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.