Camino Journal Day 3
View from the Albergue lawn - 6am
Orio, Spain
April 4th
Settling into my Camino rhythm I woke up at 5am. Laying wide awake in my bunk I listened to some of James Allen’s As a Man Thinketh in my earbuds and contemplated what I was doing here. I could get up and head out now by my lonesome or wait around for my newly forming Camino family to be ready to go as well. Back in 2019 I had nothing to smoke and so my decisions were somewhat dictated by the fact that the hostelera of this private albergue had given a sack of some fine home grown to a fellow pilgrim I was walking with. We agreed to share the bag if I would make sure to use my Spanish to find us some more before the current bag ran out. Despite our agreement, I wasn’t in possession of the bag when I awoke in 2019. It was nice this time around to have my own stash and not let my desire to get stoned dictate my every move.
I snuck out of bed grabbing my journal and backpack and went out to the mother-in-law suite in the backyard, now converted into a common kitchen and eating area, made some instant coffee, rolled a spliff and watched the sun rise while scribbling word-ideas in my notebook and trying to pluck out some sort of new melody. I’m not great at guitar. I’m even worse now that my equipment has been reduced to basically a toy guitar and no microphone. I felt proud, but also a little embarrassed for my former self making this journey with this guitar in tow as a tool for earning money.
My busking set-up during my Camino in 2019
First of all, the thing takes massive effort to get used to. Because of the lack of body to the guitar, the weight of the instrument must be put on your shoulders using a guitar strap. Seems easy enough, but then there is the difficulty in trying to find a new place to rest the hands (or at least the parts you aren’t using with every note), as well as getting used to the spacing of the frets. It was an honest nightmare to be back with that guitar in my hands after several years of playing a Martin D-18 through 2000 watts of EV speakers, boosted by a wonderful fishman pre-amp.
Me with my Martin Backpacker Guitar in 2019 in front of the albergue in Orio, Spain
I sat watching the sun creep up over the cascading mountains of Basque Country and thought about how terrible my version of Sultans of Swing was the night before. I’d wowed the room with Merle Haggard’s Today I Started Loving You Again and then a quick rendition of Hallelujah by Leonard Cohen. Both these songs are slow and easy to play on the guitar, and I don’t sing them too bad either - at least in a register that can be heard without a microphone. Mimicking the vocals of Mark Knopfler in D standard tuning without a microphone was a new kind of terror for me. The thing is, when performing, even for just one person, the best thing to do is to continue on once you start. I’ve always stuck to this. So, I took deep breaths in attempt to project the lower, almost spoken, notes to the lyrics of one of my favorite songs.
The ease with which I’ve grown accustomed to changing chords on my slick guitar, now back home in a case awaiting my return, had vanished and my fingers fumbled about the open chord section of the neck like it was their first jaunt through the midnight forest on a snipe hunt. I believed the fingers would find their target, but they did not. I could see the people wincing a little bit, and after a couple verses, I got used to it and carried out the end of the song with a modest amount of my dignity intact. Heiko brought out the camera and caught the last 30 seconds or so. It’s not as bad as I remember.
In the morning with my spliff and this lonely mountain off in the distance, a mountain I would soon be going up, I thought about what kind of person I am. I mean, after all, I did contemplate the idea of not bringing the guitar with me. The Camino is something of a great equalizer. Even the richest people are unnoticed during the long days of walking. Professions don’t matter, where you come from doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Everyone has two feet. That’s the only way to get there. If I didn’t need to busk, then why not present myself as just another hiker?
In the end I decided that I couldn’t bare the idea of not talking about my work and my craft and all the new music I have coming out, and the album El Camino I’d written during the walk in 2019. I knew I had to bring the guitar, but man I had forgotten how shitty it sounded, or was it that I’d improved exponentially? Hard to tell, really. Either way, the thing sat in the storage unit for the entire three years. I even had the same strings on it. And wouldn’t you know it, the zipper, which was in terrible shape after the 2019 journey, was now in even worse and broke completely in the airport after opening it for security.
It was 1 or 2 degrees Celsius outside, and I wasn’t really looking forward to walking. I paced around the eating area like I used to pace the house waiting for my parents to get up. Why did I still wait around? What was I scared of? Waking the other pilgrims up too early? Earlier than they’d like. What did it matter? If I could keep a strong pace, I’d never see any of them again, and if I did see someone, it would be an early-riser and they would likely thank me for turning the lights on early. I put so much importance on this idea that first impressions are the only ones that count. It is true, that you can’t really overcome the first gut feeling someone has about you. But if you’re like me, putting too much importance on one aspect of something tends to lead to disaster.
I wondered why I hadn’t bought any supplies when we were in San Sebastian. I was still walking like I had no money. Still traveling on the bare minimum, seeing everything around me as inaccessible and every person as a mark to be exploited at least for a bit of knowledge and friendship, but hey, maybe a beer and some food too. But that was the old me. I made another cup of the free hot cocoa and instant coffee and sipped the dregs and swallowed my old life goodbye.
