Camino Portugues Days 17-20: The Other Kind of All Inclusive Vacation

Day 17 to Redondela 

Distance: 9.5 miles

Time: 4 hours

Day 18 to Pontevedra 

Distance: 12.5 miles

Time: 5 hours

Day 19 to Caldas De Reis

Distance: 13 miles

Time: 5 hours

Day 20 to Padron 

Distance: 11.25 miles

Time: 4.5 hours

To be perfectly honest, there have been some ups and downs to this "walk through Portugal" business. I'd be lying if I said I enjoyed every minute of it, but at the same time I'm grateful for each step and misstep. And as I've been told, you find the Camino you need, not necessarily the one you go looking for. Let's take a look at the myriad components of this all-inclusive-ace-number-one vacation experience. 

It has rained literally every day, albeit some days worse than others. And the albergues are largely unheated, so I've basically been cold for three weeks. But I got to walk through expansive eucalyptus forests fed and made mossy by those downpours, and over ancient Roman bridges that span their resulting rivers. And I got to reflect on gratitude for heat. 

There are literally hundreds of dogs through Central Porgual that want to eat my face. But I sweet-talked as many animals as I ran from. Like these cats, who were totally chill about me hanging out, even though it looks like they're throwing me some serious shade. Don't believe them, we're tight. 

I have failed several times to acquire dinner due to some combination of language barrier, loneliness and social anxiety, resulting in me ordering coffees and running away, or not being able to go in the restaurant at all. Or ordering but leaving in tears because my paranoia (or reality) has me convinced that the men at the next table are glaring at me. (PS I'm a huge wimp. I need people to like me. Overtly. Whatever.) But I have also eaten more bread in the past three weeks than in the past year, and have still lost like 10 pounds. Because walking. 

As I've mentioned I've struggled with language. But I was gleefull to not know the real translation of this sign, which I choose to believe refers to a sanctuary for the ghostly. I imagine a bunkhouse with tight stone corridors and small window nooks from which to look over the city. And in the halls and quiet spaces the city's apparitions gather to take some respite from their prowlings. 

I have a love-hate relationship with the pilgrim albergues. When they were empty I was desperate for the companionship of other pilgrims. When they're full I am annoyed at the groups that giggle too late at night, or get up absurdly early. But in the end they are a dear comfort, and now full of the familiar faces of strangers. Some you only see once, and are left thinking about days later. Like the group of older Spanish couples traveling in some serious style. One gentleman, who carried a day pack with a 60s-chic Barbie clipped to it, also had a messenger service deliver a duffle bag — from which he produced a matching set of top and bottom pajamas and his own set of floral sheets, pillowcase included. He was one of the ones up giggling. His wife was in the opposite bunk and kept shushing him. And then giggling. It was a special night. 

More of the Camino Portugues traverses main roads and cobblestone alleys than the Camino Frances' more frequently natural settings, but it's given me opportunity to develop my new love for gates, doors and graffiti. I've seen this heart multiple times, usually with this word. 

Because of the territory crossed, the atmosphere is somewhat diverse. Today I visited the ancient stone O Pedron, enshrined in a church (one that seemed particularly full of violent images of Christian conquest). The stone is supposedly the mooring that the boat carrying the remains of Saint James tied to in the first century AD. Some say that previous to this purpose, the stone was a Roman altar dedicated to Neptune. 

And in stunning juxtaposition, just outside the church, people were either setting up or taking down a massive carnival. Which is kind of a sad thing to watch on a cold day, with all the lights off, though with its gaudy billboards, solace for sale, and enthusiastic promises, it was not unlike the literal and figurative constructs of the Christianic empires, though certainly with less fear and blood. 

And finally on my list of comparisons, I feel like I have gotten more glares and grumpy looks this trip than in most of my other travels combined, but there are more than enough sweet souls along the way to balance it out. Like the Portugues barista that showed me like 30 pictures of her baby, AKA "the most beautiful girl in Portugal." Or the Galician man who stopped me on the trail to say hello and welcome to Galicia and where are you from and doesn't the rain make the forest beautiful? Or the man standing in front of the church in Padron today clapping and shouting "Buen Camino!" when I walked into town...and again when I walked back from the cafe. 

Or, thank the cosmos, the amazing pilgrims I met yesterday — Jamie from Australia and Linda from Montana — whose company and profound, thoughtful conversation the last 3 hours of walking was worth the entire trip. It would be too much to describe all the different things I learned and examined in those few hours. But I know it is the reason to go on Camino. I met Jamie last week and had a great couple of conversations with him and his Danish companion. When I saw him again after a stretch of not, he came over to give me a great big hug. 

"Linda," he said. "This is the girl I told you about." 

Among the many things we discussed, the nature of nature, the nature of faith, the nature of society and its future, Linda validated some of my more stressful social experiences of late. 

