Buen Camino

On the trail, there is a common bond for all pilgrims, or peregrinos as they are called in Spanish.  We are all suffering in someway, and we are all loving our own little challenges and trimuphs that make up our day.  Also, we come from all over the world.  It is hard to count all the different languages I have heard, or think I have heard.  One thing does keep the lines of communication rolling amongst the pilgrims however, and that is obviously the Spanish language.

The standard greeting is to say buen camino, which literally translates to good road, but is like the English equavalent of happy trails.  Also, according to one mountain biker we rode with some, this greeting is only common on the el Camino de Santiago.  Anyhow, because all the pilgrims are going in one direction (another subtle but unique part of this experience), Dena and I find ourselves saying buen camino, or buenos dias, or pardon por favor (because we are on bikes which move a bit faster than walkers).  This happens all day and is quite commonj on the trail.

So the other day I was struggling up a mountain.  This might have been the steepest climb I have ever done, but I´ll save those details for another blog post.  Anyhow, I had pulled away from Dena, my security blanket when it comes to the Spanish language.  There was a group of Spaniards ahead of me on the road, and I was not moving fast as they were because we were climbing the aforementioned mountain.  They say buen camino to me.  I replied with the common response: gracias, buen camino.  But the conversation did not end there.

One of the fluent Spanish speakers hit me with a pile of words and I didn´t understand any of them.  Instead of going to the trouble of saying: no hablo mucho espanol (I don´t speak much Spanish), I just said all I could muster for the effort I was putting into the mountain: estoy cansado, tambien.  When I later expained this to Dena, we guessed that they probably were commenting on the view or the weather.  If that was the case, the conversation would have sounded something like this:

Spanish speaker: Heck of a view huh? These hills are beautiful, especially this time of year.

Patrick: I am tired, also.

Going to the . . . Cathedral!?

So Dena and I ride into a town called Astorga.  It is not a huge city but big enough to have a really good time: large plazas, cafes, and the like.  As we make our way into the centre of town, we find people in Roman costume, a brass band marching through town, people on the streets everywhere, and food vendors and artisans selling their wares.  It was much like the Disney movie Alladin.   Astorga was celebrating with a Roman festivle.  It is their week-long festivle that apparently many Spanish cities do, much like San Fermin in Pamplona (or the Running of the Bulls).

Anyhow, people are everywhere and we happened accross a church.  But this was not just a normal church, it was a cathedral.  It had this amazing facade with all sorts of intricate carvings and towers and bells.  Then, below all the towering ornate-ness (if that´s a word) on the steps, we could see a wedding party, dressed to kill.  Bride and groom and all the kings horses and all the kings men.  It was a sight to behold.  Now just witnessing this wasn´t such a big deal; it sort of reminded Dena and I of a week ago when we saw a baptism happening in an adjacent room of another elaborate gold-plated church.  We merely looked at each other and considered it another twist of our Spanish cultural experience.

What made this wedding wild was what occurred later in the public plaza when we were eating a fine meal of pollo asado con papas fritas and we see the wedding party show up.  And then the guests.  And then the paparazzi.  People were shouting and yelling and everyone was smiling . . . It seemed like a great time.  Rice was thrown, rose petals were thrown, fire crackers shook the entire plaza and all its inhabitants, and even bottle rockets were getting lit right there in the plaza.  Cheers, shouts, babies crying: there was nothing private about this wedding.   Dena and I cheered with the rest of them as the guests quickly found their way to the reception, or the cafe next door for a quick laugh with their mates.

What made the experience complete is that two more times was the wedding a factor in the evening.  Because Dena and I couldn´t secure a place to camp in the city, we ended up staying at a pilgrim alburge, or a hostel, designed for people walking or riding the el Camino de Santigo.  They usually provide great facilities, but they also cram 12-70 people into one room to sleep.  This particular room we were in had about 30.  Too hot to sleep, too hot to move.

