Camino Journal Getting There & Day 1

March 31st

Right off the bat, I can tell things are different this time around. First of all, I have money, a rental car and a booked hotel room to start this journey off. I fly over night to Madrid, mask on the whole way and get not a wink of sleep. I did take a couple of would-be sleeping pills that only made me feel stricken and caused flashbacks to my teenage years of tripping on triple Cs. Luckily the plane was not that full, and I was able to get an aisle seat in the middle row of four. There was a person on the other side of the row so that provided both of us with an extra chair. I pretended to sleep and finally after the 8-hour flight, I landed in Madrid.

Even though I was dog tired, I was in high spirits. This would be my first time leaving out of Barajas in a rental car. The attendant was very jolly and despite there being a few rude customers screaming about an incorrect reservation, somehow it seemed everyone was celebrating my ability to rent my very own car. I looked on at the family arguing about having already paid and couldn’t help but smile to myself knowing my reality was so much further from theirs, finally. I got in the brand-new car, it really only had 17km on it, and put it into gear, I love a manual transmission, and drove out of the airport garage and onto the highway leading to Toledo.

I booked my first night in a hotel off the plaza in Mora de Toledo, the small Spanish village where I taught English, now 12 years ago. I was excited to see some people I knew before. I pull up to the hotel and this feeling of things being different grows. Normally, I’d have had to take the bus from Madrid to here, walk a mile or so to the hotel and lug my pack the whole way. I’d likely have phoned up some friends and asked them to come pick me up. Many times, I ask them to let me stay a night or two but walking into the hotel to check in without the weight of my pack somehow represented the weightlessness of traveling with more money than you’re going to spend, a first for me.

The hotel and town aren’t much in terms of population or size, but like all Spanish towns, there is care and beauty all around. The old church in the middle, the bars serving the same foods, the tobacco shops looking identical, and the public spaces and plazas alive with people. So even though I had a hotel on the plaza, it was not as extravagant as one might imagine.

After settling into my modest room with a balcony overlooking the plaza and the small bustling town of Mora, I wondered out to the bar. I walked in like I would have been walking in on any ‘ol day, unannounced and with a casual, but smiling, “Hola. Pon me un tercio.”

The bad thing about surprising people like this is that it really does take a long time to get a beer. They think you're kidding or something, like not actually there to do what you’ve always done there. They stare at you for a minute and talk and ask a few formalities but can’t really believe this Texan has returned to Mora now for a 4th time. Finally, I get my beer and the bartender has one too. We settle into the normal conversations of music and life.

The afternoon quickly turns from beers to hard liquor. A PA is mounted, and a microphone is brought over to me. Squeezed as close to the bar as I can be because the microphone chord is strung in lackadaisical fashion over the bar top and into the house system, I strum the unplugged acoustic and give a 5-song concert to applause and looks of astonishment. I’m stunned. They really love it. People are slipping 10-euro bills on the bar under my glass and yelling, “Sigue! Otra!”. The small public of 7 or so people is a thundering crowd from a sold-out night at Billy Bobs. I’m floored. I play a few more and I can definitely tell things are different this time. I mean, I know this town. Some of the people would applaud for a nobody, but never the whole room.

Caco in Bar Kalobra

Mora de Toledo, Spain

Drinks continued until late into the night. I had stopped drinking at home, but I guess I still have a little showman in me. I can get drunk when needed. Somone was offering cocaine and the partakers kept holding up in the bathrooms together and then demanding another round when the bar was trying to close. I went with this group to a couple more bars. It’s the same everywhere. I got back to the hotel and fell into the bed. I slept a couple of hours and headed out for my first porras in three years. It’s gotta be the best breakfast. They fry the dough in olive oil, and you have a coffee right there with a fresh churro about the size of a baby’s arm.

