An Update in Three Parts — La Casa Magica, Villatuerta, Spain

1: Very Important Point

********BULLETIN**********

In response to concern from friends and family (for which I thank them) — my feet are NOT rotting off the bottom of my legs. I did NOT ignore the problem and continue with the method that gave me the blisters. I have great socks. I have switched to my much more comfortable Keen sandals. No, this is NOT an indication that I am out of money. I have applied appropriate and consistent first aid, and prevention in addition to that which I had already employed. There is marked improvement! At no point have I been unable to walk. I do not need a pedicure, Kristina. 

I just wanted to give a thorough update, in case my recent posts have left my dear friends wondering about my foot-care competency. I stand by my claim that sometimes, people just get blisters. And sometimes, I try to gross everyone out with them. 

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2: Recipe for a Small Home — One Serving

I have learned to make small homes every night, consisting of exactly the same materials. Which makes each nesting no less of a miracle each time I roll it out. 

First I designate a certain square of space next to my bunk where my backpack will live. This is comforting because it means for a few hours it doesn't live ON me. Then I pull out my sleeping bag and unroll it on the bed. That makes it all very official. Then I pull out my toiletries bag and make a smaller square for IT to live. I take off my shoes and put them under the bed. I pull out exactly what I will need tonight, then exactly what I will need tomorrow. I line them up on the floor or on my backpack or once on a bedside table because there was one and that was perfect. So perfect. 

I will need my knife and cheese and bread tonight. And my shampoo and small towel and clean clothes. Along with my toothbrush and book and glasses. I will need my dirty clothes to wash in the sink. I will need my guide book to plan tomorrow's walk. I will need lotion to rub into my feet for tomorrow's walk. I will need a little meditation about my attitude regarding tomorrow's walk.

Tomorrow I will need fresh bandaids and moleskin and again my toothbrush. And also a small bag of peanuts and dates and figs for breakfast. I made several packets of them a few days ago. They are satisfying in a sticky, caloric kind of way. But different than other things that are sticky and caloric. Like nachos. Or carmel. These are something really good.

So all of my things are laid out. And my sleeping bag is flat on the bed, on top of the papery sheet that makes people stop obsessing on bed bugs, for some reason. And my glasses are on instead of contacts, and the book is in my hand, and when I lay down it is exactly like laying down at home in my bed with all the feathers, which is in a room full of my things, in a house full of my things, all of which are just my own and not shared with 10 strangers. This happens to be exactly the same. Because I've made it so. And someone has let me. 

Except I still miss the dog terribly but there's nothing much to be done about that for now.

3: To Pasta or not to Pasta

I am struggling with something normal. Day before yesterday a young French man asked if I wanted to share in the group pasta meal. You eat some food, you donate some money, everyone sits together. I declined. I'd been thinking about eating bread and apples and cheese while curled in my sleeping bag for the last six hours, and I could not conceive of giving this up in favor of eating pasta with a bunch of 20-somethings. (Yes, I am a 20-something, but I feel my sometimes crotchety demeanor makes me exempt from this group on an at-will basis.)

When I said no, he said, "Really?"

I said, "Yes, really. I have dinner already, thank you."

I smiled, I was polite, I groaned and rubbed a foot, to make it seem like I just couldn't possibly get to the kitchen. 

An hour later I was walking back from the shop with a loaf of bread. The French guy was sitting outside, and he looked up at me when I passed, his checkered scarf waving obnoxiously in the breeze.

"So, do you just not like pasta?" He said pasta with the long a. Like in cat or fast. 

Apparently he'd been wondering about my anti-social behavior while I looked for mustard and bread at the market. I found his question kind of aggressive. Like, how DARE I turn down the community meal in favor of eating by myself in a bunk bed. 

I said I just wasn't sure how the group meals worked and I'd been nervous to join in. But the truth was, I knew exactly how it worked, and I just wasn't interested. And I think he knew that. 

It's not that I have any animosity toward those who want to gather for a meal. I did the first night, and it was nice. But ever since I've been too distracted by my need to hibernate and rest and just be alone. But as I watch all of these other people collaborate gastronomic needs, laughing and having so much fun doing something I still just don't want to do, I have to wonder if I have it all wrong. 

So just in case, last night I made an effort to socialize while I ate my single meal in the group kitchen. The paaaaasta group from the previous night was gathered over a veritable cauldron of rice, and I slyly pretended I did not see their wave and veered hard to the right — in favor of the middle-aged lesbians I had met earlier in the day. They were more my speed than the raucous table of young adventurers. Which made me question, not for the first time in my life, why I am less comfortable around people my own age. Old insecurities? It's hard to say. But after some thought, I've decided that my increasing desire to be left alone is not a bad thing. It's quiet here, with room to breathe, and afterall, people are all around me should I ever get a little lonely. People of all ages, and nationalities, and shapes, and attitudes, and colors, and volumes, and every other thing that makes us. 

Tonight in the spirit of a little community, and more in the spirit of hunger, I DID opt in for the group dinner at the fancy albergue I splurged for. Fancy means a single bed instead of a bunk bed. Spacious common areas. A nice washtub and hanging line for laundry. Wifi. And an average guest age of about 50. Life is great.