I decided to take a break from tossing and turning and stepped outside on the balcony only to hear a live band echoing off the wall accross from the courtyard with people cheering and laughing. I knew in one second that that had to be the wedding I saw about six hours eariler that day, going strong.  I wasn´t mad because they sure wern´t keeping me up!

When six am FINALLY rolled around, we packed up our things and hit the trail.  On our way out the door Dena and I saw the exact same people who were lighting fire crackers in the plaza the night before doing the happy, grinning, tired stumble home.  They were singing us songs and wishing us well as we pedaled off.  All I can say is that I have to get better at speaking Spanish so I can make some Spanish friends and get invited to one of these weddings!

Scenes from a Spanish Plaza

Sitting at the northwest corner of San Fernando Plaza in Leon, I can scan the plaza from left to right and see almost a million little dramas, exciting interactions, every spectrum of emotion, every single age, and what really accounts to regular Spainish people doing their regular late-July evening activities.  But first, the structures.

At one end is a fountain.  It is very simple: just water flowing from a lions head.  It is entertaining the kids as they splash about and it refreshes the masses as people come to it to drink.  It just constantly flows.  Pretty for the eye to look at and also quite practical.  On the other end of the plaza is a gazebo where I can  only assume bands play during festivles and speeches are made.  Dena and I thought for a second that it might be a nice place to pitch our tent, but we´d never get to sleep if we had done it.

Around the outside of the plaza are cafes, restaurants, shops, the panaderia (where people buy bread), even though it has long closed its doors for business, and people drinking wine, smoking, laughing, and telling stories.

Then there is the space between the fountain and the gazebo, which is where the people come in.  As I gaze from right to left, I see it all.  It starts with the old man, sitting silently and solo, making up stories in his mind about everything he sees.  I can understand him pretty well because I am doing exactly what he is doing: watching the people.  One difference is that he has a cane and uses it.  Yes, I can relate to him but I can at least get around a little faster than he can, despite my fast approaching 30th birthday (AAAAHHHHHH!!!!!!!)

Past the older fellow, I see a group of middle aged women, many of whom are smoking, no doubt telling stories to each other about their days.  This seems like a ritual to me; like they have to do it every single evening (at least in the summertime anyway).

At the foutain, grade school aged boys are filling up water pistols and shooting each other with them.  That is, until they are interruped by a high school aged boy carrying a big helmet.  He scans the plaza, just like I am, takes a drink, and dissapears as fast as he approached.  Dena and I speculated that he really didn´t want to get a drink; that was his excuse to see which of his mates (or maybe see which attractive chicas) were present at the plaza this evening.  Because no sooner did he disappear then did he reappear on a four-wheel ATV, huge helmet and all, rolling through the plaza.  One of his mates was on a motor-cross bike behind him.

Futher to the left, at the far corner of the plaza I see middle school aged girls who had just spent all their money at the sweet shop, trading sticks of gum for chocolate.  There is a pack of middle school aged boys nearby, all on bicycles.  There are no rules about bicycles in the plaza.  In fact, there seems to be no rules at all.

In the center of the plaza, grade school aged boys are using the gazebo as goal posts for their futbol (soccer) game.  It is the downhill end of the plaza so every fourth or fifth shot, the keeper has to go running through the people sitting in chairs at the cafe at that end of the plaza.  Oh well, any other night the goal could have been anywhere else at the plaza.  After a quality goal, the shooter would throw his hands in the air and shout something that I couldn´t hear over the din of the masses.

Last, to my immediate left, a very young girl is crying because her older brother hit her.  The brother is getting a “time-out” from Dad, but I saw it all.  Really, the little sister was antagonizing her brother until he couldn´t really handle it anymore and laid a whopper on her face.  Secretly I laughed, but I also might go to hell for it.

Through all this, I was munching on a bocadilla with Dena and just enjoying the entertainment.  It was better than TV.  Bruce Springsteen has a line in his song Jungleland (I think) in which he says: “There´s an opera out on the turnpike, there´s a drama being fought out in the alley.”  This is Spain, not New Jersey, but the happiness and sadness, and simple emotions, and standard evening feelings were as apparent out here in the plaza as they could have been anywhere.  I fell asleep that night like I understood another part of the world that much better, despite the fact that they were the same things that happen anywhere.

