Chicken Prince

As an American travelling the world I tend to despise the thought of consuming American fast food. At this very moment, I’m sitting in a small Spanish cafe eating a small Spanish tortilla (sort of a thick omelette with eggs, potatoes, ham, peppers). Such feelings of hatred can, however, be erased when weeks of walking are mixed with little diversity in diet. Too. many. sandwiches. (the cheapest option). So, naturally, as Collin and I walked into yet another town and were greeted by the familiar bubble-letter logo of a Burger King, our prejudices vanished as dreams of grease boiled to life in our minds.

Of course, it couldn’t be so easy. It was siesta, as it always seems to be by the time hungry hangry pilgrims roll in to town. We checked the hours sign, a piece of paper hung on the door, resting behind the closed mesh floor-to-ceiling shutters, and learned we only had half an hour to wait. Worth it. We rested on a park bench where people passed, gawking at our battered blistered feet and sweat caked hair.

As this is my second consecutive post about food, it may seem I’m overstating the drama of dreaming of ingestible items. This is hardly the case. The imaginations of hungry hikers are prone to prolonged and  intense flashbacks of tasty treats and savory suppers. On that park bench, in the heat of the shining sun, Collin and I were experiencing the grimiest greasiest dreams imaginable. Dreams of the fast food burger, American no less, an elusive entity in Spain.

We heard the clattering sound of the metal shutters rolling up into their coiled upright position, exposing the glass door of the Burger King. It was only ten minutes past their advertised re-opening time, a respectable feat. Like fanboys, Collin and I  immediately entered at the opening of gates to the surprise of the sleepy workers. They didn’t seem used to either such enthuthiasm or business.

We looked over the menu. Cheeseburgers, bacon cheeseburgers, double bacon cheeseburgers, triple bacon cheeseburgers, Whoppers! It was classic Burger King.

After we allowed the crazed firing of excited neurons to settle at the sights of such delicacies, we approached the counter, stomachs growling.

“Puerdo una bacon hamberguessa, por favor,” I asked, salivating with every syllable.

The young employee looked at me blankly and told me in Spanish, “We don’t have burgers. No beef. We only have chicken.”

On the Camino, the average pilgrim will experience a variety of shocking encounters. The sudden unexpected change of weather, the reunion of friends you never expected to see again, the pure kindness of hospitalarios and fellow pilgrims, along with other trail magic. But no shock has ever been more truly shocking than the feeling of waiting, thinking of, dreaming of burgers at Burger King only to learn that Burger King can’t take your money and sell you a burger.

I tried to close the gaping hole of my mouth and lower my risen eyebrows and wide eyes. I scanned the menu again, struggling to find something that didn’t consist of burgers and burger meat. I ordered a chicken sandwich.

Later that night Collin and I told the story to a class friend, August. Laughing at the bizarre burger experience, or lack thereof of, he suggested that the fast food joint should change their name to Chicken Prince. Well, although Chicken Prince supplied a tasty chicken sandwich, I think I’ll stick to the Spanish tortillas.

