My Camino: Day 12-Have a Rest Spain, I Can Fix All Your Problems
It’s Sunday here in Spain, the official day of rest and my second rest day as I attempt to complete the Camino Frances – a 500-mile walk across Spain.
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.
Spain, you could be a great country if you just changed everything
Or maybe, yes I’m pretty sure about this – you already know you’re a great country and you’re not gonna change one itsy bit!
Muchas Gracias!
Here are my stats
No Miles Marched Today-Resting
141.9 Miles Traveled So Far
363.9 Miles Left To Go
505.8 Total Miles to walk from St Jean Pied de Port, France to Santiago, Spain
Tomorrow: Back on the Camino – Destination: Castrojeriz
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.
So there I am on the holiest of holy trails dying to scratch – but the path was full of pious pilgrims and I didn’t need their judgement. So I did the “cross legged walk” it’s kind of like a drunk swaying side to side – didn’t fix the itch – nor did the dropping the hiking poles and sneaking in a quick scratch. 
As I stood there scratching away in front of God, the vineyards, and the entire world I giggled at what my mother would have thought.
My mother spent every penny she earned trying to forget her scarring childhood. She grew up in England during World War II and her father was captured at Dunkirk and held a prisoner of war for the duration of the war. Her mother did what thousands of others did during that time – she sent the children away “to the countryside” where they thought the kids would be safe from the bombs and air raids.
My Spanish madre was so like my English mum that she even took my iPhone off the table – with such grace and politeness- that I knew I had been reprimanded yet, I didn’t mind it one bit. 
As I’m trudging up the muddy inclines, following some English guy who’s wearing shorts for God’s sake and who’s pasty fleshy thighs are quickly turning red in the cold and rain, there’s two enormous tourist vans pulled over serving their Italian clients sandwiches and espresso! ESPRESSO on the fucking Camino out of the back of a van!! Those fucking Italians know how to make everything better. 
The guide books promised a day of walking through city parks, olive groves and vineyards…. sounds perfect.
I stopped to chat with them – only one could speak, but in his broken English he wished me a “buen Camino” and said what a blessing it was to meet me on such a beautiful day and how grateful he was to be able to practice his English.
My feet were screaming for attention – they couldn’t care less about this cultural exchange so I looked at my GPS only to find that I had walked three miles in the wrong direction. 
So much for my short, easy day. I had to hoof it back, through a farm field, up yet another fucking hill, and down a busy highway to my hotel. The sun was beating down, it was hot and there were no trees to offer any shade. 
It’s as if fate knew I wanted to slack off today, to only give it maybe 50percent – and fate wouldn’t allow me to cut any corners. This Camino wants me to give it my all – each day, everyday. 
Children , grandparents, parents – all decked out in their traditional red and white colors, climbed up and sat on special wooden fences and in temporary arenas to watch, tease, and cheer on the bulls and those crazy enough to run with them. 
I joined the kids and sat on a fence cheering for fellow pilgrim – “Cal from Calgary” – as he joined the locals in their stupid ass run for their lives. 
Just outside of Estella is a Camino legend – the Irache wine fountain. It’s just outside the gates of the monastery which dates back to 958 – and the wine has aged well. 
The spigot turns on at 8am and I was there bright and early. But there were others ahead of me. God people it’s only free wine….but there was no shoving or pushing – these are pious people.
Now, I’m a cheap-pink-box o wine girl myself so I can’t tell you if the tannins were on target, or if you swirled the wine in your glass you could smell the rich dirt and essences of peaches and herb – but, IT WAS FREE and it went down and stayed down. 
The landscape is dotted with abandoned churches, palaces and fortresses – it’s truly divine. And somewhere in the middle of the olive groves – I thought I was having a religious experience or suffering a stroke – I heard music, like real music. 
Rounding a corner, there on two fold up chairs was an elderly couple playing Brahms Hungarian Dance 5 – him fiddling away, and her on the squeezebox. It was surreal. I clapped along, a nutty German danced by herself, and we all took pictures and tossed them a few coins. 
By lunchtime my dogs were aching and I hobbled to a picnic area where some industrious Spaniard had set up a food truck complete with sandwiches, burgers, wine (not free tho), beer and foot cream! GENIUS. 
We set out alone – but together – five days ago from St Jean Pied de Port, France climbing up over the Pyrenees’s to Roncesvalles, Spain. The weather was awful, it was cold and rainy and none of us saw the mountains-we were all in a state of shock at what we were doing to our bodies and it was cold as ass. 
When I made my plans to come here and do my Spanish Schlep, I made the deliberate decision NOT to stay in the Albergues (Pilgrim Hostels). These modest resting places are kind of like barracks; they have bunk beds, they’re often co-ed, and they can pack em in – sleeping anywhere from six to 300 people. 
Today as we pilgrims marched along the holy trail to Estella, the chatter on the path, and at the bars, and in line for the bathroom, AND even, God forbid, in church on a fucking Sunday for Christ’s sake, was about the woman who snored last night in the Albergue. 
There was a mutiny on the mountain – it didn’t matter that we were walking on ancient Roman Roads surrounded by olive trees and grape vines – that the sun was chasing away the rain – nope, these pious pilgrims were plotting revenge. 
My little bro bought me a gift and I was so touched. He’s not a religious man and neither am I. I’ve put him through hell (typical bossy pants older sister) and yet he always has my back and my love. 
I knew today was going to test my physical abilities – a long slog up yet another Spanish mountain in the rain from Pamplona to Puente la Reina – a destination for pilgrims since the 11th century.
13.5 kilometers into my journey I lined up with my fellow pilgrims at a local hostel to use the facilities. We stood in line for 45 minutes but to me, it was better safe than sorry. 
I made the summit and did my silly poses, took my selfies all while basking in glorious self confidence. 
Deep breath, one step at a time, use your fucking poles, and go! 
It’s Day 3 of my Spanish Schlep and here are my stats: 
Each incline is a heart attack inducer, followed by descents that make your knees scream out in agony and your toes beg for mercy.
Tonight, I’m in Pamplona, where as luck would have it, they’re celebrating their 900th birthday. 
The town is full of people and market stalls line the ancient, winding streets. A band of minstrels is dancing through the alleyways and I’m watching fellow pilgrims filter into this medieval carnival. It’s quite the show-and it’s loud, just the way I like it! 
Someone better warn my fellow travelers I’m gonna be really, really loud. 