My Camino:Day 20 – Lazy Days in Leon
There is nothing like a rest day when you’re walking 500 miles across Spain.
I’m in the town of Leon – a city that’s been around since about 30BC, and a spectator stop – full of energy – something I was lacking as I dragged my ass past the ancient city walls.
The architecture is wonderful- a combination of religious obsession and Roman oppression.
The town’s queen diva is its cathedral, built in the 13century. It’s a true gothic goddess known for its embrace of and exploitation of light.
The light show is stunning, and changes by the moment as the clouds move past the sun, and as the sun moves east to west. You can just imagine all the pilgrims of pilgrims past, marveling at the miracle of light.
The cathedral is the city’s spiritual heart – but my heart stopped a beat when I arrived at my rest stop – the famed Parador de Leon – and who is there standing at the reception but my husband!!!
Don’t worry, don’t worry I’m not going all X-rated on you.
My sweetheart is here to cheer me on through to the end of my Camino. He won’t walk, instead he’ll drive and push me beyond my limits so that I don’t quit my Spanish Schlep.
Not that I would quit – no way am I going to let this bitch beat me.
We strolled through Leon this afternoon and bumped into my fellow pilgrims and he was able to witness the strength, energy, and humor of those I’m sharing this slice of my life with.
As we sipped on wine and ate our tapas and fried under the blazing Spanish sun, I pointed out my Camino comrades… “oh that’s the Australian, she’s 73 and traveling on her own, see that guy he’s the German who’s done this six times already, oh look… there’s Peggy, she’s got a bum knee, oh god don’t look, that’s the creepy guy who drinks out of his boots….”
It was the who’s who of the pilgrim parade.
He also got to see how obsessed we are about each other’s feet, legs, and overall health. We are a community of strangers hell-bent on completing a common goal.
Tomorrow we start another climb towards the end of our journey. Since we’re done with the Meseta section, we’re moving on to the wild and rocky Cantabrian Mountain section which includes the high point of the Camino Frances (oh fucking joy), and the third phase of this pilgrimage, the stage known as the spiritual stage.
OMG! OMG!!!! O!M!G!
I’m in high spirits. My blisters are healing, my muscles feel strong and healthy – and I need safety pins to hold up my undies!!!
Yes, the great 500-mile walk diet really works – your panties will fall off after about 250 miles! Jenny Craig – you know nothing!
I’m wrapping up today’s reflections, more tapas – and red wine – await me….. someone get some more safety pins before these panties completely fall off—- and that has nothing to do with my hubby’s arrival (wink wink)!
Also if you want to walk with someone you have to absorb their needs and wants, their schedule becomes yours; you have to stop and eat, have a coffee, take your shoes off, take your socks off, rub your feet, go to the bathroom, wait for them to go to the bathroom, wait for them to buy souvenirs, wait for them to chat with fellow travelers – sometimes I just wanna be like Forrest Gump and go for a walk.
It’s been almost three weeks since I started my Spanish Schlep and I have not been lonely at all. We pilgrims -for the most part- act as one.
Then we all fall into the same pattern, check in to our hotels or alburgues, do our laundry, take a nap, shop for fruits or supplies fur the next day, go to a bar or cafe for a drink or snack and then rest until dinner.
I think it’s Spain’s biggest fuck yous to its visitors.
Two young Italian girls were chattering and all I could hear was “Vodka” and “Cointreau” – obviously they were talking about the drink that fueled “Sex in the City” or is now fueling “Sex on the Camino.”
Three-Boomer Love. I’ve been watching these two retired pilgrims getting more and more serious. She’s American (New England) he’s from Vancouver. At first they were part of a gang, but now, they’re spending more and more time alone – resting, walking just the two of them, and then the trail telltale – how he helps her in and out of her chairs when it’s mealtime. Guys (even those nice Canadians) only act all gallant when they’re hoping to get some. These two are more shy, more awkward, more tentative than the younger lovebirds – but their feelings are just as real and evident.
There are no secrets when you walk the Camino with your “tribe” day after day – we all hear and see everything – be it your laundry hanging out to dry ON your backpack or your heart out on your sleeve.
And then we’re off to the next village. It’s probably safe to say that’s the way it’s been in ” The Way” to Santiago de Compostella fir centuries.
