When you walk this much, your body craves weird things. And my craving lately has been pineapple juice. Gimme that sweet nectar of sugary carbs so I can propel my self forward.
Seeking a fix, I stopped at a small cafe on one of my long walks (about 37 km). The cafe worker instantly switched to English when he saw me. I was the only one there, so after he brought me my espresso and my juice (Camino fuel) we chatted a bit. His name was Pablo. His family owns the cafe. His parents are much older, so he, at 35, is the primary worker. It is very long hours from 5 am-10 pm. I groaned at those hours.
"The pilgrims need their drinks though, yes?"
"We are very grateful for your labor!" I told him.
He also lives with his family, which he said was different than the US.
"In most of it, yes. But in Miami, where there are a lot of Central and South Americans, it is common there too. It depends on the subculture."
"Is it hard in America?" Pablo asked me.
I paused. "We work a lot too. It's different. You can work many hours and not have healthcare and still be pretty poor. That is a larger percentage of America than many think. There are many who work a lot and do ok, that's me. And there are a few who are very very rich."
He nodded.
"That’s why I’m here," I said. "I’m tired of working all the time. So I'm doing the Camino."
"It's hard on the body, but good for the mind," I added, realizing I'm sitting there covered in sweat, hair stuck to me face from my sweaty hat, telling him I was there to rest.
He nodded again. "The Camino. It’s…liberty."
"Yes, it is."
I atumbled the rest of the way to my reservation, a fucking hotel, and passed out exhausted. As I've said before, I've been bummed I haven't been staying in hostels and feeling like I'm doing something wrong. How was I meeting people who said they had a hard time finding rooms, but always found one?
The next day, I started to see more pilgrims. I met a man from Spain, Pedro, at a cafe. He has done many Caminos, over seven I believe.
"The Camino is medicine," he said. "But, I don't know. I'm not a psychologist."
"Well I am a psychologist," I told him. He looked happily surprised. "And I agree that's a scientifically valid term." He laughed.
Shortly after leaving the cafe I ran into Marriett and Shirley again (the South Africans). We walked together for a while, talking.
"We've been wondering where you were!" Shirley told me.
I told them about the bookings I'd made after the disaster in Santarém. When I'd looked ahead, all of the hostels had been full, so I've mostly stayed in private rooms.
"Oh yes, we've gotten the last beds several times. We've started booking just one day ahead."
How were they getting last beds if these places were already full???
I felt bad. Like I've been missing out. But if they're repeatedly getting the last bed...that also sounded stressful and like I'd be rushing my walk.
"Last night at our hostel, there was this Alaskan girl who arrived and there were no more beds," Shirley said. "She said she knew us, that her friends were here, so they let her sleep on the floor. An Italian couple gave her a sleeping mat they've been carrying."
"Oh, so to get into places I just need to tell them I know y'all!"
"Apparently!" Shirley said.
"It's risky though," she added. "Many people have had to Uber when they can't find a place."
"See that's why I've booked! I really don't want to have to Uber!"
"Us either," they agreed.
I disclosed my Uber fiasco from a couple nights before. They have also walked several very long days to get to places to stay, so they know how hard those 40 km+ days are.
"Oh my god but after 42 km?? And so many long days...no, Anna, don't be a hero. I'm glad you got the Uber."
"See that's the thing," I told her. "That's my personality. To be the hero. But the hero of what?!" They laughed and shrugged, not sure what I was trying to be the hero of either.
Shirley and Marriett had reserved a hostel that I'd booked a few days before and then cancelled, because I thought I booked a cheaper one in the same area. They didn't recognize the name of the one I booked. It wasn't until the last 5 km, when I tried to pull it up in Google Maps, that I realized I'd actually booked the wrong place. It was already behind me. The pamphlet had been in Portuguese and I must have misread it in my booking panic.
"Oh no, the race for a bed begins," Shirley said. "It will be ok, there are lots of places to stay in that area. Just don't take the beds of the two South Africans!" (Albergue reservations often hold your spot by your first name and nationality.)
"I'm going to tell them that both of you donated your beds to me so I can smoosh them together and sleep starfish style!" I told them.
I hustled through those last 5km, trying to make it to the hostel right when it opened at 2 pm.
I arrived 5 min after 2 pm. The hostelier asked me if I had a reservation. I said no. She said all they had left were private rooms. I slumped outside to try to Google another place. As I was about to call another location, a different hostlier walked up and said there was a bed for me.
DO Y'ALL SEE WHY I'M CONFUSED?! IS 👏🏻A 👏🏻RESERVATION 👏🏻NEEDED👏🏻 OR 👏🏻NOT👏🏻.