Porras and Cafe con Leche in the plaza Mora de Toledo, Spain

April 1st

I head off to San Sebastian in the rental car. Right away I noticed that there is no traffic at all, anywhere. I’m amazed at the cleanliness and organization of the whole system. This is the first time I’ve driven such a long distance at once across Spain. Toledo to San Sebastian took me most of the day and when I dropped the car off, I immediately felt the weight of the traveling backpack as I slipped out into the street to catch the train to Irun. Irun is the city on the border with France. For the North Camino, crossing the Pyrenees is not part of the ordeal. I again opted for a private room instead of the Albergue. 30 euros for a private room and bathroom is a steal. I settle in, get a hot shower, reorganize my pack and head out for something to eat.

I eat a plate of boquerones and have a couple of shandy beers. They are lighter and it alleviates some of my worry to be drinking every day. I order a bocadillo with tortilla to go and stand out on the corner smoking and watching the people. Out of nowhere it begins to hail. The city streets cover instantly with a layer of white ice. I’m glad I brought my jacket. After finishing my cigarette, I head back to the room and smoke a spliff hanging out the window, then get to sleep by 10p.

April 2nd

I ordered my pilgrims passport from home and so with no need to visit the albergue, I set off on the trail. It felt different than my last time in that I hadn’t really checked in with any official Camino people. I was out on my own. Part of the reason I took the same trail was to look back on who I used to be. It was easy to see so much had changed. I imagined the places wouldn’t change as rapidly as people do, but many things were different. Covid and the two years of shutdown in Spain had really hit them hard. However, just like back home, the people were out in force, and I was starting my walk just a few days before the Holy Week leading up to Easter. This is by far the biggest Spanish holiday season.

As I walked my first few steps, I remembered back to 2019. I hadn’t even brought a jacket and it was raining an almost icy rain then too. April in the north of Spain is not sunshine and heat. It’s cold and damp. But it is spring and so there was still this sense of emerging beauty. This budding of life kept silent for the long winter. After a few more steps I’m regretting doing the walk again. The hills of Basque country will take it out of you. I had the apple watch on and so checked my pulse all the time and frequently found the proof of an imminent heart attack should I take one more step. I managed to carry on and took my first break on the hill at a church called Guadalupe. It has been a welcomed refuge now both times.

It was snowing a little and temperatures were in the 30s F. My hands were cold, and I was sweating profusely underneath my shirt, flannel and coat. Removing anything would result in hypothermia and death, I thought. I sat in the church for a half hour or so. Smoked a spliff and ate my Spanish omelet sandwich out in the alcove and set off to hike some more. Immediately my heart rate climbs and I’m sweating again. I finish walking for the day at just about 10 miles at a place called San Juan. It’s the first albergue, and even though I could have gone farther I decided I’d take it slow and avoid any unnecessary blisters.

Redwing Irish Setters left in Toledo after my Camino in 2019

In 2019 I walked in a pair of Redwing Irish Setters, a duck hunting boot. I do not recommend. I had blisters on the sole and heel of my foot after that same first 10-mile jaunt. They were also heavy af and I had to work harder for every step. To make things worse, the water proofing only went south after the first few miles on asphalt as it cracked the sides of the boot. The Keen boots I’d bought for this go around were already proving to be a step in the right direction.

I climbed the 40 or so steps up the albergue, a cruel joke for anyone who decides not to walk to San Sebastian, another 5 miles away and considered by many to be the rightful first stage of the Northern Way. I’m the first to the albergue and as I remember, there is a sign on the door that says it will open at 4p.

The Pilgrim’s Hostel

San Juan, Basque Country, Spain

Not too long after me, a guy from Chezch Republic, Mira is his name, comes walking up with a backpack and a dog. A boxer. We get to chatting and head back down the steps to a bar for some Chokoli wine, a specialty of the region. I tell him why I’m doing the Camino, he tells me why he’s doing it. A lot of similar stories. We share some notes on our travel decisions and I translate his request to camp with his dog outside the albergue. She says she’s the owner of that property and goes on to give a long story of a painting on the garage of 5 donkeys and the corresponding photo on the wall of her 5 grandchildren.

We laugh and heading back up the 50 or so stairs again to the albergue, I feel useful again. It’s nice to translate, even smaller things. When we arrive back to the top there is another pilgrim there. A german named Heiko. We go to telling the same stories and the three of us go out for beers and food later that evening. An Argentinian man arrived and quickly set to making some maté tea and weriting in his journal while taking in the sun. There was another older gentleman from Argentina as well who went walking off toward the city with the hostelero behind him giving directions.

