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Conversational Analysis/Ear Hustling

Last night found me watching the Burney Basin fireworks show completely by happy accident. Driving back from a hay ranch wedding gave reason to wonder why at nearly 10 pm everyone was lining the roads in backs of their pick-ups. Which led to “I wonder if there’s fireworks here tonight” and further, “I wonder if you can see the fireworks from (ironically) the Fountain Fire Lookout.”

The answer is not only “yes” but also “you’re not the only one to think of this.”

The timing was laser precise. There’s no way I could have planned that to have occurred like it did, so it was already a banger of an experience. After wedging the civic amongst RVs, trucks with chairs in the beds, and thank Gawd a fire truck, a couple steps was all it took to see something pretty cool.

The stars were bright and the night was calm. The only noise was the distant mortars and some chat that I didn’t plan to listen to. “Plan.”

There in the perfectness of the night were 3 people sitting on the ledge appreciating the show. It was about the time that I heard the words “father squatch” that my attention was wrangled.

There was nothing in the tellings that led me to believe that anything I heard was intended to be ironic. To be clear, I like sasquatch memorabilia and I’d like to think that our universe has mysteries we’ve yet to understand. But I don’t believe in sasquatch.

That being said, I’m not in a position to make light of the beliefs of others. We all have our own personal understandings that drive our perspectives on our worlds. And so in the vein of immersion of alternative viewpoints, I ear hustled the fuck out of the conversation that unfolded before me.

The person sharing their story talked about sasquatch meetings in such a way that they sounded like spiritual encounters right out of the bible. They’d met squatch more than once (allegedly) and had been cautioned by others that if they’d ever helped a squatch they’d find more squatches coming to them for help. It sounded like the narrator had been given the ol’ “don’t feed strays” speech. Only the Bigfoot version.

They talked about how a mother sqautch radiated peace and understanding and that she essentially prophesied that our narrator would have a life that was blessed with harmony. As much as I wanted to whip my head around and see if I was being punked, it’s hard to want to harsh that kind of vibe of positivity.

The narrator gave great detail about the visual experience in which the bigfoot has revealed itself. Maybe not coincidentally it sounded like what I’ve heard a hallucinogenic experience is like. I kept waiting for someone to call “bullshit!,” but that never occurred.

Maybe it was because the orator had provided excellent detail. At one point the statement was made that a later measuring of the tree showed that father sqautch was “around 10’3” or 10’4”.’ That added questionable inch means the story must be true, right!? Maybe the speechmaker was someone’s beloved uncle who had a little too much hooch or Burney herb and they were just letting him spin yarn. Maybe they were punking people. Or maybe, just maybe, it all really did happen.

As the simulcast of “God Bless the USA” wound down, I toddled back to the grocery getter ready to take my poor sight and white knuckle down the mountain. I kept my bi-focaled eyes peeled looking for Sqautch. I saw deer, coyotes and carnival trucks; but no 10’3” (or 10’4”) Wildman.

However, thinking about the way in which all the events unfolded gave me a lot to smile about. Real or not, Squatch did spread peace and happiness on an already amazing day.

Thanks Squatch, and thanks for reading!

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What A Pizza Work

I don’t know if you know, but I went to Europe. Every time I mention it I still feel like I’m play-acting as someone who is a lot cooler than I really am. But it actually happened. The food was great enough that I questioned my culinary existence. Before I even unpacked my backpack, I googled cooking classes in Redding. Chef Pam was the first entry. Chef Pam was having pizza night in few weeks. Non-Chef Crystal immediately signed up.

True cooking is a culture unto itself. A culture to I am as much a tourist as I am when visiting countries abroad.

Having never done anything like this before, I had no idea what to expect. But there I awkwardly meandered into the Sizzle Kitchen after work yesterday to see what’s up. I was worried about admitting at 54 that I don’t cook great.

Initially I cursed myself for being comfortable enough to just wander in to a situation where I was a stranger who was 3rd wheeling on a date night for about 7 couples. But, Chef Pam knows recipes for social success too. With a plate of nosh and some gentle nudge, I was in chat with some great folks.

The industrial kitchen allows for all the folks to get in the middle of the dirty work. More self-cursing as tasks were assigned. I wondered if everyone else had figured out kitchen things that I never had and steered clear of volunteering. But as the million item prep went on, it was comforting to see that everyone was there to learn.

