6/7/15: End of the eighth day in Viana
Danny and Karen were from New
Zealand. They were both retired and loved traveling. Danny was what you might
call “excitable,” and absolutely
full
of
stories. (“I have a friend so lazy he takes a taxi to his car every morning.”) He
would be the life of any party. This particular trip had begun in England (I
think) and then to Italy and now to Spain for their second
Camino
. Karen was the steady one of the two, and especially adept
and dealing with problems and irritations (read “blisters” and "crabby people") I
told her I was suffering and she insisted on seeing my feet. Poor
Laurence
was completely grossed out.
Squeezing my foot, Karen took a small pair of scissors and and using one of the
blades started drilling through my black toenail. It hurt like the dickens! But
then
sploosh!
She made a hole and
blood gushed out. The relief was instantaneous!
After several beers (to keep up my
strength) we headed back to the alburgue and crashed. I just didn’t have the
heart to drink Danny’s favorite drink: Red wine mixed with Coke. I remember
taking photos of a little white dog napping on a sofa in the alley. But nothing
else.
6/8/15: Ninth day walking Viana to Logronoand Navarette
There is a tradition that you bring a
stone from home as a representation of burdens you want to leave behind. I had
offered to bring stones for some of my friends and this was the morning,
outside
Viana
, on a milestone between
a field of wheat on one side of the path and a vineyard on the other, I left
the stones I had been given.
I still had a few that I planned to
leave at the crux de ferro, the iron cross, but that was still several days
ahead of me. Bob and Connie, Tim and Babs, James, Georgia, Elle and Larry’s
burdens were going to rest here outside
Viana
in a lovely spot. 
The walk from Viana to Logrono was so
very pleasant. This is prime La Rioja
land and vineyards and farmland were everywhere. Not as many trees, of course,
so it was a hotter stretch as well. Still, it was a great walk and we arrived
in Logrono before noon. On the
outskirts of the city we came across 3 pilgrms we’d hung out with in Roncevalles. That had only been a week
and a half ago, but it felt like a lifetime and we hugged like old friends
meeting at a class reunion. Logrono
was one of the more major hubs of the camino and they were just on their way to
the train station to head home. They, like so many, did the camino in stages—a
week here, a week there. We wished each other well: Buen Camino. Once you’ve started your Camino, I guess you never really stop. 
The murals and graffiti around
Logrono were special. I believe that they represent the “Stained Glass” palaces
of the current age. They are the “public art” for the common people—and present
their hopes and dreams and fears and worries. And they reinforce the secular
message of today—as the stained glass windows of the past represented their sacred messages. It’s just that our new sacred doesn’t seem to believe in the old
sacred.
I think one especially fine mural
mocked our pilgrim’s obsession with getting Sellas,
those little stamps on our passport that “prove” we’ve been somewhere. I think the point was that a pilgrimage is
supposed to change you on the inside
not provide you with a bunch of external tattoos. It is so very easy, in so
many situations to substitute the appearance for the reality. Logrono was a
beautiful city—much more friendly than Pamplona had been. It’s a place I
wouldn’t mind coming back to visit.
As we
passed an alburge down a quiet side street who should come out but Bobby!
Rosheen’s boyfriend. He was all packed up and ready to head home too. Hellos
and Goodbyes seem to be the essence of the Camino. I had learned that
Bobby was seriously sick and that this pilgrimage with Rosheen had been a real
sacrifice for him. We shook hands. “Buen Camino,” he said, and I found
there was something wrong with my voice. I couldn’t speak.
A hundred
yards down the street I stopped in a small chapel to light a candle for Bobby
and all the pilgrims and saw the inscription of the wall behind the altar: “Yo
Soy El Camino, La Verdad, y La Vida.” It brought me hope and reminded me
that even before we were called “Christians,” we were known as “Followers of
The Way.”
It was now
lunchtime and west of the city we found a very nice café beside the reservoir
called Pantano de La Grajera. While we were eating, Laurence
arrived. We hadn’t seen her since Viana, but she was a much faster
walker than we were. At least much faster than I was. I think Max was still
walking much slower than he wanted to walk because of me. And I was starting to
become concerned about his timetable. He was supposed to be meeting his wife in
Santiago on a particular day—and at the pace we were traveling he wasn’t
going to make it. But we three still managed to get lost in the beauty of our
surroundings. Max took pictures of everything, of course, and said he wanted to
play a beautiful piece of music for us. So as we walked along, uphill, we
listened to Clair du Lune, by Debussey. And spent the night in the
beautiful little Maltesian village of Navarette.
6/9/15: Tenth day walking from Navarette
to Najera then Azofra
As we left Navarette we came to a small crossroads. A young man in a very
expensive car accosted us and asked in passable English if we spoke English. I
admitted that I did and said that Max’s English was also very good. He asked if
he could walk along with us and practice. I said that would be ok. So for the
next hour a never-ending stream of English washed over me. I think Max was
disgusted with the constant chatter and sped up to put some separation between
us. When the man heard that I had once been in publishing it came our that he
was hoping to market and sell an English-language web site dedicated to the
history of the Camino. By the time we
arrived in Ventosa my ears hurt as
much as my poor feet did. I wished him well and he latched on to someone
heading in the opposite direction—back to his car I suppose.
Max and I
walked on in blessed silence. Then we happened upon Anne and Rosheen and
Philomena at a little mobile snackbar. We
walked on in companionable conversaton for the rest of the way to Najera.
By the river we saw an outdoor bar with very inviting tables. We all got plates
of tapas and pitchers of beer and shared. At the next table sat a couple from
Arizona, Phil and Ida. And at yet another table sat a very sad-looking young
lady named Abby. She was here from some U.S. mid-western college with her
boyfriend. Abby was short, and evidently her boyfriend was tall, and their two
strides could not have been more incompatible. Abby had hyper-extended her knee
trying to keep up with him and had needed to take a bus on ahead to wait for
him. Her Camino was not working out the way she had envisioned
it.
Najera was an
interesting town with neolithic sandstone caves dug into the surrounding hills.
We walked around a little, but I really did need to save my feet as much as
possible. But there are so many interesting places when you slow down. And
still, there isn’t time to see everything, or hear everyone’s story. I guess
that’s why heaven has to be eternal—so we can catch up on everyone’s Camino. After Najera
we all walked on to Azofra, a little crossroads town, population 250,
where we stayed the night in a very nice alburgue, with outdoor foot-baths.
After checking in and showering we found a
little restaurant, where we saw Laurence again in her Rugby Woman teeshirt.
For supper I had something they called “Cuban rice.” It was white rice
ringed by a moat of plain marinara sauce spiced with tobasco. In the center of
the rice “mountain” was a fried egg. A very simple meal, but it sure tasted
delicious to me. Topped it off with a large glass of Sangri, and then
off to bed in our luxurious “semi-private room” where Max still snored like a
sawmill. Thank goodness for earplugs. 
(to be continued)