The first cafe on the way today once out of Orio would be about 4 hours out. The sun crept ever so slightly up over the mountains, and I felt a sense of pride rising withing me. Even with just a couple thousand dollars in my pocket, life seemed so different, so surreal and plastic, so normal. In past travels I scoured the fridges and shelves for left behind food, melted the last bits of butter from the container to pour over two butt ends of borrowed toast and made fruit punches from the lasts of each distinct juice that would have begun fermentation had I not come along. I used to see myself and the things I did as a service somehow, but really it was a compensation for the shame I felt. Was it shameful to eat the leftovers? Why of course not! I was doing this world a service and cleaning out the cupboards and refrigerators. I made sure to recycle and I promised I’d give a little more the next time around.
Finally, Heiko and Micha and another man Johnny wake up and show themselves to the morning light. It’s about 7a. I go back in and gather my things and a German woman yells at us for making too much noise. Heiko shows her that it’s 7am and she apologizes. We get our packs ready and start out. After a long morning of walking, we finally get a cafe and order the standard cafe con leche, fresh squeezed orange juice and this time my first chocolate croissant of the trip, my absolute favorite morning pastry. The girl Linda, who had walked from the Netherlands walks up on Heiko and I having breakfast and a smoke, which is very easy to do on the trail. Pilgrims will typically go to the same cafes and bars and at times there is only one cafe or bar. Linda sits down and joins us. She tells us more about her journey. She’s half Arabic and half western. Her mother is a Christian from Holland and her father a Muslim from Palestine. She plans to walk to Mecca as well one day. I was still in awe at her 30-mile-day, passing us with such ease on the last mile to the albergue.
Cafe con leche, orange juice and what was a napolitana
Pilgrims typically wear a scallop shell on their packs or somewhere on their body while walking the Camino. It serves as a sign to other pilgrims and locals that the traveler is a pilgrim, although it is very much noticeable without the shell as well; each with their pack, hiking clothes and trekking boots. The scallop is said to have become a tradition because as St. James’s beheaded body floated the Cantabrian Seas and the mollusks began fixing themselves to the body, the body floated to the surface, making it visible to the eye. The original Camino de Santiago is now known as the Camino Primitivo and was walked by King Alfonso II in the year 800AD in order to verify the remains of St. James. Tradition has it that today a pilgrim is to be given a shell by another pilgrim or a person they encounter along the way as a token and witness of their pilgrim-hood.
Tomb of St. James the Greater
Back in Benbrook, TX, while driving home one afternoon, I stopped off at the antique store to look around. In the big jewelry/trinket case they have there, I found a silver pendent of the Camino scallop about the size of a quarter that opened and had a smaller figurine of St. James inside. It wasn’t expensive and so I bought it. I didn’t buy a scallop shell to attach to my pack this time. I was waiting for someone to give me one, and so like many of the things I’ve earned in this life I acted thus and brought the pendent along to give to a special pilgrim.
I hadn’t expected to meet this special pilgrim on the 3rd night, but I was a bit relieved and knew in the morning if I saw this woman again, I would give her the pendent and say, “Welcome to Spain. Your journey is admirable, and I’m inspired.” I’d tell her about the tradition of being given a scallop and that would be that. I’d also let her know it was silver, so if the gesture fell on deaf ears, she could at least sell the thing. I was happy I didn’t have to carry it around wondering who I’d give it to any longer. Now it was only to find who would give me my shell.
Not the exact one I found at the Antique store, but close.
Before leaving the first town of the day we head to the grocery store and buy some Chokoli wine, bread, chorizo, olives and some trial-mix to have for lunch somewhere along the way. Our group is forming quite nice. We are now 2 Germans, a Danish guy and me. We stop and have the lunch at a church along the way. The bonds are growing stronger and the stories longer. Everyone’s happy and talking a mile a minute. The first week on the Camino is much like any ‘ol camping trip with friends. The difference is when the talking stops and everyone is tired of each other, it’s time to go home. On the Camino, this is where the journey really begins. After all the excitement and chatter pouring from each traveler has worn off, that is when the self appears.
All those things you said you’d change if given the chance to do something so amazing in this life as walk the Camino. My little critical voice is already rearing its head, judging my every decision, reprimanding me when I take pleasure in something, when I’m enjoying the moment. For me, the Camino is a great exercise is slaying the demon of The Accuser. Getting away from my daily grind and routine in Texas helps me hear how loud the negative voice of the accuser really is. It screams out in hatred and ridicule. The scenery and utter beauty of the Camino help to keep this negative side in check. I mean how can one feel bad with such amazing beauty on all sides?
Chokoli is a wine made from a grape growing on the cliffs and high hills of Eastern Basque Country. The salty sea air is said to give the wine its unique flavor. Also pictured are the last remains of a bocadillo con chorizo and queso Manchego
The trail passes quickly and after 14 miles we are in Zumaia. For logistical reason it’s the best place to stop at this point, but there is no albergue and only a private hotel which costs us 30 euro a night each for a shared room. Heiko’s snoring is getting to me. Everyone snores, and so do I, but familiarity breeds contempt, I guess. I hope I don’t have to sleep in the same room with him. He and I don’t’ have reservations, but one of the group has called and assured there is plenty of room. The group agrees to go to the grocery store and buy things to cook. An English man named David is now part of the Camino family. We met each other on the final smoke break before the last leg of the day’s hike. David would cook us a traditional Spanish dish, and us others would pitch in on getting potatoes, broccoli and other vegetables.