Mesata Flying

So Dena biked the furthest distance she has ever biked in her life today, for the second day in a row.  We went 43 miles and it was not the best conditions for cycling in that we were biking atop the mesatas in dry desert heat with the wind constantly in our faces. 

The mesatas are the Spanish equalivent of the US western landscape of high desert plateaus.  They sit at 900 meters high and remind me very much of Idaho. There are tough climbs to reach the top, then flat on top with field after field of wheat, or some sort of grain. 

Also atop the mesata is an intensity of exposure.  The steepness of the hills are heightened, the sun is brighter and hotter, the wind blows harder in your face, and the air is just a little bit harder to breathe.  Even the bumps in the dusty earthen tracks seem to bounce the bike a bit harder.  It´s almost like we are that much closer to the sun.

The intensity was further exacerbated by the lunch we had just before one exceptionally large climb to the top of a mesata.  Dena ordered us bocadillas y cervezas (sandwiches and beers) which was awesome because we were famished after a full mornings ride, we were hot, and definitely needed something cold to drink.  We were sure the beer would be cold.  (With Fanta orange soda, you take your chances on cold).  Dena also made sure the beers were “doubles” or what normal beer drinkers might call “a pint.”  While Spaniards do noot sem opposed to drinking beers, they rarely fill a glass with the stuff and it is hard to get more than a thimble-full.  I suppose thy just like small glasses here.  more on that later.

Anyhow, the publican, whose name was Roberto I believe, was quite a chatty fellow as he kept Dena on her toes (and me too) with the language difference.  I was able to order a fish sandwich with cheese.  Dena got a tortilla sandwich con queso and the queso was muy rico.  Roberto assured us it was locally made queso and very special . . . and it was.  He also did not want us to leave hungry as he sent us off up the mesata with a cookie each, made by monks at the local monastary.

I think I´m finally getting used to the defferences here but I don´t know if I lke them.  Spaniards are not really into breakfast (see previous blog about the night owl culture) and it is really hard to get milk (leche) or a proper pint of cerveza.  I may only ever eat bocadillas here, but i suppose that´s ok because I really like those!  And with my newly aquired language skills, I can always order another thimble of cerveza!

We are Pilgrims

Yesterday we slept in a bunk huose with about 16 other pilgrims, who are all walking or biking the El Camino de Santiago.  This is (sort of) Spanish for St. James´Way, or the way to the burial site of St. James. 

There is so much to see.  I have never done anything like this in my life.  It is a fully unsupported mountain bike tour.  We are fully loaded with tents and sleeping gear, clothes for all weather as we have had just a bit of everything, and some food.  We don´t need to carry too much food because there are towns along the way.  Every time I see a FANTA sign, I have to stop because there just might be a cold drink awaiting.  There is also wine.  IT´s like they are giving it away.  In fact, they ARE as one bodega had two taps in the side of a wall: one that said vino, the other auga!  Dena and I filled up on both. 

We´ve been biking about 50 km per day (30 miles), which is pretty tough considering it´s all mountain biking.  The trail had yielded every single type of terrain including large mountain passes, dirty clay, rocks, gravel, paved roads, dried hard mud, bridges, wet mud, hills, flats, downhills, trees (hiding banditos), meadows, farmland (mostly of vineyards and wheat) and tall grass encroaching upon the trail.  At one point I stopped next to a vineyard and asked Dena did you hear that?  She said no.  And I said: Oh, i heard it through the grapevine!  As it turns out, Dena is a rockstar biker having had no prior experience biking before this trip and holding her own quite well for difficult and somewhat technical mountain bike moves that freak me out.