The tattooed chef would say something like “do we all know that we don’t put the basil on the pizza until after it’s out of the oven?” When someone would say, “I had no idea” I was washed in relief. I had a moment of “whew!” because the playing field was more level than I thought.

I learned about ingredients, how to choose proper eggplants, what an eggplant tastes like, how to good blackberry and ricotta can be on a pizza, how to properly sauté, and the importance of adding ingredients in specific orders. There were other things that YouTube videos about how to make Napoli style pizza at home don’t show you such as, if you know yeast you don’t need a proof run or that instead of buying dough raising boxes off amazon you can use a Ziploc bag with oil. Maybe those things are common knowledge to everyone, but they weren’t to me.

I also learned that Chef Pam is in the market for a man. A smart one who likes to eat well would sign up immediately. A 4 pack of 30 ish year olds suggested she try their gym at 9 am. Whomever is snagged doesn’t need to have a bike for her to ride on the back of. She’s got her own chopper. Obviously.

I got over myself about being nervous and got my hands dirty making a pizza Bianca while I chatted with people I would have never met otherwise while we snacked on some truly fantastic grub that we’d all built together at Chef Pam’s unquestionable direction.

The aftermath of food prep was it’s own kind of awesome. Whoever Jen is doesn’t allow you to help clean up. “You’ll mess with my kitchen feng shui, but thanks.” Arms are stacked with plates to take home. If you’re thinking it’s an option to take some, you’re wrong. Folks bask in the aftermath of deliciousness and talk about what’s coming next month. It’s Sicilian street food. Chef Pam hugs everyone goodbye like they’re family leaving on a long trip. Also not offered so much as an option, but welcomed.

So with my hands full of recipes and leftovers, and my face full of cheesy grin; I headed out feeling silly that I’d been nervous to be there and excited to go again.

Thanks for reading!   

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The Food!!!

You know that thing where the food server comes to your table (typically when you’ve just taken a full bite) and asks how your meal is?

They don’t do that in Italy, Spain, and Portugal.

And I’ve decided it’s because; they know.

Your meal is amazing. They don’t need your opinion on it to gel that fact for them.

Everybody tried to prep me for what I would experience food wise on our trip. Despite their best efforts, I was not at all ready.

I would say that the two weeks spoiled me, but honestly it was set in stone on day one.

We got up early in Madrid and made our way to the train station for our 4 hour train ride to the start of our pilgrimage walk. It had been a long day of travel from little ol’ Cottonwood the day before and we were hungry. A kiosk in the train station was selling something I’d never tried before (but have now eaten a million times since) Napolitana and coffee for $1.50. Napolitana is a breakfast pastry with chocolate. And the random coffee was sincerely better than any I’d had before.

In a train station kiosk.

Before instantly deleting my Dutch Bros app, I tried the vending machine coffee to see if maybe I was just caffine depraved and the coffee wasn’t that different. The vending machine coffee was also mind blowing!

The whole two weeks was one culinary life altering experience after another. There was not a bad meal anywhere; whether it was out of the grocery store cold case or in a picturequse side walk café, every single bit of it was amazing.

The only food pitfall was the Roman incident, where to be fair, I share some blame.

The sun seems hotter in Rome, and that should be considered when slowly eating creamy meals outside. The bulk of my carbonara dish was perfect. And though the last few bites seemed “off,” I persisted. Yadda yadda yadda, the next few hours of my life were scary. 35 million people visit Rome annually. And as mentioned previously, no bathrooms.

All I could imagine was me violently throwing up in some corner of historical significance and being an instant viral social media mockery. Instead, I was cussed in more languages that I could decipher as a pushed my way past 20 people to get in a restroom in McDonald’s. I felt horrible for doing so, but I realized I was going to negatively impact their day in one way or another and this seemed slightly less traumatizing for them all.

But aside from that, the foods and coffees were so good it was perplexing. I ate every single thing I could. One day I had pistachio icecream in a surreal “food court” one floor above hardware in a department store. Then after maybe 30 minutes of meandering, I had a serving of fresh churros and dipping chocolate. This may surprise you, but none of that is on my food plan.

 I have no ragrets (not even one letter). But there has been some aftermath.