"I wasn't like this on the Camino Frances," I told her. "There, I got more and more confident and outgoing as time went on, and soon it was easy to go out and interact with people. This time, I got more anxious, embarrassed and paranoid as I went. I think it's my attitude..."

She started shaking her head after my first sentence. She has also done the Camino Frances, a few years ago, and is one of the sweetest, gentlest souls I've encountered. She speaks fluent Spanish, though not Portugues. "NO," she said. "It is definitely not you. This is a totally different environment." 

Though a seasoned traveler, she also felt very out of place and anxious, not a normal experience for her while traveling. She also pointed out something I'd been reacting to but hadn't specifically nailed down yet. "Did you notice that you were constantly surrounded by only men? Every restaurant you go into in Portugal is all men. Full of groups of men, and not one woman."

She was RIGHT. Thinking back, not once do I recall walking into a place to eat and seeing women, or getting anything other than MAYBE a tense smile, usually less, from the host or bartender. Just serious individuals or boistrous groups of men that gave me the side eye. Not like I was attractive. Like I was out of place. Which I was. I mean, I'm wearing a pastel jacket, using a walking pole and carrying a giant purple backpack wrapped in a torn poncho. But even in the evening minus the backpack mountain it was like that. In cafes in the daytime it was the same. Portugal seemed to populated entirely by grumpy dogs and grumpier dudes. Linda and I agreed, we wanted back in the Pilgrim bubble. 

(I will say the obvious exception to this phenomenon was the cities which had younger people of both genders — Lisbon, Porto, and especially the university town of Coimbra.) 

Not that it's not worthwhile to strike out on your own, off the beaten path they literally say, and not that I mind being the odd girl out, but after the truly fascinating and lovely if somewhat severe Portugal, I'm a bit relieved to be in Spain, where the restaurants tend to be full of couples and families, and the old dudes I pass on the trail, out walking their seemingly docile dogs, almost always offer a grin and a buenos dias. 

Now, here I am, in the last albergue before Santiago. Just a night's sleep and a 15 mile walk between me and my destination. 

And finally, I leave you with this "cool mom". Who I someday hope to be. She is clearly a good person with her priorities straight, and I wanted to hug her immediately. I didn't. I just took her picture without permission. And for that I am sorry, but it had to be done. Just look at those meow-meows. 

Camino Portugues Day 15 and 16: The Rain in Spain

— VALENCA/ PORRINO

Day 15

Distance: 7.5 miles

Time: 3.5 hours

Day 16

Distance: 16.5 miles

Time: 7.5 hours 

It turns out not even I can come up with something to say for every day of 3 weeks of walking. So here we have two days combined into one, and perhaps a brief one it will be. For I am still walking, it is still raining, and things are still largely built of stone. These are all fine things, even the rain, just not overly remarkable at this point in time. Still pretty though. I liked how these trees looked like hands reaching out of the ground. With the ominous black clouds (that are literally everywhere I go all the time) this 13th century fortress and its creepy hand-trees was a suitable backdrop to the fantasy-thriller novel I was listening to. 

I also passed an important milestone, crossing over the Minho River and into Spain. Yes, I ordered coffee awkwardly in two languages today. But not a lot has changed, as cafe grande is applicable in both Portugal and Spain, and my basic vocabulary still consists largely of, "Yes, sorry, thank you," for any and all occasions. 

My company has changed a bit, and it's surprising how in just 5 days of seeing the same people, and now not, I feel I've now split up from travel companions, rather than strangers. It came about because I cut my day short yesterday, after coming across a particularly nice albergue at a halfway point. Though intending to just stop for a lunch of squids and rice, I couldn't quite bring myself to leave and go back out in the rain. Every item in my backpack and on my body was wet, and though the bunk house was empty, the heat was cranked up to sauna status. It was a sign to stay. After several nights in albergues with no heat, I quickly exploded my backpack and set all my things out to dry. 

It seems the only two people from my previous cohort that also diverged from the group pattern are the German boys, who I think are now my friends. I was walking down the street after dinner, only to see two people waving enthusiastically at me from inside a bar. You know...they're all right those guys. 

Here they are, emerging from a tunnel outside Valenca. 

Here is my experience in that same tunnel. 

Thrilling, no?

Tomorrow will be another short day. I've found that just as one part of your body gets comfortable in the walking routine, another parts decides to shut down, and today's 16.5 miles didn't do me any favors. My feet are feeling fantastic, finally. But I have a wicked shin splint in my right leg and a pinched nerve in my left hip. By the end of the day I was compensating for this with a right leg limp and a wide left step. The weeble-wobble walk this resulted in is not attractive. And my face now officially hurts from wincing. I'm hoping that a short day tomorrow will keep this new development from worsening. Regardless, I can walk still, and the completely indulgent reward of laying down at 4pm with no other responsibilities is well worth the leg pain and achy face. 

