June 8: Ponte Campaña Mato to Arzua
This morning as I finish up with the backpack a woman I recognize from the dinner table last night asks if my name is Linda. “Yes,” I answer. She announces for all other pilgrims in the room to hear that she is to remind me I had not paid my dinner bill last night.
I awoke during the night and remembered. I was among the first few to leave the table before the bill was presented. Perhaps I thought I had prepaid for this community dinner, which is sometimes the case. Perhaps I wasn't thinking at all. I felt guilty about this during the night, but intended to pay in the morning.
The messenger told me the manager will not arrive until 8, but I can slide my money under the door. Awgrh. I only have a 50 euro bill. And a 5 euro. Nobody has change for a 50. (These large bills will also come back to haunt me at the end of my journey.) I add up my coins and place these, along with the 5 euro bill, into a plastic snack bag. It adds up to 9.5 Euros. I gyp the cook by .50 euros and still today I feel like a thief. Oh, that Catholic upbringing.
Now the bulky bag of coins would not slide under the antique wood door so I put the bag on the ground with a rock on top and hoped a fellow pilgrim would not steal it and the manager or cook would find the money and be satisfied. Otherwise I would have lost 2 hours just waiting. Another tip: Always keep small bills and coins on hand.
This morning as I finish up with the backpack a woman I recognize from the dinner table last night asks if my name is Linda. “Yes,” I answer. She announces for all other pilgrims in the room to hear that she is to remind me I had not paid my dinner bill last night.
I awoke during the night and remembered. I was among the first few to leave the table before the bill was presented. Perhaps I thought I had prepaid for this community dinner, which is sometimes the case. Perhaps I wasn't thinking at all. I felt guilty about this during the night, but intended to pay in the morning.
The messenger told me the manager will not arrive until 8, but I can slide my money under the door. Awgrh. I only have a 50 euro bill. And a 5 euro. Nobody has change for a 50. (These large bills will also come back to haunt me at the end of my journey.) I add up my coins and place these, along with the 5 euro bill, into a plastic snack bag. It adds up to 9.5 Euros. I gyp the cook by .50 euros and still today I feel like a thief. Oh, that Catholic upbringing.
Now the bulky bag of coins would not slide under the antique wood door so I put the bag on the ground with a rock on top and hoped a fellow pilgrim would not steal it and the manager or cook would find the money and be satisfied. Otherwise I would have lost 2 hours just waiting. Another tip: Always keep small bills and coins on hand.
Approaching Melide a mare and her colt are feeding in a grassy field. I get a Sello stamp at Taberna Do Coto, a large town of 8,000. I met Barb, a woman from Canada, whom I had seen a walking a few days ago -without a backpack- and talking to a young Italian. It appeared she was learning Italian, or he was practicing English.
Barb’s husband was a realtor and now retired. She is an artist and took numerous photos and hoped to get back to painting upon her return home. They were staying in hostels, or B&B’s. After a bad experience – she never said what the experience was – she and her husband never returned to another albergue. They had their backpacks transported and hotels were arranged ahead so they knew where they would stop. Her husband was tall, had a longer stride and could walk much faster than she. They had an agreement he would wait for her outside their hotel – usually with a cerveza in hand.
This is turning into a 13-mile day. I’m tired and thirsty. Breaking my vow not to have soft drinks along the way, but I’m ready for something wet and sweet, and where I can use a real toilet for a change. After a short break Barb and I come across several corralled horses ahead. She must be a horse whisperer. She soon had one mare licking her hand. I took photos and promise to email her.
Sure enough, her husband was waiting for her outside the hotel when we pulled up. I had a glass of cerveza with them. They were going to unpack and nap, but invited me to join them for dinner that evening.
In Aruza there is an albergue adjoining the higher price hotel. I enquire about availability. It’s booked. A block up the street is another nice, clean and not too large albergue. After getting settled in, I realize I don’t know the husband’s name or Barb’s last name. I don’t know how to ask for them at the reception desk. I walk back to the hotel just in case, to see if they are sitting outside. They are not. I don’t see them again. Even in Santiago. I hoped to connect with her but the email address I had was incorrect.
Barb’s husband was a realtor and now retired. She is an artist and took numerous photos and hoped to get back to painting upon her return home. They were staying in hostels, or B&B’s. After a bad experience – she never said what the experience was – she and her husband never returned to another albergue. They had their backpacks transported and hotels were arranged ahead so they knew where they would stop. Her husband was tall, had a longer stride and could walk much faster than she. They had an agreement he would wait for her outside their hotel – usually with a cerveza in hand.
This is turning into a 13-mile day. I’m tired and thirsty. Breaking my vow not to have soft drinks along the way, but I’m ready for something wet and sweet, and where I can use a real toilet for a change. After a short break Barb and I come across several corralled horses ahead. She must be a horse whisperer. She soon had one mare licking her hand. I took photos and promise to email her.
Sure enough, her husband was waiting for her outside the hotel when we pulled up. I had a glass of cerveza with them. They were going to unpack and nap, but invited me to join them for dinner that evening.
In Aruza there is an albergue adjoining the higher price hotel. I enquire about availability. It’s booked. A block up the street is another nice, clean and not too large albergue. After getting settled in, I realize I don’t know the husband’s name or Barb’s last name. I don’t know how to ask for them at the reception desk. I walk back to the hotel just in case, to see if they are sitting outside. They are not. I don’t see them again. Even in Santiago. I hoped to connect with her but the email address I had was incorrect.