The Spainards are a culture of night owls.  They don´t open their shops until 9 or 10 am, and then seem to close them down again in the afternoon for siesta, which seems to last anywhere from 12 noon to seven pm.  It depends on the town I suppose but don´t go into the afternoon hungry, cause you might not eat for a while. 

And then the dinner hour.  We were seeking a restaurant at 6 pm on a Sunday, and everthing was borded up.  When we found a place that would feed us, we were out by 8 pm, and all the shops and restraunts that had been closed, were just then starting to put out their chairs and open up for business.  AT 8 PM ON A SUNDAY EVENING!  Then when Dena and I lay our heads down to sleep (usually pretty early), the voices start rising up from the street, and they get ouder and louder as the evening wears on.  Its a great culture but I don´t know how long I´d last!  More later but I don´t know when.

Viva España

Muy bien, gracias!  This place es mut bonita.  I can´t put my camera away because every where I turn there is something I want to capture.  I know we are in cities, but they are nothing like any place i have ever been before.  In Santander, Dena and I visited Roberto and Pilar, her host family from when she lived in Spain two summers ago.  They were gracious hosts cooking us big meals and sending us off with great food such a un tortilla.  A potato-egg-onion ensemble, very different from Mexican tortillias that most of us Norte Americanos are familiar with.  Also in Santander are flags hanging from thousands of the house windows.  Deep red and gold, some with a black bull on the front.  Pilar said it was because of the football tournament that Spain just won.  I felt quite at home in my new Spainish football jersey (that I bought in Ireland-go figure)!

We also went to the beach in Santander in the afternoon we were there.  We ate helado (ice cream) and didn´t sleep too many hours as we needed to catch a cab to catch a bus to Pamplona the very next day.  I am in Pamplona now, and I am faced with very similar problems: in which direction do I point my camera?  The streets here are long and winding and very narow with a cobbled road surface and there are flower pots hanging from almost every window, and the appartments rise to meet crystal clear blue the sky.  Ah, the blue sky.  Azul never sounded so good.  and the plazas.  and the fountains.  and the cafes.  and the churches that are only-oh, say 500 plus years old.

I can´t wait to get lost in this city, and then to get found again.  We are pilgrims on el Camino de Santiago.  See you on el camino.

Thanks Ireland

I do not have long, but I did want to wrap up a few thoughts abuot Ireland as I am no longer there.  It was sad to say goodbuy to Peg as she caught the last plane out of Ireland, and I was pretty happy to say hello to Dena on the same day when she caught the last plane into Ireland. 

Also before departing Ireland, we got to spend another evening out with Mags, a friend of a friend, biker, and Dublin local who showed us some great pubs, shared some insider comments about Dublin´s interesting places, and was very helpful.  In fact, she arranged for us to leave our bikes at her Dad´s house while we were at the Oxegen festivle.

In summing up the results, it turns out that we cycled 832  miles of Ireland, not always in the rain, but also not always in the sun.  Often times in the wind, and only once that I can think of without a helmet.  (for only about a mile-it wasn´t my fault, really).

When Dena arrived we switched gears and started thinking about Spain.  The first decision to make was: do we go to Spain?  When Dena arrived in Dublin, her bike didn´t.  We went to sleep that night withiout a bike and an appointment to leave at 3 am to catch the flight to Santander.  Anyhow, we cashed in all our karma points because when we woke up, the hostel had posted a sign that said: STAGGS, WE HAVE YOUR BIKE! as the airport had delivered it sometime in the middle of the night.  Off to Santander!

Fiesta

I’ve been avoiding this blog post because whatever words I write cannot do justice to the good time that was Oxegen.  It’s hard to describe the sensation of 100,000 plus fans, crammed into a huge make-shift city, all excited about music and the necessary evils that come with it.  WOW.  I’ve never been to Mardi Gras in New Orleans, or Time Square, New York on New Years Eve, but I don’t think I need too anymore.  I’ve been to the Oxegen festivle, Ireland.

