I stop to eat a bocadillo. Starting yet another ascent into large patches of fog, I enter a village and notice muddy wooden clogs outside the doors of quaint homes with beautiful wild flowers growing haphazardly in the nooks and crannies of the entries. As if borrowed from another culture, the numerous buildings next to most of the homes look Japanese. I call them ‘Zen pads’ because of their flat square shape and placement on low stilts. I later learn that they are used to store harvested goods, but sort of preferred their previous mystery. I pass an old pilgrim’s hospital turned albergue. Perched atop the highest point, it overlooks Grado, the town I spent the previous night in. I stop to admire the view as two gentlemen, the owners, appear from the building with cigarettes and coffee in hand. They offer me a cup as we gaze out in silence over the landscape half-hidden by fog. Relaxed, I say goodbye. In unison, they wish me a ‘bon camino’as I saunter forward. Possibly one hour later, as I find myself making the same ascent due to a traffic detour, I am surprised to find myself still in good spirits and the view just as peaceful. The second time, more, perhaps. In the distance, I see larger mountains and giant spinning white windmills generating energy. Although this pilgrimage is kicking me in the ass, buckling my back, sweating at my shoulders, my feet keep moving. My mind doesn’t seem to mind each step as much with this sort of view. I later happen upon two other gentlemen who do seem to mind, however. One is limping, and they inform me that they are calling it quits. Although tired, for whatever reason, the two seem to give me more drive to go on. I admit for the first time my flaw of not finishing a lot of things I start and find myself even more determined. Wishing I could find a place to take a coffee, I finally arrive at a desolate and dusty bar and am welcomed with a wrinkled frown by a lone lady washing dishes and swigging beer.
She puts a coffee in front of me and asks if I’m alone. I reply as she grows further into disbelief when I tell her I am on foot. She must not get too many pilgrims, or anyone for that matter, considering the state of the place. Telling me I am close to Salas, I thank her and leave. I soon arrive at a cozy little town set into the nook of a valley with a small river and medieval castle at its core. The place doesn’t seem as inviting when I arrive to the local alberge and am denied access. Realizing I’d dropped my passport along the way, I lose my temper with the woman and storm out. The tourist office already closed, it’s impossible to get another passport. I weigh my options. The alternative to going back being sleeping under a bridge, I take a breather and return. Apologizing and promising to go to the office tomorrow, I am allowed to sleep below the bar in a sparse room which, ironically, was under a bridge.
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