Finally, for those of you that don't have a Moon app on your phone that alerts you to the orb's lunar phases, you should get one. Mine sends me weird text messages every time there is a new or full moon. For instance, here's what popped up while I was putting random filters on the last of today's pictures. BTW I'm starting to think I need a new job as an eccentric writer for apps. Between my Moon app and my Portuguese language app, I'm starting to see a pattern of snark in digital mediums that is deeply pleasing. 

Camino Portugues Day 14: And NOW It's Raining

— RUBIAES

Distance: 11.25 miles

Time: 5.25 hours

Everyone rose inexplicably early this morning. Half of them gone before I even woke up, which was before 7. I am convinced it was because I was snoring. The German boy was in the bunk next to me, though he hadn't been when I fell asleep, and by the time I packed and left at 7:30 I'd constructed a narrative in which the snoring Alaska girl and the sleep talking German kid were the unwitting outcasts annoying everyone else. This is what I get for making snide comments about the German boy, narcissistic paranoia. 

Thank goodness for colorful doors and piglets. One minute you're stomping along berating yourself for your incorrigible sleep habits, and the next you're baby talking at some pigs through a fence. This is the reason to walk, I think. Not because walking is fun (I could do without it, really) but because there is the possibility for the scenery to change at any moment, and so too for your mind. 

But picture taking got particularly difficult early on as the rain began. And continued. And worsened. And soon I was struggling to get a shot of anything through water drops and lens fog. Particularly since I couldn't give up my audiobook, just getting to a particularly good bit, and I know rain snuck into my jacket pocket along the cord of my headphones, even though I zipped it up as close as I could. 

But if I thought the first two hours were wet, cutting through olive groves to get around flooded paths, I was in for a real treat once I started up the day's main feature — a 3-mile steep climb up to the top of Portela Grande. I was halfway up when a flash and accompanying thunderclap announced the arrival of the REAL downpour, a wall of water that moved sideways in great sheets, instantly soaking everything I carried on me that wasn't fully sealed in something water tight. It drenched my pants and poured down into my boots, it snuck in around the hood of my waterproof jacket and down my neck, and whatever wasn't wet from the outside I sweated into from the inside, clambering up rocky paths that were quick becoming stream outlets for the deluge driving down from the mountaintop. 

As I crested the top and started down the other side, I was grateful for the walking poles I'd strapped to my pack. They allowed me a steady handhold when crossing rivers over slick rocks, and braced me from slips on the way down the hillside. The last Camino I didn't bring these, because I thought they...looked silly. I cannot believe how stupid that now sounds. 

In the albergue tonight we are all attempting to dry ourselves and our things out. Some have more energy than others though. Together a group of us watched a group of jovial young Lithuainians stop in the market attached to the albergue, buy a bottle of wine each, fill their water bottles, and trudge on.

I went to dinner with the Spanish guy and the Cambridge teacher, where we were soon joined by the German boys. We discussed The Deadliest Catch, the fine quality of Portugues coffee, and our new favorite topic, the rain. I have also found an unexpected sober companion in the Spanish man, who gave me a huge hug when he discovered we shared the same vice, and the choice to walk away from it. It's hard to explain to normal drinkers how comforting it is to be in the company of other alcoholics. It's like this instant solidarity that puts any number of other things at peace. No matter how bad his jokes are. (Incidentally, it's around this time that it actually started to hail, and we saw the Lithuainians return, wet and a little sloshed. Bless their hearts.) 

Back in the bunks now, the thunder storm is back and the power keeps going out.

"It's a bit romantic," says the German boy. Who is, admittedly, growing on me. 

The Spanish man is showing me his lizard tattoo, telling me to tell him I like it. I tell him for the third time that I do. "You don't like it? It's beautiful!" Either his English is terrible or he's a bit of a shit. But I like him all the same. I should ask him his name tomorrow. None of us seem to be good about that. Even talking to each other about each other people are referred to by their country of origin. And in fact cultural comparisons and somewhat prying questions about our various nations are a regular and seemingly welcome part of the nightly conversation, which is refreshing. We expect to be different from one another, and the only customs anyone is trying to adhere to are those of our Portugues hosts. I'm pretty in the dark on those still, other than don't touch the fruit.

And now I'll cuddle in to bunk number 27, hoping my things dry enough by morning to comfortably put them back on. Sadly in the rain I've fried my head lamp, having put it in a pocket on my hipstrap not covered by my backpack tarp contraption. And my shoes are soaked through and unlikely to improve by tomorrow. But I've got a fresh pair of socks and plenty of blister covers that say I'll be fine. 