I pulled into Calzadilla de los Hermanillos completely dejected. I had tried to walk the 11 miles from the previous town, but could only manage seven. My blisters were causing me too much pain – and – I was carrying my 14lb backpack- it was too much, so I took a taxi to my hotel. 
It was a feast to end all feasts. When he came out of the kitchen we pilgrims gave him a standing ovation. 
It’s been six days of endless fields, with very little to look at, little shade, a few spartan villages, and treading on fucking Roman Roads. Yeah, yeah sounds romantic but these “roads” are torturous on your feet – they’re literally miles after miles of fucking rocks. Maybe the ancient Farragamos and Pradas handled these rocks well, but today’s Merrells and Tevas are getting the shit kicked out of them – along with my feet!
And the bragging rights are up for grabs! I thought I would be Blister Queen of the Camino with my four sores, but nope. Roland from Lebanon has six. Mary from Alaska has seven, and Jorge from Mexico has nine – that’s almost one for every toe! 
The only person who isn’t complaining is the “fast guy from Hungary.” This guy is walking in what I call Jesus Sandals and he’s kicking our high-tech, moisture-wicking, Compeed-clad feet and boots. He’s sprinting past us wearing tie-up sandals with barely no soles.
Today’s complaints and march were endless. Even a beautiful sunrise couldn’t lift our spirits. At the end of today’s 11 miles on the Meseta, we ended up in a hellhole town who’s only claim to fame is that it was struck by a meteor in 1947. No hole to be seen!
After crossing a medieval bridge over a small brook, I came to the city gates of Sahagun where two huge statues, one of Alphonse VI the Brave (1065-1109)- Promoter and Protector of the Way of St. James and on the other side Bernardo de Seriedad an Abad considered one of the founders of Sahagun stood ready to greet me with the official news – I’ve reached the geographical center of the Camino de Santiago!
Now don’t misunderstand me, I’m loving this 500 mile trek from St Jean Pied de Port, France to Santiago, Spain, I’ve seen things and experienced things no guide book could ever suggest, no movie could ever capture – but I’m still doing it all wrong. 
At the 8-mile mark -paradise- some guy set up a barbecue stand – but no toilets. I ordered a hard boiled egg, sausage sandwich and a banana. It was better than anything you could order at the 21Club.
He had set up a picnic for himself; ham, cheese, AND wine in a fucking goblet, and he was actually enjoying the Camino. He asked me where I was off to and when I told him Saragun, he told me I wasn’t pronouncing it correctly! Fuck you Thor I’ve got four fucking blisters! 
Today I marched up to yet another monastery on the other side of Sahagun, not to look around, but to get my certificate – a beautiful sheet that proclaims to me and the entire world, I’ve completed half of the Camino! I’ve dragged my ass halfway across the holiest of holy trails and I’ve got a fucking piece of paper to prove it!
It’s noon here and I’m done for the day. A few more miles under my belt, and it’s enough. I’m sitting here in a small town, drinking a Kalimotxo which is, get this coke and red wine TOGETHER, and having tapas. In an hour, I’m going to go have lunch, then a siesta, then more wine, then a snack, then dinner and more wine.
The orange ball rose up slowly behind us, forcing all of us crazy pilgrims who are walking on the Camino to Santiago de Compostella to stop, take out our cameras, and start snapping away. 
And what a moment – from the colors to the mist rising from the canal as the sun was warming up the day.
It was the first sign of what was to be, an incredible day on the Meseta.
The Camino signs are becoming more and more prevalent. The dirt path is lined with not one but two Camino shells pointing the way – road signs are everywhere – I mean Helen Keller couldn’t get lost here.
Walking through a small clay colored medieval village I was stopped at the cross road confused for a moment about which way to go. I felt like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. The road sign suggested I could go right or I could go left–uhh too many choices — but then I heard bells and whistles – I chose to go left to see what was causing the noise. 
It was a shepherd bringing in to the village his flock. 
Around lunchtime I saw a sign for an albergue – a hostel that offers cheap rooms and food. I wasn’t hungry, but I was ready to kill for a Diet Coke. 
There were geese roaming the grounds, young European college kids lazing in hammocks and reading, and then there were the donkeys. 
This aggressive pair was stealing food right off the table as young pilgrims tried to eat their picnic in this garden paradise. 
I shit you not – just like any superhero, she arrived out of nowhere, and armed with her day-old bread, she began hitting the donkeys on the head – beating those asses in to submission and away from the startled city slickers.