“Oh, are you that guy now?” the gravely voice of Dirty asks as I’m forcing he and Gus to participate in my effort at Neapolitan pizza. “Yes. Yes, I am” I say as I trim basil off of the first basil plant I’ve ever owned.

Don’t get me wrong. I can feed people. The fact that the boys made it to adulthood are proof of that. But actually cooking is something different. Food tours reaffirms that.

The day we got back, I looked for a cooking class in town. It has to be more than luck that I immediately found one very close to work that is “of traditional Neapolitan and Sicilian cooking.” I’m signed up. Obviously.

I’ve also lost all manners in my search for how to resolve my coffee grief. So far as to ask some poor woman who let slip she’d lived in Italy for 5 years how much she spent on coffee maker. I don’t know much about social graces, but I’m pretty sure that’s a bad thing to do.

I hear the longing for food that good will last. I’m kind of hoping it won’t since so far I’m in to this with a new Kitchen Aid and several bonus pounds. And I’m saddened that I hadn’t been there to taste all the food goodness sooner. But we’ll see where all this goes.

In the meantime, if you want to help prevent me from poor manners in social settings, please share with me the ways you make “some serious gourmet shit” in the way of coffee.

Thanks for reading! Go to Italy/Spain/Portugal!

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What do 35 Million People Know

They say that travel changes you. And by “they” I mean people who 3 weeks ago I would have scoffed at.

But either I’m still completely loopy from yesterday’s 26 hours of travel to get home, or perhaps travel does have an impact on a person’s existence.

When this plan was loosely hatched, I had no idea if it would turn out okay. But on the other side of it, I KNOW that I can wander around foreign places for nearly 3 weeks with only what I can carry on my back. And even though I can’t pretend that I was any sort of pioneer, everyday was an adventure of trying to learn how to navigate a million unplanned puzzles.

I knew I was in for some battle when I tried to use my debit card on day one and realized that life is easier when you can read what the pin pad is saying. We learned how to negotiate metro systems in 3 countries. They’re well organized, but the way my brain reads “Canilljas” and the way it’s said on the PA are two very different things. This lead to going the wrong way on a train, getting off too early on a bus, getting off too late on a bus, and irritating enough bus drivers I may never be allowed back in Spain. I was scolded for improprieties in no less than 4 languages. I wished for a shirt that said in Spanish, Italian, and Portuguese, “I’m not trying to be rude or dumb, I really just can’t understand a thing that’s happening.” I didn’t know how restaurants worked (sounds basic, but they’re different), I didn’t know when I was being called to a cashier in grocery stores, I had to learn new bathroom things, new things about hostels, and so much more it makes my head spin.

But we did it.

And with the knowledge that we can comes a level of confidence and self-reliance that is welcomed beyond measure.

Add to this the feeling that comes with a healthy dose of understanding one’s own insignificance, and you get a recipe better than Napoli pizza sauce.

Hang with me. Feeling insignificant is not a bad thing. It’s a needed perspective shift.

On this trip, there were a million and one ways to remind yourself of what a blip on the radar we all are. For instance, we rode the train from a stop near our hotel to “Piazza del Colosseo” which is (you guessed it) near the Colosseum. This was on our 2nd day in Rome. By this time, we’d seen a staggering amount of ancient architecture in Spain, Portugal, and Rome.

“There’s this thing” we would gesture to some splendor as our comedic attempt at creating our own walking tour. Each corner you turn in any of the places we were was littered with historical beauty. It was far too much to take in appropriately. So we were already at a level of saturation for being wowed. But then,…

At the Piazza del Colosseo, you walk upstairs from the train directly across the street from a engineering miracle.

The scale of it all can’t properly be understood until it smacks you in the face. If there are words to describe how it feels, I have no idea what they are.

Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s bad that Romans used slaves to build it and that killing in the name of entertainment are bad. I’m not endorsing either of those things. What I am saying is that it’s incredibly impressive that 2000 years ago some sandal wearing dudes decided how to put rocks together in a way that would hold 65,000 people, as many as the new Allegiant stadium in Vegas. Two. THOUSAND. years ago And it’s still standing!

It boggles the mind to think that in 10 years’ time they built something that far outlasted their civilization. For comparative purposes, the courthouse in Shasta County took 6 years to build. And that’s with computers and tools and such.

