It's the people

Gijón, where we ran into Parker on a random street.

A few days ago, I decided to shift my focus from the physical beauty of the Camino, of which there is no end, and the physical challenges of the Camino, of which there are no end, to the people of the Camino: my walking partner, Ann, of course, locals with whom we interact along the Way, and fellow pilgrims. I’ll begin with the latter.

The Norte, the common name for the Northern Camino, has far fewer pilgrims than the most well-known Camino, the Camino Francés. That is one of the main reasons I chose it. It’s not that I don’t like people—I do—and sometimes I even wish there were a few more than we often come across during a day, but I didn’t want busloads of people, which one often finds on parts of the Francés.

It has taken us awhile, but we have had an opportunity in the past week to meet Igor, whose name was the only one I remembered during the first week, Eugenia, a Bolivian woman living in northern France for the past 30 years who has left behind her former companions: Michael, the German, whose t-shirt I admired, “the Mountains are Calling,” and Igor, who we thought was her life-partner, but who remained in a seaside city to nurse his injured leg. Day before yesterday we spent hours with Tirine, the French horn player who just retired after 39 hears playing for operas in Sweden, but who plans on selling her horn when she returns to her new life without her partner who died in January after a long illness. “I can’t believe I’m talking so much about myself, “ she said, apologizing. The unnamed Italian mountain climber/first responder who repaired my cut thumb appeared again at dinner in Villaviciosa. The French woman, married to the German gentleman, who didn’t seem to have a common language the first three days, greeted us again on a sidewalk in a whole new town. We enjoyed the water sanitation engineer from the Netherlands, but he took off much faster than we on the last day of his one week excursion, as well as a German woman who has the same infirmities as I with her calves and who looked so pathetic today that a policeman picked her up on the road and brought her directly to the albergue where we are staying in Muros de Najón. She’s a bit worried that no policeman will come by tomorrow. Two young women, Parker from Michigan and Brigitte from Germany, have passed us up more than once with their 25-30 mile days, but we keep crossing paths again, even in the middle of large cities. As we crossed a busy street in Gijon yesterday, I heard Ann call out, “Parker! Parker!” She had left three hours earlier than us a couple of days before, but we had taken a bus and ended up at the same intersection in the same city of 125,000 at the same moment two days later. That’s how the Camino works. She just finished her degree in web design and will return home at the end of June after finishing her Camino 10 days early and with only a 15 liter pack; mine is 30 and Ann’s is 36. She carries no coat or rain gear, only one extra pair of clothes, no band-aids, ear plugs, or iodine, I would imagine. I’m pleased, however, that she’s taking my advice and returning for a few days to the off-Camino, Picos de Europa, the Spanish Alps, that I had to pass up this time around. I did suggest she check the weather, and pick up a warm jacket or sweater and a rain poncho. Not sure she appreciated my (grand)motherly advice.

Just today a security guard from the chemical plant, or some other kind of plant with tall smokestacks and many ugly pipes, pulled over as we walked in an area that was clearly not frequented by tourists—or even pilgrims.

“Are you lost?” he asked.

We were not exactly lost, but we weren’t sure how to get through the metal fence and cement barriers that were keeping us from the lovely bike trail along the river, just to our left, that led to the bridge that would take us to downtown Avilés. Our hostelero had told us to cross over and then walk along the river for a leisurely 1.5 km, but he hadn’t mentioned how to access the trail. We had managed to get ourselves into a restricted area with no pedestrians and certainly no others carrying backpacks and hiking poles. The guard got out his phone and showed us where we should go, then turned around, drove ahead to the tricky part, and made sure we could get around the cement blocks that kept cars from taking a similar route. Soon we, and the blue dot, were in the same place as the line, the Camino, in the Wise Pilgrim’s app on our phones. So far we have not been too wise.

Later today we got ourselves in trouble again. Oftentimes, the Camino ends up on narrow roadways with no shoulders and many curves. Often these roads have little to no traffic and soon we are back on a sidewalk or trail. But today the road had traffic and was a bit longer and windier than we like. Though we generally stay on the left side of the road under such conditions, we also cross over when a curve prevents drivers from seeing two defenseless, top-heavy women with no where to get off the roadway.

At just such a moment, a police car with two fine public servants pulled alongside and told us in very rapid Spanish, and no uncertain terms, that we needed to be on the other side of the road at all times, no exceptions. When I explained our predicament when the left side prevented drivers from seeing us on curves, the passenger policeman looked slightly sympathetic, but the officer-in-chief didn’t back away from his previous directives. We thanked him and tried our best to stay left the rest of the afternoon with only a couple of minor transgressions.

Truly, all Spaniards with whom we have had interactions have been most helpful, kind, and generous with their time and advice. They smile, laugh, encourage, and recount their own adventures. I had a long conversation today with the receptionist/cook/possibly granddaughter of the albergue owner. We spoke of accents, culture, and her trip to the United States where she only visited dry states. She had concluded that the hamburgers in the U.S. were not nearly as good as hamburgers in Asturias because, according to her theory, the cows here eat green grass and not dry, yellow grass. Perhaps she’s right. We have yet to eat an Asturian hamburger, opting instead for meatless nachos for dinner tonight, preceded (me) or followed by (Ann) a rich, thick, velvety cup of hot chocolate with kilometer-high whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. Oh my.

Finally, Ann. Ann has been awesome, as I knew she would be. We have talked for hours, telling each other story after story, almost always preceded by, “I’ve probably told you this already, but...” each allowing the other, without hesitation or any signs of irritation, to tell it again; perhaps embellishing a bit, changing a few details, expanding when new insights arise. Ann is full of grace and humility, and Lord knows I could use more of both. I found out she thinks she’s selfish, but all who know her know this is not true. (Well, I haven’t consulted with her husband, but I’m pretty sure I can still say this with little chance of correction.) She has a wonderful, compatible sense of humor and seldom grumbles or complains, even when she should. I couldn’t have asked for a better companion to walk with me 500 miles, give or take a few. Thank you, Ann.