I didn't ask any questions though, I just took the bed and got settled into the albergue. I chatted with a Hungarian lady, and I recognized Pedro and an Irish man Paul from the trail. When Marriett and Shirley arrived, Shirley yelled "How'd you get here so fast?! So it all went ok?"
"I got the last bed!" I told her. "They told me there were only private rooms left."
Her mouth opened in surprise. "What did you do?"
"I told them the Camino famous Marriett and Shirley said I must stay here, and they let me right in." She laughed.
It was beautiful albergue, with many lovely places to sit in nature. After a while, I felt the hunger pangs kicking in so I got up to walk to a nearby store. An older man was behind me, also a pilgrim. We chatted about how nice the hostel was. By his "ya," I could tell he was German. He has also hiked many Caminos. I have been astounded by how many people have come back. I'm certainly not an "experienced" pilgrim here. It seems many people, after surviving the pandemic, needed to take a walk.
"Once you are on the Camino, you’re always on the Camino," he said with a smile.
I returned from the store with a frozen pizza, two cans of wine (yes, cans), a bar of chocolate, a small bag of grapes, and an apple for my bag for the next day. Like I said, you crave all the carbs when you walk for so long. I already don't like spending time cooking at home, I certainly don't have the energy for it after walking all day.
There was a group of German and Spanish people cooking in the hostel kitchen. They were using all of the stove space. I asked if they were using the microwave. They said no. So I popped my pizza in. After a while of the timer counting down, I noticed it wasn't cooking. I tried pushing every button. It wouldn't start. Four other people tried it. It wouldn't start. Another German man entered the kitchen, swearing the microwave worked. It didn't. An Italian woman came in, also carrying a microwaveable meal.
"It's not working," I told her.
"You're kidding..." she said.
"I think when they're done with the stove, we can figure out how to warm this stuff up."
The German man pressed something and the microwave started working. The German women still focused on the microwave, clapped. The Spanish man at the busy stove started yelling and making "x" signs with his hands. Stop.
The microwave spluttered. All is the power had cut out. The microwave was off. The stove was off. The Spanish man was very frustrated. The Germans went to find the hostelier. The Italian woman cackled.
"This is hilarious!" She said.
"What the hell just happened?" I asked.
Apparently, there wasn't enough power to have the stove on and the microwave. Seems like there should have been a warning sign about that, but there was only this one.
The power in the kitchen turned back on after about 10 min. While I waited for the stove to clear, I talked to the Italian man who was traveling with the amused woman. They started their Camino in Largos, Portugal, even farther South than Lisbon. There is little accommodation along that way, but he said he hasn't had trouble finding beds in hostels since Lisbon.
"What?! How?!" I asked.
"I just call the day before," he told me. I told him I'd emailed a place for the next day, but they emailed back that they don't reserve.
"I just got off the phone with them an hour ago," he said. "Don't email, you have to call."
"I don't speak Portuguese," I said.
"Me either, I speak English to them too. There's always an English speaker there."
Is there a rule book for this Camino that I'm missing??? Rule #10, Don't email, call.
I called the albergue. "No, we don't reserve, but there will be room. Don't worry, just enjoy your Camino and we will see you tomorrow," the hostelier said.
I'm fucking trying.
At that point, the Spaniard at the stove beckoned me over. He was only using one burner now, so he thought it would be safe (or that's what I gathered, he doesn't speak English).
I put the pizza back in the microwave. I looked at him and made the sign of the cross. He folded his hands and lifted his eyes in prayer, dramatically. We both laughed.
The microwave worked and nothing blew up! The Italian came in twice to tell me to turn the pizza while it cooked.
I didn't want to assume you knew pizza because you're Italian, but alright.
I left it in for about seven minutes and then pulled it out. Two of the Spaniards looked at it disapprovingly.
"Dos minutos más," they insisted. I put the pizza back in. Two minutes later, I pulled it out. They erupted in applause and yells in Spanish. (And they say women are dramatic....The crust was almost too hard to bite through, JUST SAYIN.)
"Is it good?" Asked the Italian. I shrugged. "Better than nothing right?" he added. "I mean, it's not a REAL pizza."
Honey I almost blew up a kitchen for this meal. I am eating pizza out of a box and drinking wine out of a can. I'm pretty sure that's as white trash as you can get in Europe. It's hitting the spot.
Apparently food critiquing is his thing, because the Germans beckoned him over to try their spaghetti. It seemed they had incorporated his advice into their cooking.
"Nooo, the salt is not just for the rota, it is for the pasta as well!" I heard the Italian yell. "I give this two stars."
Okay so maybe the Italian stereotype is his thing...
The table booed, good naturedly.
"I have an idea," the German said. "You cook one night too, and we will have everyone taste and see which is better."
"My friend do not challenge me to something so easy to win," the Italian quipped.
Damn it's good to be back in an albergue.
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