Overall on our trip, Rome was not my favorite place. The amount of people and absence of spatial awareness only led to me stiff arming one lady though many others had it coming. Despite the city getting 35 million visitors per year, we only found one public bathroom. Even if you’re a train ticket holder, you still have to pay about $1.70 to use a toilet at the station. Regardless, seeing that structure was completely worth it.

I will remember the way it felt to see that magnificent landmark for the rest of my life. However, time will not remember that I was there. And that’s where the healthy level of insignificance comes into play.

I know that when I reenter reality here in couple of days, my zen state will be tested and I’ll probably cave at the first inconvenience, but I really shouldn’t. WHEN someone cuts me off on the 44 interchange, it shouldn’t matter. It’s a little thing in the grand scheme of things. No one cares if you haven’t done your hair or worn a proper bra for 3 weeks. It doesn’t matter that the peer said the thing that they knew would get your goat. None of that is what any of this is about.

In short, “they” are right. Travel does change you. Leave it to me to think 35 million people might be wrong.

Sorry for all the words, I have even more to come, but I appreciate this forum (get it, like the Romans!), to catalogue my thoughts on the adventure.

If you’ve read along, thanks for being a part of the trip. I’ve enjoyed writing about it and hope you’ve liked it as well (“Are you not entertained?!” -Maximus Decimus Meridius bwah ha!).

And now to plan the next adventure!

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Escape Rooms

I’ve never played an escape room. I’m pretty sure I get the concept though; be presented with problems to solve and be rewarded when you accomplish as such.

Every single day has been an escape room of sorts on our European adventure.

I’m absolutely not complaining, I love the challenge of it. It’s just a stark realization that’s there’s so many things I take for granted as knowing how to negotiate.

It’s been intentional that the plan for this trip has been made up on the fly. Somehow, it’s mostly gone okay. Which is baffling since we’ve had events such as
◦ weather cancelled flights,
◦ throngs of people in our temporary neighborhood to witness the historic event of a Chicagoan Pope, and
◦ earthquakes in both cities we’ve been to in one day
And that’s just to name a few.

With all the constantly varying tasks like procuring daily sustenance and lodging, hiccups were probably inevitable.

I got the days wrong of when the flight back to Madrid is. Maybe that wouldn’t have been a big deal if earthquakes in both Rome AND Naples yesterday didn’t booger up the trains.

Our cancelled flight resulted in us being booked on an even better plane. Some cancelled flights get you a hotel room. Cancelled and seriously delayed trains have different compensation; the Trenitalia “courtesy box.”

We rolled back into room far too late to obtain any lodging under $600. I’m way too cheap for that.

So accompanied by my Trenitalia water bottle, cookie, chips like Italian things, and my grown up baby wipe; it was off to where I incorrectly thought we’d needed to be; Leonardo DaVinci Airport.

Stuck.

The train cookie served me well. I fought sleep a while but Brian proclaimed it was time to homestead. The city of Rome shuns sitting unless you’re smoking while sipping from tiny espresso mugs so there are few if any chairs. So our homestead followed suit with others and on the marble floor we lay.

I’ll be 54 in a 10 days. I’ve walked so much in the last week and a half that I’m losing no less than one toenail. I’m not well suited for sleeping on a marble floor, but the cookie wore off and down I went.

Maybe an hour had passed before I heard what was a scolding tone from a firey Italian lady cop. There’s so much passion in all communication that I’m never sure what is and isn’t yelling. The “madame!” over and over though was accompanied by gentle lady cop boots against my smelly hikers. Lady cop boots aren’t heeled, but they vibe like they are. Ans with that, I was able to add a second Italian scolding to my bingo card of countries I’ve annoyed.

I really hoped she’d go away. She didn’t. Not because I wanted to continue to lay on the floor, but because I was so stiff and sore that I knew I would look completely indigent as I slowly righted myself. As a sober tourist in wine’s glorious roots, I don’t want any one to get a wrong opinion. “Madam! You HAVE to get up!”

I rose with the grace of a reanimated corpse. Then I shit talked the Roman airport for the remainder of the morning.