Camino Portugues Day 13: Roommates

— PONTE DE LIMA

Distance: 15 miles

Time: 6.25 hours

The German boys started the day by listening to a horrific American country version of that song "I would walk 500 miles...". I'm not sure how a drawl and a guitar twang can ruin a decent song, but it really, really did. I left before them, and beat them into town by a full two hours. I had showered, eaten, and hung up my laundry by the time they walked in, and was sitting warm and smug in my sleeping bag. Coincidentally, I have decided that I will practice humility tomorrow. 

I also decided that I enjoy the Portugues tradition of painting doors and gates in bright colors, which even in this season, with all the vines bare of leaves and the skies clouded over, provide a welcome counterpoint to the wet stone. Of course I put filters on everything...but still. 

As for my roommates — after a solo trek south of Porto and a foolhardy expedition to the coast after my restart, I'm finally encountering some familiar faces among the occupants of the neighboring bunks at night. 

The last two nights I slept in a bunk across from Stanislav, but he doesn't seem to be here tonight. He lives in Hamburg, and it's been his dream to go on Camino for years. When he retired, his family all but pushed him out the door to go see it through. The long days are getting to him, and he's been horizontal but smiling just about every time I've seen him.

Also becoming a regular part of my day is the snarky-funny Spanish man who has walked all of the Caminos across Europe. He calls me, "this girl," and is constantly telling the German boy that his English is terrible. Which is hilarious, because the German boy speaks MUCH better English than he does. The Spanish man has decided that "this girl" is going to help him improve his language skills. I see him a few times a day, and we practice.  

Then there is another Camino veteran, a retired teacher from Cambridge, who remarks each day about the kindness of people and how lovely the walk is. He is the daily zen. Yelaina is from the Urals and let's me practice my Russian with her, even though her English is better than my Russian. She walks with plastic bags over her feet. 

This is the part I was looking forward to, the friendliness and familiarity of all these individual pathways intersecting daily despite the unique motivations and experiences of their steps. We are alone but together. We are different but the same. We speak different languages, come from different cultures, but we all put our feet on the same trail during the day and our heads in the same set of bunks at night. We make dinner, fill water bottles and do laundry. I don't know why the routine of this next to strangers is so satisfying. But it is. 

As for the walking, it seems to be burning season here, and for days smoldering brush piles have been emitting a smell startlingly similar to the incense I make at home — a mix of sandalwood, chamomile and myrrh. I don't know what they're actually burning, but this is what it smells like to me, as if the entire Portugues countryside is a meditation studio. The laundry I hung out this evening now carries the smoke, which has gathered in a blue haze against the hills of Ponte de Lima. I am grateful I can see them from sleeping bag, through the door open to the third-floor patio, because even though it's 4 in the afternoon, it would take a structure fire to get me out of my bunk at this moment 

The town is named for its famous bridge, spanning the river Lima and dating back to the Roman era. It's oldest arches hail from the first century, while the newest ones were completed in 1370. 

The animals have gotten smaller and less aggressive the farther north I go. They're like short, grumpy greeters now instead of the toothy guards of the southern hamlets. Everywhere I go, animals watch me, a happening made all the more apparent because of how few people I encounter on the streets. 

The group that I see each evening seems to be larger every day, and tonight I've met a duo of older gentlemen, one Danish the other Australian, who've livened the place up considerably. Starting with the German boy making his first, quite rough, introduction. 

"You lookin' for a fight?" I overheard the Australian say in the hallway. Apparently the young man had decided to ask why Australians talk so funny. This guy. I swear. 

"No, no! It's just a question. All in joke." 

"I'm too tired for jokes," the Australian countered in rapid speech. "I bet you're probably a snorer, aren't you." 

"No, but I speak at night, in my sleep," the German replied. 

"What like a bloody ghost? I'm outta here." He turned to his Danish friend, who held out a bag of figs.

"They're all smashed," the Dane said mournfully. But the Australian was hardly fazed. 

"I could smash a steak right about now. Let's get outta here." 

An international exchange covering linguistics, gastronomy and insults, all in under 30 seconds. Also, my new favorite use of the word "smash." 

Dinner for me was a trip down to the kitchen, where a kind Portugues man was making a large pot of fresh minestrone for the Peregrinos. Each night I'm impressed by where I get to stay, usually for less than 10 euros, and sometimes next to a 2,000 year old bridge. 

Camino Portugues Day 11: A Discovery of Peregrinos

— SAO PEDRO DE RATES

Distance: 8.5 miles 

Time: 5 hours

After yesterday, I earned a short day. Anyway, 31 miles in two days is plenty. Even with the short route I was limping again coming into Sao Pedro de Rates, though it was a lovely day winding along highways, veering inland back toward the central route. 

