The Boring Banker and the Meseta

My first day of age 22, I woke up before the sun, as usual. Daniel and Ulla were still sleeping and, sadly, I never saw them again. Upon walking downstairs, I found Oleg, the boring banker waiting patiently for me. 

Oleg also offered to take a picture of me.

Our morning walking together, was at least interesting. We talked about family and life experiences. One of Oleg’s eccentricities was that he asked me to take tons of pictures of him with his camera. In a few of them he dropped to the ground in the middle of the way and started doing push-ups with his backpack still on. Maybe this was supposed to impress me, however I found it to be ridiculous tinged with a hint of obnoxious. 

Oleg was only the second pilgrim who had been even slightly annoying to me. The first was a very boastful German dwarf. All in all, my experiences with pilgrims were delightful and even Oleg wasn’t too bad. 

My plan was to stop early and then catch up with Ha and Kim the next day, as they were taking a day off in Santo Domingo. Oleg, to my surprise, said he might want to stop as well. This was not pleasant news to me. 

We reached Azofra before 11:00 and found some Danish friends of Oleg’s at a cafe. We joined them and they told me a bit about their experiences being part of a well-known cult. They were moving on after lunch, so Oleg was torn between staying with me and going with them. I tried to encourage him to continue, but he seemed more inclined to stay.

To get some time alone I declined their invitation to lunch and sat in a small square writing in my journal. The hostel wouldn’t open for at least an hour so I had time to wait.

About 15 minutes later, I looked up and saw Marc and Simon walking toward me. Simon was whispering conspiratorially and jokingly loud, “I hate the U.S. government!” and then with a smirk said, “Oh, Caley! I didn’t see you there!” I laughed appreciatively and asked about their morning. They had woken up late and then walked extremely fast. Marc was getting a blister so he threw away his socks in frustration. 

They were determined to finish their day in Santo Domingo, 17 kilometers ahead, and also determined that I would come with them. I was very happy to see them and eventually judged that walking 17 k in the heat with these friends was a preferable fate to spending the day with Oleg (poor Oleg). As we left the town, I waved goodbye to Oleg and my Danish acquaintances, who were watching some kind of religious parade that was taking place in the street across from the plaza. 

Interesting Catholic parade.

Before too long, the boys were starting to see why most pilgrims wake up early and finish walking before the hot afternoon. It was sweltering and the flat orange path ahead of us seemed to go on forever. This was one of the longest stretches of the camino that had no water sources and my one .5 liter bottle was soon nearly empty and then painfully hot, thanks to the sun.

The only place to find shade in the dry meseta was beside one of the tremendous stacks of hay that littered the fields. We had a nice break there and regained some of our energy to finish the walk. Toward the end, all three of us were mostly silent. For Simon this was strange and we realized that he was in a lot of pain. 

Finally a little shade :)

For the last few kilometers, Simon walked like a man four times his 22 years. Marc and I had a hard time not finding it comical to see him shuffling behind us, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

Finally, we made it to the albergue and happily claimed beds and laid down our packs. Marc and I took top bunks, so Simon could have the last lower bunk in the room.

Walking through the barren meseta

After showers and relaxing, the three of us explored the town a bit and got to know each other even better. It was always interesting with Marc and Simon. They were polar opposites, yet got along very well. Simon, I learned, was raised in Germany, but went to a Swiss university and was even half Swiss. 

Gunter, our fabulous cook, and another German man named Andreas joined us for dinner. I was exhausted and didn’t contribute much to the conversation. Andreas was also quiet and didn’t smile much. He had biked the camino through France and then started walking when he arrived in Spain. Being at a dinner with four native German speakers, I felt bad that courtesy forced them to speak English around me. However, Gunter’s English was minimal, so most things were said in both languages and no one seemed to mind.

I often felt guilty for being a ‘typical’ American who only speaks English. My two semesters of Spanish in high-school were barely helping me at all in Spain, except in illustrating the vast differences between Mexican and South American Spanish and the more guttural and lisping Spanish of Spain. Thankfully, my wonderful friends were used to using English as a common language while traveling and I appreciated them greatly.