May 30: Villalcazar de Sirga to Carrion. By bus to Leon.
I left Villalcazar de Sirga around 6:30 this morning. The optional path I was on yesterday converged with the preferred path and the foot traffic picked up. The Camino has paralleled the highway since Fromista. I arrived in Carrion de los Condes around 8:15 a.m. The town doesn’t seem large, but I read the population is nearly 2,500. That may explain the many late-model automobiles, as well as transport trucks roaring past, kicking up dirt while hauling feed or commercial products, while we pilgrims choke on dust.
The first place I see open for business is Café-Bar Espana where I meet a woman from Phoenix. She’s the third one I’ve met with an Arizona connection. I also met a mother and daughter, from Australia, who put all their belongings in storage and have no timetable. In Burgos they purchased bicycles. I wonder what motivates that free spirit.
The first place I see open for business is Café-Bar Espana where I meet a woman from Phoenix. She’s the third one I’ve met with an Arizona connection. I also met a mother and daughter, from Australia, who put all their belongings in storage and have no timetable. In Burgos they purchased bicycles. I wonder what motivates that free spirit.
I spend the morning strolling the fortified town with its history of battles, conquests and revenge killings, which is the story not unlike the majority of all medieval villages, towns and cities along the way.
Across the street from the cafe is an information booth. It wasn’t open, although a posted sign stated a bus would depart at 12:45 p.m. with Leon as the destination and cost 10 euros = $13. What a deal! This was my goal yesterday, but my foot was hurting too much to walk here. My spirit and foot are grateful for the “wheels on the bus go ‘round and ‘round,” thinking of one of my son Christopher’s favorite childhood songs. I think of many songs along the way to pass the time.
At the café I pay for a bus ticket to Leon, along with ordering the Petite Dejenuer. That's French for breakfast of juice, tea and croissant. I don’t know why it wasn’t the Spanish spelling of Desayuno.
I don’t think I've lost weight with all the food I’m consuming, although my hiking-cargo pants are really bagging down on my hips...like a hip-hop artist. Perhaps it’s just the heavy load of a camera in one side pocket and guide book in the other. I’ve noticed few-to-none overweight locals in my walk across Spain. There does seems to be the typical middle-age spread but none of the obesity often seen in the United States.
There is no Wi-Fi at this café. The IPhone battery is low. After the stores open I stroll around town searching for a phone charger-international adaptor. After being sent on several wild goose chases I finally locate via sign-language - a charger, but hesitate thinking the price of 23 euros is outrageous. I pay the price, and glad I did.
The temperature is about 75 degrees at 10:30 with a gentle breeze. I keep on the windbreaker/rain jacket, and am comfortable for now. I’ve been filling my canteen and water bag with tap water since early on and haven’t had to purchase bottle water. My stomach doesn’t object.
More storks swarm and clack overhead from their high nests that’s usually on a church steeple. Many cities and villages along the Camino have plane trees cropped into a neat rectangle, of five to six stubby branches.
Now it feels good to just sit and journal. I loosen the laces all the way down on my boots which relieves pressure on my right foot. Above the arch is visibly swollen. The majority of pilgrims have one or more ailments by now. Some have major blisters. A few have toenails turning black. I've heard of several who lost toe nails. Ouch.
Consequently, I was one of many who stood in line for the 12:50 bus while the driver loaded backpacks in the compartment underneath. I showed him my ticket and he pointed me to what appeared to be back to the café. Oh dear. What did this mean? Had I not paid the proper fare? Was this the wrong bus? A pilgrim from Spain came along and motioned I was to stand in line on the other side of the bus and have my backpack loaded on the left cargo bin instead of the one on the right. Who knew? The learning curve continues.
I fear most of my writing so far has been factual and/or negative. When will I become enlightened? I must be determined to make the second half more positive. Although right now all I can see are fingernails broken and ragged without a file in sight. I laugh at myself, as if that’s the worst thing that can happen to a girl. I also can’t wait to get home and out of these ill-fitting clothes. Even though they are washed they are still not clean. God bless automatic clothes washers and dryers. I’ll probably kiss the Maytag Man when I get home.
ONWARD TO LEON:
The ride in the modern bus coach was pleasant as were the sights of the countryside as we left the Palencia region. The road to Leon does not parallel the Camino for much of the time until reaching the city so I did not see pilgrims walking.
I was glad to not have to walk through the ugly industrial parts. Furthermore, markers can be difficult to spot once in the city, as is true for all cities along the Camino.