I dunno if it’s a sign, but I told her – you don’t know until you know – so go on to Sweden and see what happens! 
So there I was on the side of the road looking up at my sign in disgust and a little depressed. So I got out my guidebooks and my maps and I recounted every fucking kilometer I’ve walked since September sixth. 
As we snaked our way out of Castrojeriz, we were greeted with a treat from Mother Nature – fog was rolling in and it was trapped below the hills-it was ethereal and a cruel joke. Because just as we got bored by the magnificent view – there on the horizon was today’s challenge; a gravity defying climb that went up, up, up, and UP! 
The signs were not for the timid! Twelve percent incline – 12 fucking %! The steepest interstate in Colorado maxes out at eight percent and the warning signs along I-70 for drivers are legendary.
I climbed. I put one foot in front of the other. And then I repeated it until I was on top looking down!
So I took a selfie and set off for the descent. 
The incline to go down was 18% – that’ll blow out any flip flops even the expensive Tommy Bahama ones! 
My knees, legs and feet made it up and down today’s killer challenge. 
Before I knew it I was once again walking along the farm fields, the empty fields, the endless fields, and rocking out to The Boss, enjoying my own “Badlands” and grateful for not letting two blisters, each the size of a half dollar – stop me!
I guess blisters, thieves and other hiccups will happen in life but Whatchagonnado, right!!? I choose to walk!
Deb from Maine tells me she starts everyday with a cup of coffee so that she can have a successful bowel movement. We’re 13 days into this march to Santiago de Compostella and luckily for her, she’s as regular as a Rolex watch. 
The ceiling had a hand-painted fresco that was awe-inspiring and soothing. 
My new insoles have given me blisters the size of half dollars on both of my fucking feet. 
And these new war wounds are just the latest direct hits my feet are taking.
Road side health care is part of the Camino community- everyone has an ache, pain and complaint – AND everyone has a cure. 
But here on the Camino – we have no secrets, we’re in this together. If one of us is plugged up and in need of the magic bullet, or another one needs some amateur podiatrist advice and care – well, as they say, The Camino Provides.
I’m resting up in Burgos, one of Spain’s jewels – rich in religious architecture, especially its extraordinary Gothic cathedral – a majestic masterpiece that towers over the city and can be seen for miles and miles.
I’m sitting in the main plaza not far from the tomb of the city’s most roguish son, El Cid, and I’m enjoying the house Rioja – and I’m inspired – I’ve come up with a plan to save Spain! 
After nearly a decade of economic crisis, Spain’s economy is finally growing again, but they still need my help.
To begin …. Make less spectacular churches. Seriously make ’em smaller and tell your faithful to have faith that they’ll be bigger one of these days. Why spend all that money and all those years building churches that look like they were made out of icing? And why make churches that last for 900+years, we’re now living in a disposable society – just give your tourists a set of virtual reality goggles and let them think they are seeing something remarkable. 
Stop all this Camino nonsense. Really, only 250,000 people a year do it. Build a Minecraft “Camino” game and you’ll reach millions – and then you won’t have to maintain all those paths with glorious bronze shells and yellow signs marking the way – PLUS, just think, none of your townsfolk (from the elderly to the those little tykes on their razor scooters) will have to smile and say, “buen Camino” to all those passing strangers – think of how cold, and heartless, and MODERN your society could be. 
And all that stamping the pilgrims “passports” nonsense – stop that immediately -OR- at least charge people to have their credentials stamped as proof that they walked the walk. Those gloriously designed stamps are worth money – they’re the ultimate souvenir so make those pilgrims pay for it! 
Your bread can make French baguettes blush, so do what we would do in America – cut them in half, freeze, then microwave them the next day – and charge double. Why should anyone have freshly made bread – the size of a giant’s knuckle – with the crispiest crust, yet light as air, for mere pennies? You’re missing out on a lot of dough … 
Get over your Italian inferiority complex. Your food, wine and long legged women are world class. I’m convinced I’ve seen Penelope Cruz in every town I’ve visited, or maybe it’s just that all the women look like her. 
Start charging more for your hotels. Seriously $56/night for a four star hotel in the middle of your tourist destinations-build a Trump Tower and charge $1999/night it’ll be uuuuuge! 
Don’t let tourists take up your outdoor tables relaxing for hours drinking only water, coffee or wine! Get em in and get em out. Those plaza views are priceless-charge ’em buy the hour and bug them every minute by asking, “can I bring you anything else?” – oh and definitely hand them the bill immediately, don’t let them daydream hours away, basking under your glorious sun for hours.