I'd decided early on that I wouldn't continue along the coast. One day getting nearly blown off boardwalks was enough. And after the modern constructions of tourist beaches, I missed the quiet hamlets, ancient landmarks and lush hillsides of the interior. 

I woke that morning to what had already become a familiar melody, Mark's habit of repeating, "Oops oops oops," in a sing-song voice while he did...anything. Unpacking his toiletries, out would ring his Russian accent, "Oops oops oops." Hanging wet clothes, "Oops oops oops." Caring for blisters, "Oops, oops, oops. 

They had been planning their route last night, picking a departure time and destination, when Erica turned to me. "What do you think Hannah, we leave tomorrow at 9? Just go 20 kilometers?" 

Ohhhhh no. I adore running into people during the day, sharing conversation and food at night. But on the Camino Frances I observed and experienced what was, in my opinion, the problem of aligning your schedule too much with others. Walking in tandem, with new friends or old, is often too much coordinating on a difficult walking journey. Patience wanes, inevitably people have different needs and motivations for their journey, and a separation becomes inevitable. I needed to break up with Mark and Erica before this gets too serious, I thought. 

Luckily, I wanted to head for the hills, and they wanted to stay on the beach. 

Erica gave me a big hug. Mark didn't want to, tried hard to give me a high five as I went to embrace him, but I'd already started the hug and felt like we should follow through. I'm not sure how much of it was cultural propriety and how much was just that Mark is kind of a twitchy dude, but he REALLY tried to get out of it. Sorry, Mark. If it makes you feel any better, I don't like hugs either. But we were invested. After our terribly awkward goodbye, I cut northeast instead of back to the beach, and soon encountered the comfort of yellow arrows leading me back to the Central Camino Portugues. Walking alone, but expecting to encounter people. 

The albergue blessedly came into view around mid afternoon, and as I walked through the stone archway leading into its courtyard, a woman met me with a smile and a hug. 

"Credential can wait yes? You have some hunger I hope? Because today is a special day." 

Apparently I'd walked into what was the monthly gathering and special meal for the albergue's volunteers. They sat me down and filled a plate with savory marinated pork and chicken, potatoes, salad, oranges — and then passed me plate after plate of cakes and pastries to try. They thought it was very strange I didn't want wine. "I'm allergic," I said. No objection followed, and they poured me a glass of coke.

YES. I found the right response to that question. Perfect. 

It was an unbelievably warm welcome, instantly enveloped into a table of loud laughing happy people who didn't seem to think I was out of place, and only seemed to mind a small bit how I smelled. (I've showered and done laundry where possible, but a day hiking is a still a day hiking.) And MOST notably, tonight for the first time I have found an albergue not only full of the kindest staff I've ever encountered on Camino, but also one bustling with Peregrinos. As the afternoon and evening went on the beds filled, and noise echoed around the stone halls, evidence of people very happy to be done walking for the day. It seems that the vast majority of people walking the Camino Portugues this time of year are German. (Who are very casual with nakedness, btw. Erica yesterday and the young women I'm rooming with today seem to have no issue changing clothes in a room shared with men and women. No one seems to think anything of it, and since these girls are 22 and Erica is 60, I can't imagine it's a generational thing.) 

As expected I am comforted by people commiserating about their first few days on the trail, sharing stories from home, and obsessively organizing backpacks. And of course, the questions come about why are you walking. Is it for sport? For religion? Helene, the younger German girl has asked us. 

Elaina in the bunk across from me shakes her head. 

"Not religion for me," she said. "But, I think what comes out of religion is amazing. That so many people can believe in something, and build so many things from something, with no evidence of truth."  

Her observations are simultaneously full of awe and finality. She seems almost a little sad. 

"I'd love to be religious," she said. "It's a great way to cope, to live life." 

But for her, it's not possible, too much depends on faith. And in the end what is that? She asks. A demand from man, not God. 

"I would need God to show up. To say hi, I exist." And she shakes her head. 

"But many people DO believe," said Helene. "And when the rain and wind were so terrible in Porto the last two days, and then when it's time walk Saturday the sun came, that is God yes? Maybe?" 

"Maybe." Says Elaine, who IS walking for reflection, introspection, discovery — but she wouldn't call it religious. 

I offer that our individual pursuit of something greater than ourselves, or a self more substantial than the one we become accustomed to in our everyday life, is on its own a curious piece of evidence. Not that our personal searches are proof in favor of religion, but indicative that human beings regardless of faith are individually and collectively driving toward something...other. 

Camino Portugues Day 12: A Lady on Walkabout

— TAMEL S. PEDRO FINS

Distance: 15.7 miles 

Time: 7.5 hours

"This belongs to a lady, yes?" 

Carlos, the terribly handsome host, held a pair of dark grey underwear between thumb and forefinger, inquiring of the Pilgrims in the common room as to the ownership of said skivvies. 