Upon arriving at the Leon bus station at 3:00 p.m., I connect with two other pilgrimages from Germany. One speaks English fairly well. Much better than my German. We take turns leading, getting lost, then finding our way to the center of town. It was a 45-minute fast pace trying to keep up with them. I remember from my first day how fast some Germans walk....sort of a march.
At the café I pay for a bus ticket to Leon, along with ordering the Petite Dejenuer. That's French for breakfast of juice, tea and croissant. I don’t know why it wasn’t the Spanish spelling of Desayuno.
I don’t think I've lost weight with all the food I’m consuming, although my hiking-cargo pants are really bagging down on my hips...like a hip-hop artist. Perhaps it’s just the heavy load of a camera in one side pocket and guide book in the other. I’ve noticed few-to-none overweight locals in my walk across Spain. There does seems to be the typical middle-age spread but none of the obesity often seen in the United States.
There is no Wi-Fi at this café. The IPhone battery is low. After the stores open I stroll around town searching for a phone charger-international adaptor. After being sent on several wild goose chases I finally locate via sign-language - a charger, but hesitate thinking the price of 23 euros is outrageous. I pay the price, and glad I did.
The temperature is about 75 degrees at 10:30 with a gentle breeze. I keep on the windbreaker/rain jacket, and am comfortable for now. I’ve been filling my canteen and water bag with tap water since early on and haven’t had to purchase bottle water. My stomach doesn’t object.
More storks swarm and clack overhead from their high nests that’s usually on a church steeple. Many cities and villages along the Camino have plane trees cropped into a neat rectangle, of five to six stubby branches.
Now it feels good to just sit and journal. I loosen the laces all the way down on my boots which relieves pressure on my right foot. Above the arch is visibly swollen. The majority of pilgrims have one or more ailments by now. Some have major blisters. A few have toenails turning black. I've heard of several who lost toe nails. Ouch.
Consequently, I was one of many who stood in line for the 12:50 bus while the driver loaded backpacks in the compartment underneath. I showed him my ticket and he pointed me to what appeared to be back to the café. Oh dear. What did this mean? Had I not paid the proper fare? Was this the wrong bus? A pilgrim from Spain came along and motioned I was to stand in line on the other side of the bus and have my backpack loaded on the left cargo bin instead of the one on the right. Who knew? The learning curve continues.
I fear most of my writing so far has been factual and/or negative. When will I become enlightened? I must be determined to make the second half more positive. Although right now all I can see are fingernails broken and ragged without a file in sight. I laugh at myself, as if that’s the worst thing that can happen to a girl. I also can’t wait to get home and out of these ill-fitting clothes. Even though they are washed they are still not clean. God bless automatic clothes washers and dryers. I’ll probably kiss the Maytag Man when I get home.
ONWARD TO LEON:
The ride in the modern bus coach was pleasant as were the sights of the countryside as we left the Palencia region. The road to Leon does not parallel the Camino for much of the time until reaching the city so I did not see pilgrims walking.
I was glad to not have to walk through the ugly industrial parts. Furthermore, markers can be difficult to spot once in the city, as is true for all cities along the Camino.
Upon arriving at the Leon bus station at 3:00 p.m., I connect with two other pilgrimages from Germany. One speaks English fairly well. Much better than my German. We take turns leading, getting lost, then finding our way to the center of town. It was a 45-minute fast pace trying to keep up with them. I remember from my first day how fast some Germans walk....sort of a march.
From the bus station, and the train station ahead, we cross one of several bridges over the Bernesga River into the business/retail district. For once I read ahead and looked for Gaudi’s neo-Gothic structure, Casa Botines, featuring St. George and the Dragon on the outside, where I paused mid-stride to take a photo for my favorite St. George Anast.
Scallop shells embedded on busy sidewalks were a bit too discrete making it difficult to find the way in and out of the city. After making a few more wrong turns we three found our way to the Benedictine Monastery of Santa Maria de Carbajel where we were sure of find a bed among the 142 on four floors.
Yikes! Where are my poles?
Upon registering at the albergue I was dumb struck.. and empty-handed. Where were my hiking poles? In a flash I knew exactly where I left them. In the bano at the bus station. At the albergue the volunteer hospitaliria’s English was about as good as my Spanish......and, most recently, my German.