Start importing your fruits and vegetables from California. No one should be able to walk along farm fields and each fresh produce for nada! Oh, and make sure your peaches, plums and nectarines aren’t ripe – no fruit should burst with such flavor that people lick their hands for every last drop. 
Your lifestyle, really??? Work doesn’t start until 10am? And you have a two-hour lunch…. with… your family and friends? What’s up with that?!!!! You gotta rewrite your labor laws! 12-14 hour days, no lunch, no dinner breaks, and trim that six-week vacation down to 10 days a year! Your employees will love you for it. Productivity, heart attacks, depression, and divorces will soar! 
While we’re at it-knock off this afternoon siesta shit! I mean really closing down from 2-4pm to escape the heat, be with your family, or recharge the batteries. Open up your stores, restaurants and offices 24/7 that’s the modern way – how do you think you’re going to compete with Starbucks or Amazon? Why should tourists have to sit down and relax while your entire country is relaxing? You’re losing 10 billable hours a week every fucking week – my arteries are clogging just thinking of this. 
Definitely show less passion. No one needs to see your lovebirds smooching in the sun drenched plazas – tell ’em to get a room – or get a job. 
Here are my stats 
Stage Two is a tad shorter than One but boring as ass! It’s a walk through Spain’s farm fields – the boring fields… hay, wheat, and sunflowers. And now that we’re in mid September, the fields are harvested so it’s one big ass vast land of nada. 
Having just completed Stage One, I gotta tell you, I’m as shocked as you are that I’m still standing! 
It’s full of breath taking scenery (not really what you want when you’re struggling for every breath, but it all works out), rich food, fabulous wines, and pilgrims. 
I’ve found that you’re drawn to your own people here – I’ve met several women from my home state and Sergio. 
He had just flown in from Down Under and I had just arrived from the US. John looks like a leprechaun-I kid you not. White hair, white pointed beard, and a hint of mischievousness. We wished each other well and went our separate ways that night, but I’ve met him several times along The Way and he’s now full of the spirit… praising the Lord for this and that and, it seems, mostly for running into me again. 
A young, beautiful Italian (aren’t they all beautiful?), she blew my socks off with her roadside mangia know-how. 
The Camino is full of all kinds from all walks of life. Now that we’ve completed Stage One and are gearing up for Stage Two, the self reflection stage, I hope those who ask strangers for advice find the answers from within, I hope those who are grieving can find solace, and I hope I can find a path with fewer hills and more fabulous wine. 
As I passed a sunflower field I thought the dried up flowers looked like my fellow Camino walkers; heads down, dutifully waiting to be harvested. You could almost hear them chant, “time to make the donuts.”
And then there’s the highway! Yep, today’s route follows the national highway into Burgos. It’s a busy road – imagine walking along side I-25 or the NJ Turnpike. Cars, motorcycles, RVs and those damn semi trucks – oops, sorry they’re called lorries here in Europe. The noise was deafening as we plowed along the pilgrim highway only to take brief detours to nameless medieval towns that by now are all starting to look alike, and they’re all propped atop more fucking hills. 
I rocked out whether there were people in front, behind or beside me… and the music took me away from this Spanish highway to memories that fill my heart. 
There was Saint Motel blasting their not very Christian but oh so damn good, “Born Again” and their anthem “Move” that got me to move. It reminded me of this summer’s concert I went to with my daughter, and I can still see the sheer joy on her face as we inched our way closer and closer to the stage. 
I’m sure the truck drivers called me in to dispatch as they roared by as I was doing great majorette moves with my hiking poles to Joe Cocker’s “Cry Me a River.” I bet the drivers were like, “Uhhhhh, we’ve got a special needs case on Route 120, please send the mini bus.” 
But as Belorado came into focus I cranked up U2 and cried without any inhibitions as Edge began his riff and then Bono began singing, “Where the Streets Have No Name.” It’s been years since I’ve been this happy and felt so close to those I love even though I’m thousands of miles away. I know I was making that ugly cry face but as Icona Pop would sing , “I don’t care, I love it!”
On one of the many hills I climbed today, in the middle of a farm field, stood a lone tree completely out of place… just like me. My fellow pilgrims may have felt like dried up sunflowers, but I was that tree/fool on the hill.