“Esta muy jodido este.” He says to us with a smile shaking his head as if to wring water from it. He informed us that the man had forgotten a very important medication. I wondered if he’d get it. A little while later a couple women from Croatia arrive and then a German guy named Micha. He talked fast and was very friendly and brought an excited and heightened energy to the situation. He was a funny German, which I hear is uncommon for German people. I’ve heard the German humor compared to that of the Mexicans; dry, redundant and on the nose. I guess I’d find out. He certainly laughed a lot. I liked him already.

I was happy to see the hostelero was the same man from my last stay in 2019. I showed him my guitar and sang some Johnny Cash around the table while he served up what he claimed to be a homemade alcohol. Some of us sipped from the same cup, and for a second, I had forgotten about Covid. But having someone drink from the same cup as you, something that would have been commonplace a few years ago, now seemed like an even scarier version of Russian roulette. I refrained from any more drinks and went outside to have a spliff. I laughed at the now three times I had hiked up those 60 stairs. My legs felt good. My feet felt good. And I felt good too.

I thought back to 2019. I didn’t have a lot going on and had been crashing couches between my folk’s place in Brazoria County and a friend’s place in the Fairmount neighborhood of Fort Worth. I didn’t have enough money to finance the trip back then. I brought the Martin Backpacker guitar along with me to earn money busking. This time I brought the guitar along, but I didn’t have to use it. I had a couple bucks. Maybe hard work pays off. In the three years since my last Camino, I felt like a totally different person. Last time I stood there worried about how I was gonna make it. If it was the right choice. If I could even physically walk 500 miles across Spain. But here I was with no doubt about any of that. I had the money to make it, the time to do it, the jobs waiting for me when I came home, and the hash to smoke it. I was living the fuckin dream. “Amazing,” I thought and went back in.

In an albergue you have to check in and get your pilgrim’s passport stamped. You also have to pay a small fee to stay there and sometimes its donation based. After getting my stamp I went to making up my bunk. The two rooms sleep 8, but tonight there are only enough pilgrims to fill each room halfway. I put the disposable sheets on the pillow and bed, lay out my sleeping bag and grab an extra wool blanket to throw on top. Like I said, it’s cold outside and will get down to freezing or below at night. Due to high electric bills as of late, there are no heaters in the albergue, and also no mention of this either.

The hostelero chats away about poetry reciting to those who’s ears were opened:

Last night I dreamt I saw God and talked to God; and I dreamt God heard me … Later I dreamt I was dreaming.

He looks at us quizzically searching for ears of understanding before closing his lips of wisdom. I ask what that’s from and he tells me it’s a poem by Antonio Machado and recommends Paco Ibañez, who put music and voice to famous Spanish poems. The hostelero quotes again:

Ya hay un español que quiere
vivir y a vivir empieza,
entre una España que muere
y otra España que bosteza.

We all stare back blankly swimming in the profound isolation of being lost in translation. Despite not quite grasping the last verses the man recited, I fall asleep with one ear listening to him live in Paris with my earbuds. The windows are left open as a covid precautionary which gives a nice fresh breeze to the room with every breath of the nearby seaport. I listen to the seagulls and the other pilgrims falling asleep. No snorers yet, I think. And laugh at how loud I’ve been told I snore. I wonder if I will stay in albergues every night. Maybe some of them will still be closed due to Covid so I figure I’ll stay in the ones I can in case I’m forced to do otherwise.

Overhead in the night sky, the stars glistened with the low light pollution of the small municpal city of San Juan. Somewhere out in the deep recesses of space, the most powerful telescope known to man is unfolding itself after a month-long-950,000-mile journey. It has the capability to look at light first emitted nearly 14 billion years ago. There are over 300 points of failure in a sequence of commands the JLW telescope must complete before becoming operational. Some say we will look back in time. Some say we will know more about ourselves with the images this machine will capture. How deep can we look? How far can we go?

Camino Journal Getting There & Day 1

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Camino Journal Getting There & Day 1

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