Digging into my backpack I produce several pages I carried from home torn from a Spanish directory. I ask if they will telephone the bus station? I composed a note to the effect: “Have green hiking pikes been turned in? Left in ladies' bathroom.”
The volunteers tried their best to deal with me in the midst of prime time for checking in pilgrims. They suggested waiting another hour for an English-speaking volunteer to come on duty. I dread the waste of time just waiting. I also dread the walk back to the bus station. But by now I determined it best if I bite the bullet, walk back and take a look for myself.
To lighten the load my backpack is left under the watchful eye of the group of trustworthy volunteers. One pushes a map in my hand and rattles off directions in Spanish. Both are accurate but not helpful. That map took me through a maze of narrow streets with unpronounceable and unmemorable names.
I stopped a stylish, young, fashion model-attractive-woman with a child in a stroller. I asked directions to the autobus estation. “Oh Senora, it’s too far to walk,” she replied sympathetically, but waved me in the general direction probably thinking that surely I would flag down a taxicab. I think to myself of this darling young mother in her stiletto heels, "It may be too far for you, babe, but if only you know how many miles I've walked so far on the Camino. And if I return unscathed it will be the third time on these streets today. “
I’m dying of thirst. I left my water behind with the backpack. I try not to think about water. Finally I get out of the maze of narrow streets and find my way retracing earlier steps. I pass the train station. The map indicates the bus station is on the next street over from the train. I keep walking and see nothing familiar. I turn left. Nothing. I ask several men for directions to the bus. (There seems to be only men on the streets.)
I can tell I’m headed into a seedy part of town. They point me on further. Finally, a man on my third stop understands. I’m not looking for the “local bus” that travels this street. I’m looking for the regional bus station. Isn’t that what I’ve been asking? Estaction Autobus?” He turns me around back along the street where I came and motioned for me to take the first right turn. The first right turn is about three blocks later. The bus station was just across the street from the train station. How could I have missed that the first time? I wasn't paying attention, that's why. Instead I was walking fast and trying to converse with the Germans.
Finders Keepers:
Entering the bus station I find what looks to be an information center. I ask if something turned in green hiking sticks. Disinterested, the attendant nods “no.” He probably didn’t have a clue what I was saying and went back to his book. My heart sinks. I’m certain some honest fellow pilgrim would have turned them in. (There is very little theft reported on the Camino. I never heard of anything stolen from a fellow pilgrim.) But perhaps a needy and injured pilgrim decided, “Finders keepers – losers weepers.” I was on the verge. Hot. Tired. Frustrated. Desperate. At wit’s end.
Along the Camino I observed a few pilgrims walking without the aid of poles, but with my injured right foot I desperately needed them. Trekking downhill would be dangerous and even more painful without poles. Knowing how much they cost in the U.S. I hated to think how much they would be here. That is, if I would be able to find a store in this city that carried hiking poles. Most likely I could, as this was one of the few places that stocked gear for hikers, but I’ve committed myself to a budget for this pilgrimage and stupidity and forgetfulness wasn’t factored in.
Getting my bearings in the bus station I recognize the ladies restroom in question. Miraculously, the restroom is empty of people so I tear into the end stall I’m sure is the one I used. Nothing. Now I know my search is fruitless. Instead I don’t give up. Remember: I am desperate. I need a miracle. I go around the room and search all other ten stalls. Nothing. The last stall. Nothing. That’s it. I give up hope.
But wait. Something out of the corner of my eye glints green. I look up. The window sill. Above head level. That’s where I put them. I remember now. Before I thought I propped them against the wall. There they were!
I’m overcome with emotion. Not just from the turmoil of losing the walking sticks, but from all the other twists in the demanding journey that have been difficult. Involuntarily a sob wells up in gratitude for this and other small miracles I've been graced with along the Camino.
I’m smart enough this time to not leave the bus station without finding a bottle of water. The gift store clerk gives me a sharp frown, as if my precious poles under my arm will knock over half the contents in the bus station shop. I give her a sincere smile hoping to pass on some of my gratitude – as I'm thinking she is one of the lucky ones to have a job within the sea of unemployed Spain. She could use some gratitude herself. Perhaps it’s not until we lose something that we realize how much we need that something. Or someone.
I was lighthearted on the walk back to the albergue, although by now it was too late to visit the Gaudi building and the glorious cathedral of Leon. So close, but so far out of reach. With deep regret I can only read about it and listen while my friend Margie Baker gushes about the landmark church that was the highlight of her trip.