Eventually the sub rose and the busses and trains started to run again. The plot twist of having my days wrong led to a great side quest to an Air Bnb in Focene where I come to you from now where I bask in the sense of completion and wonder how things will go in a couple hours: “Will the do-it-yourself” hotelier actually show on time to get us to the airport? Will TSA be filled with the same rudesters as today who clearly skipped manners day? Will the airline communique continue to be in German only to translate to French? Etc.

I’m sure there’s more to say, but I’m falling asleep and have a lot escape room activity ahead of me tomorrow!

Thanks for reading!

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Como Voc Diz “Mucinex”?

If you’re wondering how trip is going, I just blew shrapnel off my phone from a baguette that was roughly 50 cents for an unlawful amount of deliciousness.

Porto, Portugal is filled with bright colors, steep hills, and more glorious architecture. We took a bus from Santiago De Compostela to the airport here. We caught an uber with only a slight amount of frustration as we learned the airport has levels. Fernando was pissed at us, but by the time the 16 mile death defying ride was over, he came around enough to tip us off to must see sights, the clock tower, the train station, and the “most beautiful McDonald’s in the world.”

We paid $28/per person for lodging and breakfast in an incredible location. Before this trip, we’ve never stayed in hostels before. As of last night, we’ve now stayed in 7. I guess our number was up for stays without complication.

Firstly, Brian was essentially bullied into sleeping on the top bunk by a well intended Korean man via google translate. His wife was on their bottom bunk presumably as an act of protection because at some point some woman fell off a top bunk and was seriously injured. As best I could tell, the woman was on maybe some reality show but he seemed genuinely worried about lady top bunk safety.

If you don’t know, Brian is afraid of heights which is always hilarious because at 6’4”, he is a height. But he didn’t want to offend our roommates by putting my life at risk. It wasn’t worth the argument with the kindly gentleman that I’m far more likely to die by the collapse of the a non-osha approved bunk bed.

None of this tainted our experience at all though.

But then came mucus man. The dorm had 3 bunk beds on the bed nearest me was a man who non stop through the night repeatedly choked on his own mucus and intermittently stopped breathing only to follow up with fiercely loud gasps.

On the upside, this certainly helped me get up early and get moving.

We walked over 6 miles wandering around our location. Up each hill and around each corner would be some previously unseen amazingness. Fernando steered up well. We absolutely ate at the world’s most beautiful McDonalds. Worth it! We also found ourselves at a mass again. It was maybe in Portuguese. Then we headed back to the hostel to retrieve our packs and so I could use the free WiFi to secure a room for the night. The room from which I’m typing now. Across from the bath room that just. For. Us.

We’ve earned some stripes as Hostel inhabitants, but tomorrow’s flight goes out at 0’ dark thirty and we don’t need miss our flight because we were worried mucus man stopped breathing.

Adeus, Porto!

Obrigado por ler!

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Camino days 3&4

As you recall, there was no real plan to this trip at all. So it was exciting to think we’d actually make the one loose plan that was formulated of “I think we can walk 20 miles a day and get there in 4.”

Unfortunately, we learned on day one that this would be hard on account of the hills we didn’t know there were. Also, turns out it was 88 miles. Nonetheless, as we got closer yesterday, it occurred to me we may pull that off.

This resulted in us finding our $10 per person cot WITH A CURTAIN, dropping our heavy bags and just following the herd.

My world was shook before we even saw “it.”

Always a sucker for bagpipes in striking acoustic settings, the hair on my arms stood at full attention as we entered the tunnel to Santiago de Compostela square. When we rounded the corner, uninvited tears leaked out.

The amount of detail and effort that went into making such ornate aesthetics is staggering. And to think, they did it all out of their passion to honor the glory of God. Not because they saw ideas about open concepts on Property Brothers, or because the HOA requires it, but because they felt moved to praise via stone carvings that have outlasted generations. Seeing it all feels like time travel and is emotionally overwhelming to say the least.

Yesterday was a quick bounce around the square for a couple of hours just to say we made it in the 4 days. Today we spent more hours in the same spot and still I don’t think I can say we’ve seen 1/100th of its splendor.

Also today, my proclivity for data hoarding because I’m cheap led to a happy accident. I haven’t been using google translate. Which is why I thought we were in the right place for an 11 am Pilgrim’s Mass.

We weren’t.

But, we were in very excellent seats for the main mass at noon.