From left to right: Micha, Me, Heiko, Johnny and David.
Having a smoke break and making dinner plans
The rest of the walk was easy, but when we arrived to the Hotel there was something a little off putting in the air. The woman came storming in and had a bad attitude. For the price of 60 euros for a shared room, I expected a jolly old lady offering up free Spanish tortilla and beers upon entry. This woman was busy as all hell and couldn’t be bothered with us. I tried to translate for everyone as my Spanish is pretty conversational, but I quickly grew annoyed with this woman’s antics. She wouldn’t hear me when I asked if I could get a private room, and then when I asked if Heiko and I could get a room with two beds not pushed together she stormed up the stairs to our room and parted the beds like Moses doing the Red Sea. In one quick motion the beds were on either side of the room against the walls, with the end tables and lamps now on the inside of the room. She flung some towels around, opened the window and looked at me like, “There, are you satisfied?”
It wasn’t so bad to share a room together, but everyone thought we were son and father, me and Heiko. I think I tend to look like a European - A German, or Dane, maybe an English. Still I couldn’t figure out why she thought it was crazy to want separate beds. Maybe she wanted us to move them. I’m not sure, either way I gave up talking to this lady or translating for anyone after this. Micha, seeing I was getting tired of it, took over for the rest of our time walking together. He was much happier with it.
Playa de Zarautz - April 4th
Leaving Zarautz and headed for Zumaia
Despite the ill greeting, the place is very nice. The showers are hot, we all have our own towels, but alas - still no heaters. Our Camino family had grown now to include the German woman, who had yelled at us, Suzanne. Dave was busy making us all an English version of Fabada, which was a traditional Asturian dish, while the veggie-dish the other guys and I had prepared was left warming on the stove. You really can’t get enough veggies on the Camino.
While waiting for everything to cook, a group of us had beers out on the patio in a beautiful sunroom overlooking the hills and mountains we’d been climbing all day. As we sat there enjoying conversation and the beautiful scenery accompanied by warm sun rays heating up the patio and our bodies, a gas-powered leaf blower with a Spanish man attached to it came in through one door, blew a bunch of dust around, cleaned off some of the sidewalk and passed through to go out the opposite open end of the sunroom, and disappeared toward the front of the hotel.
The four of us look at each other with a hand over the mouths our beers and grins of confusion on our faces. Were the people angry with us? There were ashtrays on the tables, and the sunroom was only partially closed, and this is Spain; they can’t be mad at us for smoking. What was it, I thought? Why were they treating us like this? Normally, Spanish people are the most polite and well-mannered I have ever known, and especially when everyone is paying 30-40 euros each per night. In Spanish hotel prices, that’s 3 stars at least.
After a few seconds we all burst out laughing. It was really something. Now the hotel lady and another man are out front trimming the hedges and mowing the lawn. Every few minutes someone passes by the window we are looking out and sprays some grass clippings our way.
View from hotel room in Zumaia at sunrise
I smoked a couple spliffs and showed off some of my new tunes that were going to be coming out over the next few weeks. They were all very impressed and said they liked the less-country tunes more. I agreed, and felt I’d redeemed myself from a poor performance the night before. Heiko and I stepped outside for some air and a cigarette, and he told me he couldn’t help but think about a saying he once heard. He’d been mulling it over in his mind while walking,
” Father Bull and his son were standing on the hillside admiring the heard of heifers in the meadow below. The little son gets excited and says to Father Bull, “Father, why don’t we run down and fuck one of them?” Father bull hears his son and shakes his head in dismay replying, “No you bloody bastard, let’s walk down and fuck them all.” Heiko really emphasized the bloody bastard part.
View from trail coming into Zumaia
The funny thing about a craft is for so long the presentation is self-fulfilling. The product is so novice that the appreciation shown by the public is mere sustenance for the craftsman to continue developing. This is like the young bull wanting to get to the prize as quickly as possible and ignoring the bigger picture of a pasture full of cows, only seeing himself capable of taking one, ignoring the need to leisurely walk and graze. Only as a master does the craftsman have something to offer that will silence a room, focus all ears and gain the attention of every eye. When you have something to offer, the presentation also has sustenance to offer the public and they feed on it, the way the craftsman first fed on the encouraging words of the public. This is the wise old bull sauntering down without a care in the world. Knowing he is entitled to the entire pasture and for that he is granted the ability to take his time and do as he pleases.
When you’re an egg it’s total darkness
You get sat upon all day
When you’re an egg no one notices
Until you’ve got eggs to lay
Along the trail we are few. It’s very peaceful and a lot of time to chat and think and not be bothered by a crowded trail. This is another reason why I enjoy hiking in April. The number of pilgrims really goes up as the weather gets better. Along the way you are reminded of what an impact pilgrims can have on the environment around them, specifically by shitting outside. But there are always signs along the way to keep us in check.