One of the
perks of the Camino De Santiago journey was that the food was really good the whole way. Although
what we thought we ordered and what we actually ate were often two very
different things. Minor problem. A bigger problem was that we were burning a lot
more calories than we were accustomed so we were constantly hungry. For the first two or three weeks, it seemed
like every town of any consequence that we walked through, had a municipal
park. And if there was a park, there was
inevitably a family group convened for a barbecue. Now, what they use for briquettes there in Spain is
anyone’s guess, but the volume of smoke was at least ten times anything you’d
see in the States and the aroma that wafted over the landscape was overwhelmingly
good. The glory was simply indescribable. And I’d look at Jamie and say, ”Ya know, if
we wandered over there, introduced ourselves, and showed some interest in their
event, I bet they’d offer us some of that barbecue. That’s authentic stuff there. Boy, I bet that’s good”. The first few times I said that, Jamie would
reply something to the effect “You’re not going over there. Don't even think about it.” And of course, she was right. And on we went. Well, in the days that followed, my dialogue
stayed pretty much the same. But it got
to where Jamie would just give me one of those wifely, non-verbal looks that convey
so much more than words ever do. And on
we went.
One day we arrived at a
village about 4:00 PM. It was really,
really hot by that time of the day. And
the wind was howling up some sort of silica sand which made the cloudless sky
look white instead of blue. There was no
one on the street save two very tired, very hungry pilgrims with hurting feet. The locals were wisely taking siestas. But there were dogs. Lots of dogs.
The numbers were a bit alarming although they showed no interest in us
as they too probably just wanted a quiet spot out of the wind. Where we hoped to stay the night was at the
far end of town – just a couple of blocks.
And as fate would have it, the little albergue (pilgrim’s hostel) was
full. Turning away from the door, a dual
rutted path led out of town, arrow straight, through prickly scrub, and on to
the next village, somewhere far distant concealed in the dusty haze.
Well, common sense would have
dictated that we call a taxi and call it quits right then-and-there, but ours
minds would not allow for logic, so we decided to break rule #1 (always move
forward) and we backtracked a block to a
government run albergue in the center of town.
Those 200 yards or so seemed like miles.
And the finish line was anything but clean. And nothing
suggested comfort. But it did
claim a superintendent who quickly slid a bottle of Scotch(?) under the desk as
we approached. His accent identified him
as German but I’ll swear he came straight from the Bates Motel.
So, let me tell ya. That was a low-point. Right then.
Right there. Physically
hurting. Emotionally drained. And everything around me (save Jamie) is
screaming “You are going to die!” Sounds
silly as I write it, but that is what I felt.
Anyway, by 6:00 PM, we had
cleaned up and headed out to find some food.
It wasn’t hard to find as there was only one place in town. There were a few other “pilgrim’s” already
being served on the sidewalk cafe and there were a few locals stirring. But the wind hadn’t let up. One of the table umbrellas went flying as we sat
down.
And then an hour, maybe two
hours of events begin to unfold. And I
will never forget.
The owner of the cafe comes
over to our table with two glasses of ice-water and asks if we could wait for a
little while to be served. She is
waiting for her sister.
“Fine, no problem” we say in
unison.
I am struck by her kindness,
just the way she talks with us and serves the drinks, but I’m also bemused by
her question. What else could we say? It’s not like we’re going to get up and go to
the McDonald's next door.
Her sister arrives within a
few minutes and the owner comes back over.
“It’s noisy out here on the
street. And windy. Please, come back to the garden patio.” as
she eases Jamie’s chair away from the table.
A twinge of guilt pricks at me somewhere down deep as she leads us past
the other pilgrim’s but protest seems useless.
She proceeds to lead us through a side gate and suddenly it is
quiet. No wind. There is a huge tree in the center of the
courtyard - it’s canopy shades the whole garden area. Flowers of every color are a stark contrast
to the browns and grays just removed.
And grapes hang from any number of arbors. There is one table, two chairs and she asks
us to be seated. Her sister brings us a
bottle of wine and loaf of bread. The owner
returns. “It is too hot in the
kitchen. Would you mind if my sister and
I cook barbecue for you tonight?” My
words stick as the tears well.
Thankfully, my help-mate speaks for me.
The barbecue begins. And that
amazing aroma begins to permeate the garden.
First lamb. Then
blood-sausage. Then small ribs. Then chorizo.
The traditional french fries.
Soft grilled peppers and tomatoes in olive oil. A dipping jelly, for lack of a better term,
that kicks all the meats into an unreal gear.
All served with a simple elegance that I’ve never known before or since.
Needless to say, we ate way
too much. We cried and we hugged.
Well, I’ll let you come to
your own conclusions about what happened during those few, brief hours in that
tiny, small Spanish village. A village
that I don’t even know the name of.
But as Jamie and I headed out
the next morning over that same rutted path that had looked so completely insurmountable
and foreboding the afternoon before, a prayer began forming in my mind that
pretty much sums up my thoughts.
Link to: A Glimpse (Psalms and Prayers)