With deep, DEEP regret, I rose from seat and snatched them from his hand. Unfortunately I'd dropped them on the WAY to the laundry. Delightful. I made a horrified face at the German girls (there's a different set at every hostel I come to. I think it must be spring break at German universities.) And they offered me a grimace of sympathy in return. 

Thank you, universe, for this opportunity to work on humility. 

The same German boys I met in Rates last night have also arrived. And the peppy one spent 30 minutes telling the host a variety of things with almost no interruption, including a lengthy explanation about why he doesn't think highly of English speaking people. They don't bother to learn any other languages, he says. Um, some of us do...I wanted to say...(certainly not evidenced by my ignorance of Portugues, but that's neither here nor there) and we have many, many bi-lingual people in our countries... This is a good reminder, grouping people by stereotypes and generalizations is ill-advised, regardless of general accuracy. It's a reminder I'd do well to remember here and at home, judgement often getting in the way of my better personality traits. The German boy is now sitting next to me on the couch, and I'm working on letting go of my resentments by not glaring at him. 

Thank you, universe, for this opportunity to improve my attitude toward others. 

Also helping me to improve my attitude are several blisters, reminding me of my own fragility and to be grateful for my health. And what would a Camino blog be without a blister picture or two. 

It's really not bad. I have great shoes and great blister care. And that's not even what hurts during the day. Instead it's the constant pressure on the bottom of my feet that is getting me down the most, driving a constant dull ache through the pads of my feet and up my hamstrings, a feeling most aggravated by the cursed over-presence of cobblestone streets. They are like a pair of gorgeous high heels. Beautiful to look at, murder on the feet. 

But none of that matters the moment I walk into the albergue, this one situated at the top of a mountain hamlet. The bakery truck has just made its evening stop, and the Spanish man has joined the German boys to loudly make fun of my purchase of two loaves of bread. But they can go ahead and suck it. 

I mean...Thank you, universe, for this additional opportunity to improve my attitude. 

So, on this fine day I have walked nearly 16 miles, made a sexy Portugues man hold my dirty underpants up in front of a room full of people, added a new blister to the six I already have, and ate enough carbs to shock even the Europeans. #winning

Camino Portugues Day 10: The Writing on the Wall

— VILA DO CONDE

Distance: 22.5 miles

Time: 9.5 hours

I didn't mean to go that far. But a misreading of the map plus an unexpected detour due to a bridge closure made for an extra long day. Lucky the wind was at my back, and made for some amazing scenery, otherwise I might have been a little put out. 

Nice as the coast was, I became ever more agrieved as the rain began, and after 18 or so miles with several yet to go I was facing another wet, lonely finish to a long day. I'd cut into a town once already following signs for an albergue that turned out to be closed for the season, and had returned to the trail to sit down, probably forever, when two other pilgrims happened upon me. 

Mark, from Russia. And Erica, from Germany. Him maybe 50-something, her 60. They insisted I needed to rise from my spot and walk with them, just 6.5 kilometers they said, we're just about there. They didn't seem inclined to leave without me.  

And thus began an amusing evening with a very odd couple, who seemed bizarelly committed to a shared schedule despite their chance meeting just 24 hours before. "It's better, go together, yes?" And we did. Walking to the tune of Mark's many, MANY questions, and Erica's audible eye rolls. 

Mark approved of my Russian accent, but not of my insistance that I didn't drink alcohol. "What, like the anonymous alcoholic?" He said with quote fingers, wiggling his eyebrows. 

When I was like, "uh, yeah," he laughed endlessly. He had thought it was a fictitious organization, meant only as a punchline to absurd stories. And could not be convinced otherwise. This was apparently the most ridiculously thing he'd heard in a long time. 

This is Mark. 

Mark is very confident, jovial, and talkative. He very much likes cars, and tells us the make and model of most of those we pass, as well as a detail about their engines. Then he lists the cars that Amercians like most. This is interspersed with directives to Erica and I that we needed to smile, namely for his pictures. Erica tells him something less graceful in German in response. Erica and I get each other instantly.

Ever curious, some of Mark's questions broached the realm of politics, wanting to know what life was like in America since the "great showman" was elected president. "He is cartoon. It's like joke, yes?" 

YES MARK. IT'S LIKE JOKE, I said. And that was about it on that subject. 

Entering Vila do Conde, after the longest day yet and full out limping now, I encountered a magnificent bit of trail magic, one reminiscent of my last Camino. 

Five years ago, see, on one of my hardest days of walking, picking apart a number of inner demons in a most surly manner, I happened to look up from my feet and my pouting in time to catch a note someone had left. "Walk it off Hannah." Written in marker, who knows when and for who, it was precisely the kick in the ass I needed at that moment to jog out of my funk. 