For me it was all about the music.  The pinnicle was seeing the Pogues. After their set, I really felt that I could die satisfied.  One of our campsite neighbours, John (cyclist whoi chares a birthday with me) said, DO NOT MISS THE POGUES.  I was not planning on it (even thought the Kaiser Chiefs were playing the main stage at the same time) but his reason was different from what I expected.  John stressed to me that IF Shane McGowen (lead singer) made it to the show, he might just keel over and die at anytime, so see them while you can.  “And also see them because they are absolutely brilliant.”  Which they were.  They played a bunch of older songs including Fiesta and  Bottle of Smoke.  These are songs off an early album called If I should Fall from Grace with God which my parents have on vinyl.  My uncle Bob had no idea the profound influence he had on my musical tastes when he bought me that CD as a mere youngster, probably as a birthday present or something.  Cheers Bob, the next Guinness I’ll raise is for you!  And Shane McGowen.  Me he live long and prosper; well, prosper anyway because according to the Irish, the live long part may not happen!

Another interesting part of the festivle was that the eco-green undertones.  One would not think of it as “clean” after looking at the field after any given set, but the beer cups actually cost three Euros, and another five to get them full.  So after filling it up a few times, one might forget that the cups were actually worth something, and multiple times did we have our beers paid for because cups were left around, all in the name of good eco-green concert going.  In fact, once or twice, we had enough cups that they actually PAID us to drink beer.  And every time that happened, I’d walk out of line and lean over to Peg and say, “I love this country.”  But I’d still love it even if they didn’t pay me to drink beer.

So the camping part was debauchery at its finest.  As we came to find out, Oxegen is something of a rite of passage for the Irish equalivent of our high school seniors finishing their final exams.  Also, the drinking age is 18.  Need I say more?  I won’t pull the: I’m too old for this line(NO-I HAVE NOT YET TURNED 30), but if I were to do the camoing part again, I’d upgrade to the green campsite where the tents are in rows and where my tent might not get a football kicked THROUGH it.  And where I can sleep and and not have to worry about anything nearby burning.  I’ll stop there.  The sleeping came more out of necessity and fatigue, not desire.  The camping was convienent however, just a short one mile walk from the music venue (even though it felt more like four after being on the feet all day).  And bcause I like a party, there  was definitely a constant party that did not stop at any hour of the four days.  In the end, camping was all good fun, or good Craich (pronounced crack–the Irish word for FUN).

So more about the music, the hidden gem was a band called Reverend and the Makers, a British band that was absolutely brilliant.  Other highlights were Band of Horses, Alabama 3, Sparkadia, Powderfinger, My Morning Jacket who were just great, an Irish fellow named Paddy Casey, Ben Folds who played a great set, and an extremely pleasant surprise was REM.  I’m no longer scared of turning 30 because Michael Stipe did it years ago and he is still kicking ass.  I truely thought those guys were done, but their set blew me away.  My fandom has been reinvigorated.  Peg and I got down pretty close for their songs.  I also really enjoyed Rage Against the Machine.  I don’t think I’ll ever need to see them again, but they were phenominal.  “Some of those that burn crosses, are the same that hold office!“  Ahh, leave it up to Rage to get the fists in the air and the energy thumping.  Things did get a little crazy for their set on Sunday night.

It was fun knowing only one person of the 100,000 (that person being Peg), because it was really easy to make decisions and plans about which bands to see.  But being in Ireland meant that we wouldn’t run into any of our friends, (or worse because I’m a teacher–my students).  On the way in on Friday afternoon however, I started chatting with a British bloke named Alex because I liked his shirt.  (It said: Proud to be Awesome)!  Anyhow, we got a photograph and wished him well and were on our way.  No sooner did the first band hit the stage on Saturday (the next day) when I hear a “Hey Patrick!” from accross the field.  Sure enough, I have friends!  Alex had spotted us out.  Great guy; we ended up seeing him again that day and on Sunday where I actually hooked up with his group and partied with those folks for a bit.  He is the one who recommend I see Reverend and the Makers.

Anyhow, I could write about this for ages, but I have to make a few logistical moves for the next leg of the trip.  Maybe one or two more posts before Spain!