Everything was surreal. The sound of operatic singing in what I’m 72% sure was Latin echoing off stone walls, the pageantry of the alter service that included no less than 6 priests, the flying of the bonafumerio burning incense the same as it has for centuries to bless (and cover the smell of) pilgrims (for real), the art, the throngs of people on a random Tuesday morning all there for the same reason, and so much more.

They’re prepared to give mass to the masses. Maybe because this has been a pilgrimage destination since the 9th century. Mass was not in English, but orientation to it was presented by retiree looking voluntario women. The way the Irish woman said “Cat-tead-ral” was magical.

This trip has been totally do-able, and highly recommended. And though I could absolutely stay here the rest of the two weeks and subsist on chocolate croissants and bomb ass coffee, the WiFi is free at the hostel and train tickets are easy to come by. I look forward to seeing what Portugal has to share.

Thanks for reading! (And go to Spain)

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Stinky Pilgrim

Her name was Frankie. At least I think that’s what it was. She was the counterpart to our mountain climbing guide when we climbed Mt Shasta. Frankie had a smile a mile wide and was skilled enough to stop an entire capsized chain of grown humans from plummeting to their death, but Frankie smelled very bad. Frankie did not seem to care at all about it either.

I know that I’m not a real pilgrim or mountaineer, but moving from place to place and walking long distances in gear that makes me sweat and not having access to the vast number of clothes I use in a regular day at home has made me think about how Frankie may have been on to something. If you love mountains and are a professional guide, you’re not really using scent as a way to measure your own happiness.

This little walkabout has taught me that I’m not the chill, hippie chick I sometimes like to try to convince myself I am. I love to wear patchouli, or as more than one of my coworkers has accidentally called it “chipotle.” But putting some Orchard Nutrition elixir on after a nice hot shower isn’t the same.

In a couple days we’ll do a proper laundry. But then, those clothes will get similar abuse as my current filthy hiking pants are getting.

2 weeks is a long time to carry a backpack around. It needed to be light as possible. Sink laundry and hanging things to dry is very popular on this adventure. It’s even common to carry some still-drying clothes outside your pack. After all, you’re walking around for over nine hours. May as well be a walking clothes line.

This has worked mostly well. Sure, I wasn’t super proud to see my Costco Puma chonies hanging off the Kuiu backpack next to my reusable, antimicrobal cloth that says “piss off”; but at least my butt will have a “clean” pair of chonies later in the week.

If this was a mountain or primitive hike, or if everyone did it the same way, perhaps I would think less about it. However, today chonie pack and I sat on the same restaurant patio as real Spaniards. And though I know it’s not proper to generalize a country’s inhabitants, the Spanish seem to take looking good seriously. Add to that that a lot of pilgrims are staying in fancy rooms, and are having their luggage transported for them from one walk point to the next. This means that whilst I’m just hoping I don’t smell like Frankie, I’ll pass someone whose laundry smells fresh enough to make anyone question their ability to be clean.

I’m not fretting though. These folks won’t likely see me (or smell me) again. So far the closest person we’ve encountered was good ol’ Jim and Renee and they are from all the way in Florida.

Today was over 18 miles. It stayed similar in that there were a lot of people of all varieties in the morning, then the afternoon was less than 10. We procured a hostel for the night and will learn how well sleep is going to go and also will learn how their chocolate bread stacks up.

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Costco Camino

I smell awful. I SHOULD take a shower, but I presently don’t trust my legs or my feet to do their job right now. 

We spent a little over 8 hours waking 21.6 miles today. After the hostel we lucked into last night came alive this morning, we fell into line with a very different experience than yesterday. There was a highway of people all headed in the same direction. It’s so wild to see people that you have zero idea where they’re from, can’t predict their language before it comes out, don’t know their experiences, but you  do know exactly where they’re headed. 

After a quick meal of coffee better than any I’ve ever tasted and that cursed chocolate bread, we headed out. 

There were so very many hills today. At a total evelvation gain of only 2,400 feet, they weren’t insurmountable hills, but for someone who thought there were no hills, it seemed like a lot. 

Since today was the Costco Camino, we had opportunity to get in conversation with strangers. The London Japanese guy strongly recommends travel to Malaysia. His oldest daughter trains in jui-jitsu, and he’s contemplating taking the family to Mexico City to vacation because he thinks that will suit everyone. (*shrug)

We also met Renee and Jim who are 31 days in to their trip in which they are trying to fundraise $5000 to support their local Christian Athletes program They lost a mini Aussie 2 years ago named Tessa. She’d lived a full 16 years and is still missed. 