And then today, wouldn't you know it, on this longest of long days, I find this message as I finally approach the bridge to cross the river Ave and into the town where I'll sleep. 

Camino Portugues Day 9: What's a Believer

— PORTO

Today, a train to Porto in the morning gets me to my new starting place. I spend a day walking around the large city, and an evening in a modern hostel. Surrounded by mostly early 20-something party travelers, I still haven't quite found my tribe yet but am enjoying the company nonetheless. The common area feels a little like being in an episode of the HBO series Girls, listening to young women talk about how strict their parents are and whether or not they're going to have sex while they're in Europe. The eavesdropping is glorious. The last time I traveled in Europe I was 27. Close enough in age to have tagged along with the youth hostel crowd, but with the temperament of a middle aged cat lady. This time, squarely in my 30s, I can get in my sleeping bag at 6 p.m. without anyone goading me to come to the bar. 

I did join the group for dinner at the hostel, ending up next to the three people that didn't fit in with the cool Americans on one side of us or the casual Europeans on the other. This included a young Japnese woman — she's studying education but wants more than anything to be a flight attendant and travel the world. She has a purse with grey fur and gold chains, long yellow bell-bottomed pants, and is very sweet. Then there's the Romanian — he's in his 40s, pounding red wine, and works as a meat inspector in the UK. "It's a shitty job," he says. "I work at a plant that butchers 20,000 chickens an hour. It's disgusting." And finally the Brit who lives in Newfoundland, a 60-something bookish man making his way back from a 3-month stint in India. 

"Try this garlic spread," says the Romainian. "It's amazing. Goes well with wine, not so much...Fanta." He rolls his eyes in exasperation as he gestures at my drink. "Why in hell are you drinking Fanta." He says it with a twinkling of his fingers and a twirl of his head. 

I explain that I don't drink alcohol.

"You don't like alcohol?" Asks the girl. 

"Oh no, I LOVE it."

The Romanian laughs and nods understandingly, but she doesn't quite get it. "So you already drink alcohol today so no more?" 

"No, she doesn't drink it EVER," explains the Romanian. "I'm going to do that someday," he says. "Not today." He wiggles his empty wine glass, shrugs, gets up for a refill. 

After the soup and bread and some more conversation I discover that the Romanian walked the Camino Frances just two years back. He's excited to reminisce, and says he plans to do it again, and again. Wants to do it despite religion. Perhaps in spite of. 

Like me, he's not a "believer." We comiserate over that for a moment, because it takes us a minute to figure out that we mean two different things when we say that. He was born into the Orthodox faith, and like many I know that clashed with the strict religion of their upbringing, he's rejected it with fervor, instead seeking solace in aetheism. It seems that it takes a lot of strength to stand up for your own beliefs in the face of cultural rejection, so when it's done it's done emphatically. When he says he's not a believer, he means he doesn't believe in God in any form. Period. Because that's the fence he was shown upon entering this world, the one you get to be on either side of. 

So our Romainian thinks religion is a hoax played on the ignorant. The Japanese girl is an aetheist but doesn't want to talk about it. And the Brit is a firm agnostic — he thinks religion is essentially an effective tax collection structure given holy status, but not in itself evidence that there's nothing at all out there in the big yonder.

"I figured out, even as a young boy, that I didn't believe in a God that would fill the world with hundreds of competing religions, all almost exactly the same with a few details different, and then damn you to hell for all eternity if you happened to pick the wrong one. I just didn't believe in that. But I do believe there's something."

My thoughts somewhat exactly. Though the Romanian seemed a little sad, I explain that while I don't believe in humanity's elaborate construction of faith systems as a tool to amass power and control over others, I do believe in the search for the supernatural, that which is beyond our understanding of this physical existence. Lacking omniscient knowledge of all things in the Universe, I say, I'm just not interested in making declarations of anything, other than believing in the possibility of just about everything. 

As usual, bringing up the Camino brings opportunity for interesting and potentially disastrous discussion, no matter where you are. But we get through it fine, and I'm happy to find opportunity for substantial conversation at this new starting point to my Camino. 

Earlier in the day, I was also happy to pay a visit to this bookstore, the self proclaimed most beautiful bookstore in the world. I joined the line of tourists outside waiting for entry, and once inside was able to eavesdrop on a deliciously obnoxious exchange between two young women. They spent several minutes reading poetry aloud in unison, in a bookstore crowded shoulder-to-shoulder, then loudly discussed the piece's finer points. The clash between the air of authority their tones suggested and the lack of self or literary awareness belied by the actual content of their words was remarkable. Sigh, I should be smited for my judgemental thoughts. Either way I'm glad I stopped to see this lovely store. Luckily I'll be on foot for the next two weeks, which is the only thing that kept me from buying any books.