I first arrived at the albergue at 3:30. Now I’ve returned at 6. The mistake of leaving my poles behind cost me 2.5 hours.
A sign from Heaven?
My assigned upper bunk was waiting for me. The person on the lower bunk had placed all her belongings on the chair, which was intended as a stepping stool to hoist myself up. I took my boots off and placed them on a rack, as typical for all albergues. I pulled off my two pair of socks. Then just as I stepped onto the edge of the chair with one foot I felt something cold and metallic beneath the other still on the floor. A penny stuck fast to the sole of my foot. I had to pry it off. It wasn’t Spanish or a U.S. coin, but a Canadian penny. How mysterious and mystical.
I’m not superstitious. Nor do I believe in hocus pocus but in Tucson it’s not unusual for me to find pennies in the yard, shopping malls, streets, church parking lots, etc. Never quarters, dimes or nickels. Only pennies. I find so many that I started saving them in a special pile. These are pennies from heaven. I’ve come to believe each time I find a penny one of my loved ones, who has passed on, is with me in spirit that moment. My ancestry is French Canadian. I felt that penny was symbolic of all my ancestors rooting for me. I had my own cheering section in heaven pulling for me along the Camino. Later, I find I’m not the only one belonging to the “Pennies from Heaven” club.
By now it was nearly 7 p.m. In gratitude I attend the vespers sung by Benedictine nuns in the convent chapel. After vespers I check out a nearby restaurant, Sidreria El Escano, featuring the meal of the day. I’m comfortably seated by myself. Pilgrim patrons at the next table invite me to join them. Two Canadians, an Australian and a young man from England. This young man was the one who pointed me in the right direction when I was turned around trying to find the albergue the second time. He recognized me.
This British young man, who was really still a boy, said he just graduated from what would be high school. He was trying to determine what he would study at University. He was thinking of computer graphics. His father walked the Camino last year. As he continued to talk I became aware of how full of peace, mature and saint-like he was. He was the youngest pilgrim I met. I commented that his parents must be very special to have such an angelic son. I never saw him on the Camino again.
Yikes! Where are my poles?
Upon registering at the albergue I was dumb struck.. and empty-handed. Where were my hiking poles? In a flash I knew exactly where I left them. In the bano at the bus station. At the albergue the volunteer hospitaliria’s English was about as good as my Spanish......and, most recently, my German.
Digging into my backpack I produce several pages I carried from home torn from a Spanish directory. I ask if they will telephone the bus station? I composed a note to the effect: “Have green hiking pikes been turned in? Left in ladies' bathroom.”
The volunteers tried their best to deal with me in the midst of prime time for checking in pilgrims. They suggested waiting another hour for an English-speaking volunteer to come on duty. I dread the waste of time just waiting. I also dread the walk back to the bus station. But by now I determined it best if I bite the bullet, walk back and take a look for myself.
To lighten the load my backpack is left under the watchful eye of the group of trustworthy volunteers. One pushes a map in my hand and rattles off directions in Spanish. Both are accurate but not helpful. That map took me through a maze of narrow streets with unpronounceable and unmemorable names.
I stopped a stylish, young, fashion model-attractive-woman with a child in a stroller. I asked directions to the autobus estation. “Oh Senora, it’s too far to walk,” she replied sympathetically, but waved me in the general direction probably thinking that surely I would flag down a taxicab. I think to myself of this darling young mother in her stiletto heels, "It may be too far for you, babe, but if only you know how many miles I've walked so far on the Camino. And if I return unscathed it will be the third time on these streets today. “
I’m dying of thirst. I left my water behind with the backpack. I try not to think about water. Finally I get out of the maze of narrow streets and find my way retracing earlier steps. I pass the train station. The map indicates the bus station is on the next street over from the train. I keep walking and see nothing familiar. I turn left. Nothing. I ask several men for directions to the bus. (There seems to be only men on the streets.)
I can tell I’m headed into a seedy part of town. They point me on further. Finally, a man on my third stop understands. I’m not looking for the “local bus” that travels this street. I’m looking for the regional bus station. Isn’t that what I’ve been asking? Estaction Autobus?” He turns me around back along the street where I came and motioned for me to take the first right turn. The first right turn is about three blocks later. The bus station was just across the street from the train station. How could I have missed that the first time? I wasn't paying attention, that's why. Instead I was walking fast and trying to converse with the Germans.