Cream Puff Dream

Anne (Dominguez) and I arrived in the small town of Najera in the early afternoon. Siesta. In need of a bathroom, we searched the streets, walking past the typical sight of closed shutters and empty bars. Finally, we came across a small bakery, still open.
A variety of pastries laid beneath a glass counter. Butter-soaked croissants, jelly-filled cookies, and pastries I’d never seen before. One caught my eye. A tall pile of cream spiraled up from a bed of marange cookie. I wondered what it tasted like and expressed my admiration to Anne. In an attempt to resist my ever-existing sweet tooth, I left my wallet in my pocket.
Out of pure kindness, and maybe in the hopes of a snacking partner, Anne ignored my refusal and bought me the pastry and its mountain of cream. The woman behind the counter took our pastries from the display case to place them on a decorative paper, wrap them, and set them in a white box tied with a ribbon on top.
Now, in search of an albergue, we decided to call around to find a couple of beds. We approached two park benches that looked across a small cobblestone square. One bench stood in the shade of a building where I set down the pastry box. We beside sat in the sunny bench. An short, plump older woman sat beside us. Her all-black outfit matched her dark hair and her olive skin soaked up the afternoon sun.
After calling all albergues, the two of us headed to the grassy banks of the river where we laid down for a nap (I was beginning to enjoy the daily siesta). Enjoying the calming sound of the flowing river, we gazed up at the white puffy clouds. I closed my eyes.
Anne turned to me to dreamily ask, “what happened to the desserts?”
“What?” I asked, sleepily dazed.
“The pastries!” Anne responded, more urgency in her voice now. Hunger crept into my mind as I realized what I had done…
“The park bench! I left them on the shady bench. I’ll run over.” I held a brisk walk, powering through my gimp, walking along the river back towards the park bench. As I rounded the corner of the cobblestone square, I could make out the short figure of the Spanish woman in the distance, but now pastry box.
As I walked closer, I could now see the Spanish woman was holding something in her hand. Looking around, she began to lift her hand to her mouth and now I could see. A tall swirl of cream and spongy cake rose from her hand and into her mouth. My cream puff! It was her first bite. I couldn’t help but burst into laughter. What timing!
I couldn’t face her alone, so I ran back to Anne to tell her of our loss. Back at the river, I somberly chuckled the story back to Anne. We decided to walk back to tell her about our mistake and laugh with her, but by the time we walked back she was gone, along with our pastries. I wondered what that creampuff pastry would have tasted like.

Gimp Squad Initiation

Less than a week out of Saint-Jean, a small pilgrim social group had formed. Leading the group was Collin, who munches miles with fortitude. He carries a bum knee and a muscle-gnarled foot as he walks.

Next is Harry. His gimp produces a bowing leg action, where he pulls his right knee out to minimize stress on his straining knee. He walks like a large and dopey fawn. Fern takes up the rear, which in this case actually places her slightly ahead of the group as she can walk slightly faster than the others. Her gimp is less noticeable. At times she would even try to deny any association with the club, but her foot injury makes such denial impossible, as she leans heavily on her two trekking poles.

This is the Gimp Squad. Three young pilgrims limping their way towards Santiago. Fearless, they trudge through the muck of the mud and the heat of the sun, resisting and hopelessly ignoring their nagging injuries and screaming limbs. 40km in one day? No problem.

So far, I had been able to avoid any affiliation with the Gimp Squad. I was healthy, my feet strong. I even went as far to share my opinion that limping was actually quite silly. “Limping’s unnecessary. It only makes injuries worse!” I would jibe as my bulging calves powered me past the struggling squad. I felt as invincible as Achilles. Pure hubris.

 

Two days after the legendary trek to Pamplona, I started for Logroño from Los Arcos. Collin had already bussed ahead to Logroño from Estella, a gimp-driven decision that ate into his soul. Harry and Fern had both trekked on ahead of me. I faced an unfamiliar feeling of bringing up the rear. I was anxious to get out and continue walking.

It was a cold morning. The cloudy, grey sky reflected in the river as I passed over the stone bridge leaving Los Arcos. It had rained the past three days and both my socks and the cuffs of my sweater were already wet. Starting off my walk alone for the first time of my Camino, I walked along the brown dirt and gravel path.

I felt the pain within the first five minutes of the walk. I had heard it whispering hints of sore muscles and slightly inflamed tendons in the past couple of days. The pain was no longer whispering. As I walked along I saw the soft image of the next town, far off in the distance, but now I heard the full bodied voice of pain bellowing from my right heel. My achilles heel.

I looked down at my foot. How could this be!? I stopped to re-tie my boots. Maybe they were too tight? Restricting blood flow? I tied a more forgiving knot hoping for some forgiveness from pain but I couldn’t quiet its voice. It started to rain.

The pain was sharp. I looked up at the distant town. It was a demoralizing sight, resting in the opposite end of the valley basin where I walked. I was 30km from Logroño. I felt as if the purity of my pilgrimage was in jeopardy as I contemplated the possibility of catching a bus from that distant town to to reach my destination. I trekked, no, I limped on. Through the rain and the whipping wind.

