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.