifted apart into iPods and (in Christa´s case) contemplation.

At long last, we reached Molinaseca and I was DONE. It was past 4pm. The bags, however, were 7k ahead in Ponferrada. We had to get there...that was the deal we´d made with ourselves when we´d sent them. But I had trouble brewing...I could feel blisters forming on what felt like EVERY toe on my left foot. (It amazes me how little I´ve been able to get used to this, even after three weeks. I still have muscle sores...I still get blisters...the boots are fine and comfortable now, but the blisters still come...???) I wanted to stay in Molinaseca. It was a gorgeous town, with a beautiful river and an even more beautiful church, and an even MORE beautiful Calle Mejor. It wasn´t that I was too tired to do another 7k...I wasn´t...but I was worried that if I kept on with the blisters forming, I´d be laid up tomorrow completely. Plus, Ponferrada is a decently big city, and the afternoon walks into cities like Burgos and Astorga have been hellacious, whereas the morning walk into Logroño was merely ugly. Ponferrada in the morning sounded a whole lot better than Ponferrada until 6:30pm.

But the bags. THE BAGS. The bags were at the municipal albergue in Ponferrada. Plus, Skip was keen to get there, because he´s sticking to the book. Out of the three of us, he is the only one who has a good reason (really, any reason) to reach Santiago on a certain day. He wants to be there on the 7th, the 10th anniversary of his brother´s death. So he wanted to go on and do whatever stretch the book laid out for us. Molinaseca was one stop before this leg ended.

Plus, I was in a mood because I was frustrated at having allowed myself to cede control of my Camino to someone else. Though the pack send saved a LOT of wear and tear on our joints today with all the steep downhilling, it still put us in a bind to reach Ponferrada. Since I´d wanted to stop in Molinaseca since the night before, and allowed myself to be carried on the Ponferrada current instead of making my own plans, I was mad at myself and trying to figure out which was more important...my own Camino decisions alone (and alone is hard), or give in to friends´ plans (and friends are good). Tough call.

So there was a lot of stony silence and a lot of sitting and staring at each other as we tried to figure out what to do. Christa was stuck in the middle.

Plan A: Skip suggested we could do without our packs tonight, stay here without them, he´d secure them to wait for us in the morning, and we´d just have a tough, showerless, slightly odiferous night. No go. My Compeed and my lotion and my foot care stuff was there, and I was NOT going without a shower.

Plan B: Two German women were catching a taxi to Ponferrada because they were knackered too. But I will NOT get back in a vehicle unless I am losing arterial blood from either aorta or femoral (brachial wounds will be judged on a case-by-case basis).

Plan C: Walk to Ponferrada anyway. And risk the next day´s walk because of burgeoning, crippling toe blisters. Started to try this one, then realized what a stupid idea it was.

Plan D: Christa and I check into an albergue in Molinaseca...Skip goes on to Ponferrada with a €20 and sends our bags back in a cab, the way they went in the first place.

Plan D Modified: Christa rides to Ponferrada with the German gals and brings back our packs, so as to minimize possible FUBARing of Plan D (i.e., wrong albergue, etc.)

Plan D Modified happened. Hug goodbye for Skip...we´re 7k apart so will almost definitely meet up again within a day or two. Christa decided to stay with me (for which I am guiltily grateful). She headed off in a taxi, I got stuck in a conversation with a power plant guy from VA Beach, talking about NASCAR and cross-country Harley riding forEVER. Found my albergue after two false starts and Christa was already there and (insert angels singing) so were the BAGS!!! Shower...bliss. Computer...not working, sent me to the local library, where it is free if you can stand the 90 degree temps inside. My raincoat is finally earning its 3-week, nearly-untouched place in my pack. And we are off to find dinner in this beautiful little town, as I try and figure out what the best course of action is for tonight regarding the bubbles on my toes. One is a bubble on the lower end of the horn that now functions as my little toe...the other one is at the bottom of a ridge forming on the toe next to it.

My feet will be nothing short of mutant by the time this is over. My pedicurist will be horrified. I´ve decided that when he stops rubbing my feet, I´ll hand him a 10 and ask him to keep going...and rinse and repeat until I run out of 10s.

All for now. Library closing and dinner calling. Hope today was amusing for all of you...not so much for me. But as I´ve experienced in travel, you either get a great time or a great story...and sometimes they overlap at least a little.

Skip...if you read this and need to email me, use merlintoes@hotmail.com, not the address on my card...the computer at home is not forwarding. We´ll keep an eye out for you.

(Anyone else is welcome to email too, ha ha.)

Love you all!!!