LOL JUST KIDDING I BOUGHT TWO. I am very, very aware of their weight in my bag and the absurdity of their purchase. Even though they are small. My love of books knows no logic. They're not even unique to Portugal. It just seemed wrong NOT to buy something. 

And finally, in other wanderings, I overheard this from a tour guide, eliminating a little of the majesty inspired by some of the local monuments, which of course are not still standing 500 years later without significant upkeep and rebuilds over the years. 

"It's not hard to make a new building look medieval," he said. "You just build it out of stone, ok, and then hire someone to go around with a hammer, or maybe a sword, and, you know, whack it." 

Oh to have that job, amirite? Still, the scenery is pretty cool. 

Camino Portugues Day 8: Prison, Library, Bat Cave (Three accurate names for one building)

— COIMBRA

Visitors to the Biblioteca Joanina at the University of Coimbra get a total of 20 minutes inside once their ticket is marked. 10 minutes exactly for the first and second floors — the lower prison and the featured book collection just above it — and another 10 minutes in the grand main-floor library. Carved teak and oak surround the bookshelves, which reach several stories high and are accessible to the collection's keepers by a series of ladders and hidden staircases, all below the spectacular vaulted ceiling painted in gold and rose and blue sky colored angelic scenery. Because we weren't allowed to take pictures in the library, and because I FOLLOW DIRECTIONS, here's something Google would like to share:

The collection is comprised of 250,000 some odd texts, dating from the 16th, 17th and 18th centuries. Humidity control prevents breakdown from moisture, the massive teak vault door helps to maintain a constant temperature, and the oak interior structures emits an odor repellent to harmful insects. See the "vault" door below. This is the upper, technically third, floor.

"So Hannah," you might be thinking, "You mentioned a prison. Was the library built on top of an old prison?"

NOPE. The library's lower floor WAS the prison, namely for students caught breaking university rules. It's a series of tight stone corridors and small rooms. As for the bats, they did and still do live in the upper eaves of the main floor, cutivating what the University calls a "special" relationship with the ancient books that furnish their home, keeping them safe from moths and other insects. And if you think I spent most of my 10 minutes inside craning my neck looking for bats, you'd be right. But they only come out at night. Apparently. And to protect the interior artifacts from the night's bat-ly activities, each evening the bookkeepers cover the ornate wooden furniture in leather towels, and each morning they tidy up. After their friends the bats. This is one of my new favorite places I've ever seen. It just makes you want to discover something doesn't it?

The University of Coimbra is one of the world's oldest continuously operating universities. It was founded in 1290 and operated in both Lisbon and Coimbra, until it was officially rooted only to the latter in 1537. It sits on a hilltop above town, overlooking it's many cathedrals, defensive walls, and the expansive river Mondego. Hiking up to it requires traversing a series of impossibly steep, narrow cobblestone streets and several alley staircases, all winding up to this opening promenade. (Library on the left.)

Statues, even more stately than those I've seen in other historic areas, decorate pathways and buildings. Many of these guardians of Coimbra's institutes of knowledge are women, which was particularly pointed out by my paper guide, though the reason was not explained. 

A bustling modern university now, Coimbra is full of students — gathering in noisy clumps in cafes, at protests in the street, and in groups of boistrous singers roving between bars after dark. I saw many small groups during the day all clad in long, black woolen capes. This amid the cobblestone and statuary, the old buildings with bats and everywhere the air of antiquity, it was hard not to let my mind wander to the distinct possibility that this was indeed Hogwarts, and any minute I'd turn a curious corner and run into someone selling wands. I can't help it. To someone who grew up with nearly zero buildings that had a pre-1900 history, where construction from "before the 'quake" was notable, everything in Europe carries a suggestion of mysticism. I know that many buildings have been reconstructed and there's plenty of mirage over the grandeur. But, naive or not, I wouldn't trade that suggestion of magic for the world. But then, haven't I felt a different but comparable magic in Alaska? Especially for some reason in winter, specifically when you're walking quickly from the car up to a friend's porch ¸— that smell of woodsmoke and dinner interrupting the cold air is about as magical as anything else I suppose I could find. But. I digress. 

In the realm of modern artifact, spray paint graffiti is incredibly common, and no momument too precious to be marked. 

Here we have some anti-establishment propaganda on the math building, which I enjoyed immensely. 

And an inexplicable "Alaska" found in the neighborhood just below the University. 

I rounded the day out with my first truly awesome meal so far. Roasted eggplant and grilled octopus, marinated olives, and four kinds of bread to capture all the sauces they came in. I ended it with a creme brûlée that was obviously meant to share, and was glad I didn't have to. I was also glad for the ten flights of stairs and umpteen cobblestone streets I had to walk on the way back to the hostel, which I think is the only thing that saved me from a sugar coma following dessert. 

Tomorrow, a train to Porto, to restart the Camino.