Breathe in Oxegen

Today we are back in Dublin.  It was surprisingly easy to step onto a train in Cork city and then four hours later, magically appear in this strangely familiar city.  The bicycling leg of this trip is now finished and Peg and I are turning our focus to the Oxegen festivle.  Just in case you hadn’t heard, this is Ireland (and one of Europe’s) premier concert events, consisting of three days of music on four or five stages.  (For the record, I am most excited to see The Pogues, Powderfinger, My Morning Jacket, the Kaiser Chiefs, and of course the headliners, Rage Against the Machine and REM.  Oh yeah, and Amy WInehouse if she can make it–they have to let her out of rehab–hahaha).

To wrap up the biking part, I’ll blog again after I’m back from Oxegen with some stats about our ride–mostly mileage and the like.  I’d do it now but I’m tired and I left all that stuff upstairs.  In the meantime I have to tell you about our last few days in Cork.  We went out both of the evenings and met some intersting people.  For starters, I met a pair of travellers (Bessa and Rachel Ann I believe) who both hailed from California.  Making it an even smaller world, Bessa is pretty connected to the SCICON community (the outdoor school I used to work at).  Go figure.

And then we met the Sam’s.  There were 10 of these blokes, all from just outside of London, all having just finished our USA equallivant of high school, and three of them were named Sam.  I think two of them were also named Joshua.  Anyhow, they had gotten themselves involved in a bike ride themselves (from Dublin to Cork, just like Peg and myself, but by a bit more direct of a route.)  We covered the gamut of conversation: sports, football, jobs, travel, beer, radiohead, gap years, even the altogether possibility that many of them will have the word DORK tattooed somewhere onto their bodies before the weekend is over, to represent their ride from Dublin to cORK, hence the work DORK. Whatever works for you fellows!  It was a most enjoyable way to sign off from Cork; a grungy city with the right amount of beauty, architecture, modernism, swank articulation, and dirty grit that makes a city have personality and character.  I’ll miss it there.

But now it’s time for Oxegen and the people here in Dublin are fired up about it.  The billboards are flying high, there are people on the street selling tickets, and buying tickets, and making arrangements.  Because here it comes, the premier event of the summer . . . and I get to go!  (I think its at www.oxegen.ie if you are interested).  I’ll let you know how great it rocks in a few days when I return.

The sunny south

I am in Kinsdale, probably the most southern I will get in all of Ireland.  After biking into Cork city a day or so ago, I have taken a few day trips out from our homebase there.  The weather has rained less than normal (watch out–I do still have to bike back to Cork, two or so hours) and tomorrow we head back to Dublin (by train or bus) to get ready for the Oxegen Festivle!  Which starts on Friday and lasts all weekend.

Kinsale is beautiful.  There are tight little roads, steep hills, boats on the water, and colorful buildings, including red and purple, orange, and yellow, and the ever impressive: GREEN, in every shade.  I’m not much inclined to shop, but here in Kinsale, there is something enticing about the windows and the colors that can just draw one in through the door.  I say to myself: hum, what kind of trouble can i get into in this shop?

One such shop was a bookstore in which over an hour dissapeared while I read about another possible trip I might make someday: to New Zeland!  Then I went into a cafe and ordered a pizza.  Can’t go wrond with Itilian, even in Ireland.  I almost bought an Ireland football jersey, but they didn’t have exactly what I wanted.  And of course (speaking of food), I have introduced Peg to food window shopping.  That’s when you walk buy all the pastry and bread shops and pick what you’d eat without buying or tasting.  I think it might catch on in the states pretty soon.  Doctors and health care professionals are finding it to be quite lower calorie than actual consumption, and almost equally as enjoyable!

Speaking of calories, I have to bike back to Cork city now, and I have to do it faster than the rain can catch me.  In the meantime, there are a few mountains between here and there and some old fort to check out, so I have to run.  Maybe one more posting before Oxegen, whose to say?