 

The rain is pelting

And the wind is whipping

I walk though

I don’t want to go

 

The hills are screaming

The feeling´s demeaning

My feet trudge to and fro

 

Now I hear my calf screaming

I think my ankle is bleeding

So I curse

And I pray as I walk.

 

Finally, I limp up to the buildings of the small Spanish town. I walk past closed shops. Rain pours off the old colonial style tiled roofs onto the hood of my rain jacket. The streets are empty with the exception of cold rainwater running down the middle channel of the cobblestone streets. It must be ciesta.

I come to a crossroad. On the right is the path of the Camino, spiraling down a hill and back up to another distant town. On the left, a bus stop. I jangle the change in my pocket. Somehow unsurprisingly, I pick up my sore right foot and take a step towards the right direction, only dreaming of taking a bus in the next town. I gimp on to Logroño as a full pledged member of the Gimp Squad.

 

I´m almost there now

Though I don´t know how

I fucking

Better be close

 

Now beyond the curving

I see a big building

And I quicken

The gimp in my limp

 

And now here I am

Happy as a clam

I take a

Shower I´m good

Pen and Paper

Sitting in the Iruna Cafe, in the same room where Hemingway spent hours pondering his depression and gathering inspiration, I stare down at my phone. The keyboard protrudes out of the LED light. I look up. Seventeen metal chandeliers droop from the opulent gold ceiling, emitting a gold aura throughout the cafe. Aged brown pillars spurt from the ground to form a central ring. Chatter combines to form the soothing sound of white noise as warm bodies pack above the white checkered floor. The cafe is bustling.

I think about my time in Pamplona. I arrived yesterday night, after a day of dedication and sheer willpower, my group of hikers walked over 40 kilometers for a chance to take a day off in the famous city. After arriving with low morale, sore bodies, and a few newly formed limps, our gimp squad checked into an albergue, cleaned up, and hit the town. We walked down the crowded cobblestone streets where pedestrians rule the roads and cars maneuver through them. Music seeped out of the bars. We explored the city with a new sense of energy and danced with locals.

I look back down towards my phone but its digital screen remains blank. The white light of my unwritten blog post strains my eyes. I turn down my brightness.

I can’t help but feel disconnected from any sense of inspiration. It seems to be drained from the pulsing blue light of the phone, sucking it dry just as it consumes the time and drains the melatonin of my generation. At least insomnia can lead to inspiration.

I pull out my notepad and these words flow from the red ink of my pen. It’s a silly thing, really, to be stumped by the technology that is such a useful and vital part of our modern lives. But, to use Harry’s sang of his Camino, it is what it is. And, as my red ballpoint pen scratches along the paper of my Evergreen notebook, I feel as if I have balance, and this journal post is born on paper.

Looking back on my walk to Saint Jean Pied de Port

Yesterday afternoon, I arrived in Saint Jean Pied de Port. The sun was shining bright and my back was sweaty. After nine days of walking, I had picked up a useful trick of wrapping my bandanna around my chin, bonnet-style, and wearing my baseball hat over it to protect my pale, and recently crisped skin, from the wrath of the sun. I envisioned myself as an old French lady (though I’m not sure where that image came from).

Walking through the streets of the small pilgrim packed town, I reflected on my days walking through southwestern France. A few things stuck out. As a PNW mountain snob I had greatly underestimated  the legitimacy of the Pyrenees. Their purple brown masses rise from the Basque country to form a picturesque range, capped with white peaks. A daunting but exhilirating sight for a walker. I was excited to take them on the next day.

It’s also the people who live by the foothills of the mountains that have provided my walk with spirit. While walking the Camino  in France, a fully prepared pilgrim is expected to call each accommodation in advance to reserve a bed. Without a phone and with a great lack of Wi-Fi, I was able to do without by leaning on the help of fellow pilgrims and their phones, town citizens and their directions and patience with my foreign language, and the owners of the auberges who accepted my friends and I with open doors and even a few jokes. Not to mention the fantastic bakers who make some of the best variety of baguettes, bread and pastries I’ve tasted.

I found a place to stay in Saint Jean and enjoyed the last night in France.