Finders Keepers:
Entering the bus station I find what looks to be an information center. I ask if something turned in green hiking sticks. Disinterested, the attendant nods “no.” He probably didn’t have a clue what I was saying and went back to his book. My heart sinks. I’m certain some honest fellow pilgrim would have turned them in. (There is very little theft reported on the Camino. I never heard of anything stolen from a fellow pilgrim.) But perhaps a needy and injured pilgrim decided, “Finders keepers – losers weepers.” I was on the verge. Hot. Tired. Frustrated. Desperate. At wit’s end.
Along the Camino I observed a few pilgrims walking without the aid of poles, but with my injured right foot I desperately needed them. Trekking downhill would be dangerous and even more painful without poles. Knowing how much they cost in the U.S. I hated to think how much they would be here. That is, if I would be able to find a store in this city that carried hiking poles. Most likely I could, as this was one of the few places that stocked gear for hikers, but I’ve committed myself to a budget for this pilgrimage and stupidity and forgetfulness wasn’t factored in.
Getting my bearings in the bus station I recognize the ladies restroom in question. Miraculously, the restroom is empty of people so I tear into the end stall I’m sure is the one I used. Nothing. Now I know my search is fruitless. Instead I don’t give up. Remember: I am desperate. I need a miracle. I go around the room and search all other ten stalls. Nothing. The last stall. Nothing. That’s it. I give up hope.
But wait. Something out of the corner of my eye glints green. I look up. The window sill. Above head level. That’s where I put them. I remember now. Before I thought I propped them against the wall. There they were!
I’m overcome with emotion. Not just from the turmoil of losing the walking sticks, but from all the other twists in the demanding journey that have been difficult. Involuntarily a sob wells up in gratitude for this and other small miracles I've been graced with along the Camino.
I’m smart enough this time to not leave the bus station without finding a bottle of water. The gift store clerk gives me a sharp frown, as if my precious poles under my arm will knock over half the contents in the bus station shop. I give her a sincere smile hoping to pass on some of my gratitude – as I'm thinking she is one of the lucky ones to have a job within the sea of unemployed Spain. She could use some gratitude herself. Perhaps it’s not until we lose something that we realize how much we need that something. Or someone.
I was lighthearted on the walk back to the albergue, although by now it was too late to visit the Gaudi building and the glorious cathedral of Leon. So close, but so far out of reach. With deep regret I can only read about it and listen while my friend Margie Baker gushes about the landmark church that was the highlight of her trip.
I first arrived at the albergue at 3:30. Now I’ve returned at 6. The mistake of leaving my poles behind cost me 2.5 hours.
A sign from Heaven?
My assigned upper bunk was waiting for me. The person on the lower bunk had placed all her belongings on the chair, which was intended as a stepping stool to hoist myself up. I took my boots off and placed them on a rack, as typical for all albergues. I pulled off my two pair of socks. Then just as I stepped onto the edge of the chair with one foot I felt something cold and metallic beneath the other still on the floor. A penny stuck fast to the sole of my foot. I had to pry it off. It wasn’t Spanish or a U.S. coin, but a Canadian penny. How mysterious and mystical.
I’m not superstitious. Nor do I believe in hocus pocus but in Tucson it’s not unusual for me to find pennies in the yard, shopping malls, streets, church parking lots, etc. Never quarters, dimes or nickels. Only pennies. I find so many that I started saving them in a special pile. These are pennies from heaven. I’ve come to believe each time I find a penny one of my loved ones, who has passed on, is with me in spirit that moment. My ancestry is French Canadian. I felt that penny was symbolic of all my ancestors rooting for me. I had my own cheering section in heaven pulling for me along the Camino. Later, I find I’m not the only one belonging to the “Pennies from Heaven” club.
By now it was nearly 7 p.m. In gratitude I attend the vespers sung by Benedictine nuns in the convent chapel. After vespers I check out a nearby restaurant, Sidreria El Escano, featuring the meal of the day. I’m comfortably seated by myself. Pilgrim patrons at the next table invite me to join them. Two Canadians, an Australian and a young man from England. This young man was the one who pointed me in the right direction when I was turned around trying to find the albergue the second time. He recognized me.
This British young man, who was really still a boy, said he just graduated from what would be high school. He was trying to determine what he would study at University. He was thinking of computer graphics. His father walked the Camino last year. As he continued to talk I became aware of how full of peace, mature and saint-like he was. He was the youngest pilgrim I met. I commented that his parents must be very special to have such an angelic son. I never saw him on the Camino again.