The I-5 level of people mostly peeled off at at town called Palas de Rei. I thought we may stop there and try to find lodging instead on we pressed.

I’m not a Camino expert, but it seems that there are the big stops that draw the crowds  that are set about 15 miles apart. Then, along the trail there is hit or miss in the way of lodging. We decided to chance it and like any good emotional roller coaster will do, it was a great idea when we walked on with the trail to ourselves, then it was horrible as every hostel we found was closed, then back to bliss when we landed on a cute hostel that looks straight out of a fairy tale. I’m not basing that description entirely on the fact that there is a bona fide toilet, but it also didn’t hurt its appeal. Peeing on the trail with legs you can’t trust is its own adventure. And here I was worried I wasn’t going to be able to work out.

Also, it seems very clear that the bulk of folks start and stop at the same times. After the masses peeled off in town, the trail was mostly ours again. I couldn’t tell you how many hundreds we shared with from 8:30 till 3:00, but from then till 5:30 there were a total of 5 people on the trail with us.

Today’s scenery continued to stun. There’s far too much to try to capture either in words or pictures.

I can’t wait to see what tomorrow has to show, or to learn who has the best of that frickin’ chocolate bread. 

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Camino: Day One

I planned the flights, one night stay in Madrid, and a ride on a couple of trains to get to the start point.

That’s where the planning ended.

I wasn’t sure if we would stay in Sarria today and then start the trek tomorrow. Then, the crowd of people who got off the train with the same objective of walking the Camino looked exactly like the wildebeest stampede scene in Lion King (the original), only with the wildebeests pulling roller luggage. Yes, we chose to carry everything we need for 2 weeks in Europe on our backs, but there are services that will transport luggage for you.

A rule of the Camino is you don’t judge the way others make their trek. But, we DO say that if we see anyone of those f’ers posting on social media like they’re out there roughing it whilst their excessive luggage is moved along for them that we will cast shade upon them.

The stampede coupled with the knowledge that there are 200,000 people a year making this same stretch of trek put me in Rainman Mode.

We got off the train, walked to a grocery store where I got deli potato egg thing and some highly addictive chocolate croissant things and then just started walking. Did we stop for important things like getting a pilgrim’s passport? Or perhaps some cash? Naw, dog. We just looked for the first yellow arrow and stepped towards it. And repeat.

I wasn’t sure we’d walk at all today since it wasn’t until 2 pm here that we got to Sarria, but we did over 14 miles. Oh! And, guess what. I’ve been telling everyone it’s 100 km. It’s actually 113. That extra 8 miles doesn’t sound like much, but damn!

We were caught in a torrential storm with hail. We had no cash to get snacks. But we had the path nearly to ourselves save a few cows, random farmers, a group of tutu clad mountain bikers, and thankfully that couple who was walking the other way and waved us down to let us know we’d missed a turn. The trail is very clearly marked, but as we got tired we missed one of those arrows. It was silly to be on the wrong path, but seriously fortuitous to encounter the ONLY people walking the opposite way at that time. Muchas gracias to the for the assist.

Perhaps the lightning and flash flood warnings were heeded by other pilgrims

If you’re thinking I’m picking up the language, lemme set that straight. I have no idea what the pin pad is saying to me. It’s a challenge I am unprepared for.

As the afternoon wore into evening, my drenched feet made me want to land in a bed soon. I began to walk fast and with a cranky purpose. We had no idea where we would land and if they would take cold, hard American plastic. Thankfully there was a room available in Portomarin. That’s right, we got a private room with a private bathroom at this Alburge (hostel). But remember, we don’t judge the pilgrimage of others. We also had a great dinner from their pilgrim’s menu. I nearly picked the chicken thigh and drumstick bones clean enough they could go back in a chicken. And more bread!

We will see how many of the remaining miles we can click off tomorrow. Since I’d gotten so focused on getting landed for the night, I was walking at a good clip. I kept assuring Brian that it’s okay and that I’m sure there will be cool stuff to see tomorrow too. I also told him that we’re aiming for 20 miles tomorrow.

“We‘ll see about that” he tells me.